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perfectly even teeth. “Now that we’ve got the formalities out of the way—how are you, Travis?”
    “I’m good, sir. Tired, but fine. It’s been a long flight. A couple of them.”
    “Glad to hear it. Come, sit down.” The general motioned to a small table.
    Travis took a seat, but the general remained standing, putting Travis on alert.
    “I understand congratulations are in order,” the general said. “That was good work last night. Intelligence analysts at this morning’s briefings say taking out al-Samara may well have dealt a major blow to al-Q.”
    Travis sighed. “Thank you, sir. I hope so. Seems al-Q’s more like a hydra than we bargained on. Ever time we cut off one of its heads, it grows two more.”
    “It won’t always be like this, Trav. With your help, we are winning this war.”
    “Couldn’t have done it without the team this time, general.”
    “Jack, please. We can stop being soldiers for five minutes.”
    Travis looked at him curiously. Brigadier General Jack Turnbull headed up the Strategic Intelligence Collection & Containment unit, and had taken Travis under his wing and into his confidence almost as soon as Travis had joined the unit. Travis had more immediate bosses, like Major Dunphy in Afghanistan, who’d given him his marching orders back to the States. But over the years he’d met with and gotten occasional calls from General Turnbull, checking in on him.
    “Why am I here, Jack?” he said finally.
    “Always on, aren’t you, Trav? Can’t rest for a second. Guess that’s what makes you one of my most valuable assets.” He paused. “Two reasons: first, to impress upon you the seriousness of this assignment—”
    “I always take family seriously, sir,” Travis interrupted, frowning.
    Turnbull held up his hand. “Second, to suggest that this time we preempt the threat.”
    “What, like find out where the threat’s coming from and neutralize it before it happens?”
    “No, I mean carry out the threat before whoever’s planning it does.”
    Travis stared at him, mouth agape. The idea was insane. “Are you joking, sir?”
    “Hear me out,” the general said.

C HAPTER 6
    I stopped in the restroom to wash my hands and face and tamp down the most stubborn of the cowlicks, then hustled out.
    By now you probably think I’m the worst kind of slacker—a trust-fund baby, spoiled rotten. I prefer to think of myself as having lacked direction, purpose. Maybe the call from Bigsby was just the thing I had needed, a swift kick in the pants to move me off what had been a stationary bike—lots of pedaling that had taken me nowhere.
    I got on my real bike—I don’t own a car since the trust fund only paid for education and basic living expenses—and pedaled back to the cramped efficiency apartment I lived in off campus. After changing into slacks, a dress shirt, and tie in record time, I locked up, got back on my bike, and rode several blocks to a bus stop close to campus. Fortunately, I didn’t wait long before a bus arrived. I hefted the bike onto the rack in front and boarded, feeding most of my remaining cash into the fare box. If Bigsby wasn’t pulling a late April Fools’ joke, I’d have to stretch the few remaining funds I had until I actually started earning money.
    The trip across the lake to one of the east side’s more exclusive suburban enclaves took half an hour, which meant I had about twelve minutes to ride the remaining three miles and find the address. Eleven minutes later, I pulled up in front of an iron gate a little winded and slightly damp. An intercom and magnetic strip key box were affixed to a post on one side. I pushed the intercom button. A moment later a voice answered—the same woman who’d spoken to me on the phone.
    “Who is it, please?”
    “Oliver Moncrief,” I said. “I have an appointment for an interview.”
    “Go straight to the main house,” she said. “Park anywhere.”
    The main house?
    With a click and a buzz, the massive