CHAPTER TWO Story Time

Thursday, July 16, 2008, 1:46 p.m.

Underground holding area, Washington, D.C.

Will Young came to, bright white lights accentuating his newfound migraine. Where the hell was he? The last thing he remembered was hitting the floor in Markov's hotel room. What had the terrorist said? The champagne. That was poisoned, but there was something else. Something about President Hawthorne. But what? Probably his hatred of America, and all that.

Will forced the thoughts into the back of his mind and focused instead on his surroundings. He was lying on a hard cot, situated in the corner of a whitewashed cell with no furnishings, save for a toilet and a sink. And on the back wall- an enormous rectangular mirror, most likely two-way. He didn't have to try to put a fist through it to know that it was virtually unbreakable.

He stood up, running a hand through his thick, shaggy hair, dyed black for the operation he had just completely screwed. The most likely and most depressing conclusion he could come to was that Markov had an informant in the CIA that had notified him of the mission. Then he would have paid off a flight attendant to poison the champagne. But why wasn't he dead? From the look of things, it was no mistake that he was still alive. Would they torture him for information? Possibly. That was the only plausible reason he wasn't six feet under the ground in some desert on the outskirts of Vegas.

There was a clicking noise, and Will turned to see a clean shaven man in what appeared to be the uniform of a White House guard framed in the doorway. "The President will see you now," he said with a positively American accent. "Come with me."

Will's head was spinning. The President? What was going on here? If he was safely back in the States, why did they have him cooped up in a cell? And how did they get him safely out of Markov's hands. Without Will so much as waking up?

His eyes met the guards. "I'm not going until you tell me what I want to know. First of all, where am I?"

The guard sighed, and Will contemplated snapping his neck. But that wouldn't do any good, and plus, he was wearing a waist holster with what appeared to be a Grach MP-443. Then again, it wouldn't be too hard to relieve the guard of his Russian weapon and escape from this place, wherever it was. But Will wanted answers, and he wouldn't get them by shooting everyone in the building. "You can ask all the questions you want when you see the President."

"Fine." Will hopped off of the bunk and followed him out of the cell. They passed by at least ten other cells identical to Will's, and he couldn't help but think that it looked like a cellblock in a federal prison.

The guard made an abrupt right turn. Will followed, and found himself in a room even more glaringly white than his cell. It was empty, save for a single metal chair that was bolted to the floor. How cozy, Will thought. The guard motioned for him to sit down, and he did.

The chair faced a Plexiglas window. Sitting on the other side of it was President Paul Hawthorne. Hawthorne was young, as presidents go, 41. He was clean-shaven, with artfully graying hair and a clefted chin, and he was wearing a light blue Brooks Brothers button-down, unbuttoned at the neck. A casual president, taking a day off from the frenzied chaos of the Oval Office. So why was he here?

Hawthorne smiled. "Hello, Mr. Young," he said softly. Will could hear him perfectly, as though the barrier between them did not exist. Hidden microphones, no doubt. "I bet you're wondering why you're here."

No, thought Will, of course not. I pass out at the feet of an international terrorist and wake up in some cell, then get shuffled off to speak to the President of the United States. Why would I be wondering why I'm here?

"Well," Hawthorne continued, "Before I give you all the answers, I'm going to tell you a story." Will stared at him incredulously. Hawthorne's smile widened. "No, not a fairy tale or a Joe and Jill story, or whatever. Quite the opposite." He cleared his throat.

"During my first term, January of this year, I was called on a secure line by a man who would refer to himself only as Jean. He informed us that at a secure facility outside of Paris, France, a group of French terrorists, known only as The Connection, were building high-powered nuclear weapons, and a hell of a lot. They were going to use them on the US! And according to Jean, the French government was well aware of this, yet they did nothing to stop it. What were we to do? We couldn't exactly send secret service in there to snoop around and confirm our suspicions. France would never allow it. We'd be kicked out of the UN. It just wouldn't work. Our only other option. Was to hire people outside of the law. We contacted Omega, they found the facility, and they bombed it to hell. A few civilians were killed, yes, but we saved so many lives!"

Will could only gape at him in disbelief. "I. I never knew about any of that."

"No one in the CIA or the FBI or the NSA knew about it. No one did, save for the members of my cabinet! You see, we didn't want any self-righteous whistleblower to tell the press about our ties with terrorists. We couldn't take the risk. So now do you understand why. why we couldn't take out Markov?"

Will leaned forward in the chair, his heart pounding. "But Omega are killers! They've murdered countless innocent people, just for profit! How can you let them exist?!"

"Will, don't you get it?" There was a hint of annoyance in the President's voice. "These guys are the only ones who can help us out in a tight spot when we aren't allowed, legally, to protect ourselves! Without Omega, countless Americans would be dead!"

". Why did you authorize Operation: Gamble, then?"

Hawthorne sighed heavily, massaging his sinuses. "It would look pretty bad on my record, Will, if I let the leader of Omega slip through our fingers without doing anything to prevent it. So I authorized it, but I told Markov." Will was shaking with anger. "I had to!" He retaliated. "You would've done the same, in my position."

"One more question," Will said. "Why am I still alive?"

Hawthorne relaxed, glad that some of the emotion had left Will's voice. "You're one of the CIA's top assassins. You aren't expendable. If I'd let you die, I'd never forgive myself."

"But-"

"But what if you, well, blow the whistle?" He sighed again. "Please, Will. Don't be rash. If you tell someone about our connections to Omega, a lot of people will die. Including you. I don't want it to come to that." His voice was pained, as if it ached to even think about it. Will knew it didn't. "Thank you for your attention, Will. I hope you do the right thing."

But what was the right thing? And would he ever find the strength to do it?