EPILOGUE
ATLANTA, GEORGIA
Cotton stared up and watched as a breeze rolled the clouds north in tumbling waves.
The rain had dwindled to almost nothing and the sky had regained color.
Cassiopeia had stood beside him while he thought back to all that had happened.
His mind swirled with confused mists of anger, racked with regret that assaulted him from a host of directions.
The authorities had been called to the Vasa Museum, along with representatives from the American embassy.
A lot of diplomatic wrangling had occurred.
It was a lot to take in. A high-up SVR commander was dead.
Monica Butler-White, also dead. John Westlake, a British citizen, dead.
The sister of the king of Sweden dead. A confirmed CIA traitor dead.
And worst of all, the head of the Magellan Billet, a longtime veteran of the American intelligence community, dead.
He and Cassiopeia had stayed with Stephanie’s body as it was transported to a local hospital, where an autopsy confirmed that she’d died from two gunshot wounds.
He’d delayed a few minutes to gather himself, then made a call to Danny Daniels, which had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done.
Danny had listened in silence then, after a long pause, finally choked out, “Bring her home.”
It had been three days before the diplomats had sorted everything out and the body was officially released.
Russia, of course, denied any knowledge of anything that Aleks or Monica had been involved with.
Officially, they were two rogue agents who were working outside official parameters.
Everyone knew that was a lie, but there was no evidence to the contrary.
Princess Lysa’s death could not be confirmed as a homicide.
Was that the most likely thing? Absolutely.
But proof was lacking. The king of Sweden had been beside himself, both angry and crushed, refusing to speak to anyone in Washington, including the president of the United States.
Prime Minister de Ciutiis had done what she could to smooth things over with the State Department, but in the end she had to support her king, at least publicly.
Ivan made it to Ramstein Air Base and was immediately placed aboard a private jet and flown to the United States. Where was he now? That was way above Cotton’s pay grade, but he hoped it was near a hot, arid desert.
With all that ultimately happened, the decision was made to send the Devil’s Bible on to Prague, so it was flown south and turned over to the Czechs. Cotton assumed that at some point, after an appropriate interval, any and all objections to Sweden’s NATO membership would be dropped.
Both the White House and Langley reacted harshly.
True, reeling in Ivan and outing a mole helped, but somebody had to take the fall.
Stephanie was gone. Cotton and Cassiopeia were civilians.
That left Koger. Who’d been severely reprimanded, then demoted and transferred out of Europe.
He hadn’t been fired, as they had not wanted him on the outside pissing in.
Better to keep him close. Amazingly, the big man had taken his lumps with his mouth shut.
Where was he now? Nobody knew.
The funeral had been three hours ago, attended by an array of people from the intelligence community, along with Danny, who’d sat stoic during the service, never saying a word.
He’d also refused a request to speak, preferring to keep his thoughts to himself.
The graveside service had been more private.
Only Cotton, Cassiopeia, Danny, and Stephanie’s son, Mark, who flew over from France, had been present.
It had been good to see Mark again. No minister muttered hollow words about heaven and salvation.
Instead, Mark spoke from his heart. Once the ceremony ended Danny and Mark immediately left the grave and drove off together.
He and Cassiopeia lingered. The cemetery sat amid a lovely wooded glade north of Atlanta.
Danny had chosen it for the seclusion. There’d been talk of a more formal funeral in DC, but Danny and Mark both nixed that idea.
Which was the right call.
Stephanie had never sought the limelight in life.
Why should she in death? Where she lay right now, inside a white coffin, was the perfect final resting place.
Workers were busy preparing to lower it into the ground.
A backhoe was driven over to scoop the dirt that had been kept dry under a tarp nearby.
Cotton had not wanted to leave Stephanie alone.
It hadn’t seemed right. So he would stay right here until she was sealed underground.
Danny had insisted that her headstone be made without delay and, being the former president of the United States, he was provided exactly what he wanted. A lovely slab of pink marble waited to adorn the grave with a matching headstone that quoted a particularly apt biblical passage.
2 Timothy 4:7.
I HAVE FOUGHT THE GOOD FIGHT, I HAVE FINISHED THE RACE, I HAVE KEPT THE FAITH.
Danny had chosen the words, as Stephanie had never been religious.
Just the opposite in fact. She’d made a career for herself trying to live on good terms with everyone, her pragmatism legendary.
Her skill and patience enviable. Many a difficult situation had been resolved thanks to her.
She’d always spoken to everyone on a footing of equality, adding civility and paying attention.
Her eyes could be like shattered emeralds, her emotions just as jagged.
And the voice. Which many times seemed sharpened by razor blades.
But it was the boldness of any undertaking that excited her.
He always said there was a little lion there, but a lot more fox.
True, she liked to maintain perfect command over herself, but yes, she made mistakes.
A big one in Stockholm, rushing into the fray.
As she’d said on more than one occasion, It’s the mistakes that will get you killed.
Yes, it was.
