Nearing six in the morning, a gray government helicopter alighted on the South LZ of the North American Military Command Center, aka Pentagon. One man disembarked. The horizon was no longer dark blue, but fast becoming orange as dawn approached, casting a carmine wash on the sand-colored surface of this immense building.

A woman waited for him in the enclosed reception lounge yards from the platform.

"Milo Lockheart, I presume?" she greeted him, half-smiling and extending her hand.

"You are?" The newcomer asked, eyeballing her in a smart red suit.

"I'm Lisbeth Hunt, Defense Undersecretary. I work with Victor Balkan."

"An undersecretary here to meet me? I'm flattered." His voice was scratchy and guttural. A faint scar from the left cheek ran across his larynx disappearing under his turtleneck.

"The Secretary asked me to greet you personally, Mr. Lockheart. Your trip okay?"

"Coach," he answered with a demanding face. "Would rather have Business Class at the very least."

Lisbeth managed a labored smile, one he sensed masked her dislike of him. No, it was more than an unpleasantness. She had read his file, obviously. It was fear, he saw, like an ephemeral yellow wisp that seeped from her pores. He knew that emotion only too well from those unfortunate enough to receive his attention.

"Any idea why I'm here?"

"Why don't we save that for the Secretary," Lisbeth said.

"I prefer to be direct." He stopped and locked eyes with her. "Why am I here?"

She halted. "You honestly don't know?"

"I wouldn't ask."

"Your name was on top of a very short list, seen by the right people," Lisbeth said.

"To do what?"

"Sanitation." She showed him her back and resumed walking.

"That a joke? I'm not laughing."

"Neither am I," she said over her shoulder.

The pair entered a city-sized corridor that followed one of the Pentagon's rings. At this hour, the corridors were sparse. By seven-thirty, these hallways would be awash in contractors, technicians, and military personnel, weaving in and out to avoid colliding with incoming bodies and fleets of scooters that zipped around at three miles per hour.

He trailed her, giving him a chance to peruse her undulating behind. She wore an activity tracker on one wrist. No doubt a runner. She had long tanned legs poking from a tight skirt, bosom not too large on an athletic frame. Her short blond boy cut was smart. He could tell she was curious too, stealing glances at him, though not from any sexual interest, more like keeping an eye on a croc. He was used to people's revulsion.

His heart beat faster with every step, unsure of which emotions had gripped him -- only that they were intoxicating. The building buzzed with power. He missed this rush. Time he returned from the wilderness.

"Someone will come for you when we're ready," she said, dropped him off like a schoolboy to wait in the antechamber of the Secretary's office while she entered through the doors.

After more than an hour staring at the same marbled walls, a uniformed adjutant rose from his desk to retrieve him.

"If you're ready, sir, you may enter and see him."

"Bout time," he mumbled under his breath.

When he passed the oaken doors, it surprised Lockheart that the Secretary had an attending physician taking care of him. And a third person he'd almost missed, sitting on the far couch, her legs crossed, her skirt hiked up near mid-thigh. Lisbeth Hunt sat in the back, her eyes moving between the entrant and her hand terminal.

"It's just going to be a pinch," the doctor forewarned, then plunged the needle into Balkan's lower biceps.

"We done after this?" Balkan said after the injection.

"Your blood pressure's alarming, sir. You need to reduce or delegate your workload. At this pace --"

"You may go," Balkan dismissed the white-coated physician with a wave.

"May I present Milo Lockheart," Lisbeth announced once the doctor had left, but she stayed seated at the far end.

"You've met Undersecretary Hunt," Balkan said to the entrant.

"I have," Lockheart said, glancing at her over his shoulder.

Lisbeth acknowledged him with a slight nod but made no move to rise.

Balkan waved him to the single chair in front of his shiny desk. "Please sit." Lockheart took the hot seat. "Sorry to keep you waiting," the Secretary said, "but to quote Frost, 'The woods are lovely, dark and deep; but I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.' How we yearn for the little sleep, eh?"

"I'm a light sleeper," Lockheart replied with disinterest, aware the man behind the desk was studying him.

"Someone in your profession would have to be," Balkan replied and motioned to Lisbeth, "Give me a second."

Lisbeth got up, approached, and placed the clear PAD on the desk. The Secretary ratified a document with a thumbprint signature.

This pause gave the visitor a chance to take in his surroundings. A bluish neon wash gave the spacious office a chilly composure. Sectional sofas occupied the reception area under the picture of the President in a gilded frame flanked by two equal-height flags -- the Stars & Stripes and the icon banner of TexPax. The two flags said much about Balkan's power base and his loyalty.

"Stay on call," Balkan said. "I will need you, Beth."

"As you wish," she replied, her tone chilly, and exited the room while Balkan's eyes trailed after her. It was a show of ownership, Lockheart hadn't missed. As a lion peed to mark his turf, Balkan had done so with just a look. They were probably lovers or had been, Lockheart gathered. The message to mind your position was unmistakable.

"Do you use these damn eyepieces?" Balkan asked, fingering a Lens he had removed now that they were alone.

"Everyone uses the Mark 3s. It's a standard ocular setup."

"I hate them. Gives me a migraine . . . I prefer hand terminals." He pulled the PAD toward him and perused it for a time. "I see you were drummed out of the Agency."

"I was."

"For questionable moral behavior?"

"A misunderstanding."

"And subcontracting work isn't stable?"

"I make do. Where're you going with this, sir?" Lockheart said without decorum.

"Director Oliver chose you for a reason."

A heavy pause passed between them.

