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in the future regime. The trouble was figuring which regime would come out on top. He had played both sides for so long; he was torn as to which he needed to support. His son’s close involvement with the enemy made the decision even more difficult.
    Lars knew he deserved this. He had it coming. He always knew that eventually he would have to face Andronicus. His cousin could be so unforgiving.
    He could feel the world closing down to a pinpoint. A roar in his ears rushed through his head. He breathed deeply, hoping not to pass out.
    Ever since Monday had pounded him, he had been threatened by an imminent heart attack. The repeated Sychol treatments, the subsequent deprogramming, the constant pain, paired with his age and failing health was a deadly cocktail.
    The irony if he died of a heart attack after all that he had been through was enough to make him laugh if it was not so blasted sad.
    Edwards was looking at him strangely.
    “Are you sure,” Lars asked.
    Edwards nodded.
    Lars turned away, not wanting the Major see him deal with this darkness that threatened to overwhelm him.
    A knock sounded at the metal door.
    Violet came in. Her eyes were bulging, her face flushed. She glanced at the Major and then at him.
    As usual, he was impressed with her perfect blend of beauty, agility, and ruthlessness.
    “My news first or yours?” she asked.
    Lars glanced over his shoulder at the Major.
    “Go.”
    She pressed her lips together and nodded.
    “I found it.”
    He narrowed his eyes.
    “Where?”
    She smiled.
    “It is traveling this way as we speak.”
    “My news can wait,” he said.
    He pulled his single action Smith &Wesson E-series 1911 and turned toward the Major in one smooth motion.
    The report of the .45 ACP round was loud in the small confines of the room.
    The Major’s head exploded, brains and bone splattering the wall behind him.
    The energy from the bullet pushed him over. The chair splintered as his dead body hit the floor. Pieces of the legs and seat skittered across the floor and nudged the sole of his boot.
    Lars looked away and stepped through the door, leaving his torture kit behind. He would not need it where he was going.
    Violet joined him. She knew better than to talk to him.

Chapter Five
    A Badge of Courage
    T he rhythmic thrum of the helicopter’s engines almost lulled Jake to sleep. His body was rested but his mind was worn thin by the past week. He made mental checklists to keep himself awake.
    He looked around at his team, noting their grim faces and body language that spoke of confidence and purpose. They all understood why they were here. No one was misled as to why each had been handpicked.
    Vazquez, the communications expert, fluent in ten languages, fumbled with her sidearm. She was the closest thing to a rookie here, but had served with the CIA and with the UN. She was young. Too young.
    Xin Lu Ming, the Singapore native, served as their explosive expert. He was lean and his eyes betrayed his distrust and discomfort. Jake understood that Xin was reluctant to join the cause. Jake ignored the angry glances. Xin’s expertise was crucial to this mission. Not only to place precise ballistic grade explosives in key areas and detonate them at specific times, but also to predict, locate, and identify counter explosive measures.
    Nahum Amit, the former Mossad operative, was Jake’s counterpart. Rumor was that he had served as a counter-terrorist assassin within Kidon, a special black-ops unit that answered directly to the Israeli Prime Minister. His hard, angular features and deep, expressionless eyes belied his heart for his country and for humanity. Nahum was a special breed of human that was convicted that his talents could make the difference in conflict. His gaze was as sharp as the combat knife at his side.
    Harrold Morehead, the UK MI-6 Secret Intelligence Service representative, picked his teeth with a steel pick from his multi-tool. He looked bored. Morehead was balding, about forty,