Age had always been a sore subject for her and, even in death, it remained a mystery. Danny had honored that lifelong quirk with a headstone that only recorded her name and the epitaph. No date of birth or death was noted.
Cotton stared over at the marble awaiting placement above the grave. “She was a remarkable woman who changed my life.”
He squeezed Cassiopeia’s hand, which he hadn’t released for the past twenty minutes. Waves of sorrow swept through him, his vision blurring. He’d been fighting back useless tears of frustration all day, but finally one streaked down from his left eye. Thankfully, the rain masked its presence.
“It all seems unreal,” Cassiopeia said. “Like it never happened.”
“But it did.”
On the flight home and during the service he’d thought a lot about the past and the first time he and Stephanie Nelle crossed paths.
Inside the Duval County jail, in Florida.
After a long day helping out a friend. Until that moment he’d never once struck someone in anger or harmed another person.
But that day he shot a woman who’d killed her husband, then tried to kill him.
And he’d been arrested for felony aggravated assault.
He was led to a brightly lit, windowless space, not a cell but an interrogation room, equipped with a long metal table and six chairs.
A woman waited. Middle-aged, thin, attractive, with short, light-colored hair and a confident face.
She wore a smart-looking wool-skirted suit.
His first impression of her was never in doubt. Law enforcement. Not local.
“My name is Stephanie Nelle,” she said.
The corrections officer left, closing the door behind her.
“What are you? FBI?”
She smiled and shook her head. “I was told you were intuitive. Give it another shot.”
He tried to think of a clever retort but couldn’t, so he simply said, “Justice Department.”
She nodded. “I came down from DC to meet with you. But an hour ago, when I showed up at your post, your commanding officer told me you were here.”
He was in his second year of a three-year tour at Naval Station Mayport. The base sat a few miles east of Jacksonville, Florida, beside a protected harbor that accommodated aircraft-carrier-sized vessels. Thousands of sailors and even more support personnel worked within its fences.
“I’m sure he had nothing good to say about me.”
“He told me you could rot here. It seems he considers you nothing but a problem.”
Which, in all honesty, he’d tried hard not to be.
He slid one of the chairs away from the table and sat. The sleepless night was catching up to him. His visitor remained standing.
“Nice shooting out there,” she said. “You could have killed her, but you didn’t.”
He shrugged. “She didn’t appreciate the favor.”
“Your first time shooting someone?”
“Does it show?”
“You look a little rattled.”
“I watched a friend die.”
“That would do it to anyone. The woman you shot wants to press charges against you.”
“Yeah. Good luck with that one.”
She chuckled. “My thought too. I was told you can handle yourself under pressure. It’s good to see the intel was correct. You flew fighters, right?”
He nodded.
“I read your personnel file,” she said. “You specifically requested flight training, and your skills were top-notch. Mind telling me why the shift to law?”
He trained his eyes on her like gun barrels. “You already know the answer to that question.”
She smiled. “I apologize. I won’t insult you like that again.”
“How about you get to the point.”
“I have a job for you.”
“The navy has first dibs on my time.”
“That’s the great thing about working for the attorney general of the United States, who works for the president of the United States. Jobs like yours can be changed.”
Okay. He got the message. She was important.
“The job I have in mind requires skill and discretion. I’m told you possess both qualities. But the question is, do you live up to that advance billing? Your CO doesn’t think so.”
Screw that idiot. He was an ass-kissing paper pusher and always would be. A career officer focused on doing his twenty years, then retiring out with a pension while he was young enough to double-dip in private practice. That path had never interested him.
Now here was an opportunity.
What did he have to lose?
Everything, actually. Including his life. But he took the chance and went from a JAG lawyer to a Magellan Billet agent.
And the world changed for him.
Stephanie had never been casual about risking either her own life or her agents’. But sometimes your luck ran out and the odds shifted away from your favor. And if you also made a mistake?
That was fatal.
One hundred percent of the time.
So much had happened in the past two weeks.
All so unexpected. Shocking. Unforgiving.
He’d been left with a nagging feeling that there may have been something he overlooked, something glaringly obvious that he’d failed to notice.
But there was nothing. Stephanie’s death was not his fault.
Not anyone’s fault beyond Stephanie’s herself.
He was tired, his mind cluttered, his thoughts tripping over one another.
All the adrenaline inside him had fled his system, leaving him weary and disjointed.
Even worse, anxiety had settled as a ball of burning pain that clawed at his stomach.
A fresh breeze brought the smell of sweet pine.
Which urged him forward and made him think about something else that had plagued him for the past few months.
Ever since Morocco. Stephanie had been mortal.
He was mortal. Death was no longer a stranger.
In fact, that Grim Reaper had made its presence known by taking Henrik Thorvaldsen, Stephanie, and Suzy Baldwin.
So why wait any longer? Why even question whether he should or should not?
None of that made any sense. Not anymore.
A reassuring thought broke into his consciousness.
“I’ve made a decision,” he said to Cassiopeia.
“You’re going to do it?” she asked, reading his mind.
He nodded.
“I’m going to find out if I have a daughter.”