"And what reason may that be? No one has told me anything."

"He spoke highly of you, said you're a rare find. Are you?" Balkan paused.

"Depends on what needs doing."

Balkan smirked. "I read your file. I know the man you are." Again, he stared at the wireless tablet. "I have a difficult task in mind. This administration is a ship of fools, and I am its first mate. Rocks to our left, whirlpools to our right." Balkan stared deeply at Lockheart. "But the biggest danger -- is image." Balkan sat back and rested his hands on his knees. "We can't afford the negative publicity. It threatens to destabilize this administration and its stakeholders. You follow the news?"

"Sure, which one? Lots of trouble out there."

"Two men, one woman."

Lockheart narrowed his eyes. "Caracas rats bothering you, so you called the exterminator?"

"They're part of something you don't need to know," Balkan said.

"Ah, but this is an internal matter, am I right?" Lockheart sized up the situation in a heartbeat.

Balkan slid the PAD to him. The latter double-tapped to open the digital folder. Top Secret stencils flashed over the screen, giving him no uncertainty about the depth of secrecy he was getting.

"I don't see a need for my being here. Take care of this yourself through legal means. Hell, you can throw them in the deep slam even and no one would know."

"Not so clean or easy. And while they're out there, the albatross is tightening around this administration's neck. It's better if there's no trace for anyone to find."

"Hold it. All nineteen?"

"Is that a problem?"

"We're not talking Bush League here. You're hunting sable-tooth tigers."

"That's right," Balkan said. "Your performance record in Kiev showed me you have a penchant for these things. You helped the Ukrainians purge their Cossack terror gangs, no?"

Lockheart shrugged, his eyes never leaving the faces of those in the hand terminal. "Those were amateurs amped on bioware shock. These people here are a different breed."

"Oh, you only know half of it, Lockheart."

Lockheart made a constipated face. "Meaning?"

"They're enhanced, made hard to kill -- that's all I will say."

"Then Mr. Secretary, my advice -- cut your losses. Work out a deal with them. Send them to Bora Bora for a year and tell them to lay low."

"They're not the only problem and walking away isn't an option." Balkan cocked his head.

"What makes you think I can pull this off, ghost nineteen super-soldiers trained in tactical pursuit?"

"You'll have access to their specs. You'll know their strengths and weaknesses and how to take them down. Best of all, you'll know where they are at all times because you'll have their RFID locators. Tiger-tiger, burning bright, even they can't hide from immortal hands and eyes."

Lockheart shook his head. "I can't guarantee a clean success, not against this caliber." He shut the file and looked up.

"You have our Treasury at your beck and call. Ask."

"Okay, I'd need more than a slap on the back -- 'good job Sonny Jim,'" Lockheart clasped his hands to his chest. "I figure, Mr. Secretary, anyone who takes this job is facing his swan song. If it doesn't kill me, with this body count, my rep's toast. So, I want guarantees for my retirement, so to speak."

"Name it."

"What does everybody want these days -- easy street. What I mean is membership in a fief. And since yours is TexPax . . . Well, you know what I want. And a generous salary thereafter. Not extravagant, enough to validate my value."

"Fief admission is done by committee. I don't control that."

"But you can put in a good word to your chums who will bend over trying to please you, yes?"

Balkan gave him a raised eyebrow. "Well, that depends on the results, wouldn't it?"

"Kiev speaks to my work." Lockheart curled an eerie grin. "But Kiev was a different arena. I had no interference from the locals."

"And you'll have none here too."

"Total freedom?" Lockheart said and smiled. "Okay, we're getting warmer."

"Our troubles go deep; our needs are expedient. That's why you're here."

"I'd want immunity from prosecution. Knowing how fickle powerful people are, one day I'm your favorite pet Rottweiler, the next my guts are hanging out to dry."

"Anything else?"

"Third condition -- I use my own people."

"I created the Special Security Service, as you know. My Praetorians are very capable. You don't need anyone else."

"I'm fickle about loyalty," Lockheart said. "This is non-negotiable." He tapped his hand terminal and swiped it over to the Secretary.

Balkan swiped open the floating file. He read the first name. "Johann Casper, aka Ghost -- Disavowed," he opened the next dossier, "Angela Snyder, aka Harpy -- Disavowed and Wanted for Murder . . . You have a dozen names here on the Black List."

"I want them reinstated and placed under my care."

Lockheart held a long and determined stare. Both men knew this was a deal-breaker moment.

"They're your responsibility," Balkan caved.

"Good. Which brings me to the last item -- a blank check. We need cash to go shopping for boys and toys." He winked.

"We've funded a Cayman account for your use." Balkan exhaled. "Fifty million good?"

"For starters. Since we're hunting apex feeders, the take-downs have to be simultaneous. If one of them slips through, the whole thing's over. So I will need great resources at my disposal -- land, sea, and air."

"You will be given the necessary credentials and authority."

Lockheart then wagged his index finger at the man behind the desk. "But membership, Mr. Secretary, has its privileges. Don't forget."

"Then make your bones, Lockheart. And I'll do whatever I can. But I want results."

Lockheart slapped his thighs. "This was fruitful and a pleasure." He rose.

"Not yet," Balkan said, pushing the terminal back across the desk to Lockheart. "There's one more name in there. He's a thief. But be very discreet with him -- we'd prefer it to look like an accident."

"Easy enough."

"One more thing," Balkan said, his dark eyes unblinking. "We need you to bring back something of his. A very important item."

"Whatever you want, consider it done."

"Take the PAD with you. Destroy it after you've studied the profiles."