Primary Target (1999) Read Online Free PDF

corners of the world.
    Following several years of political infighting within the Agency, Scott elected to resign and start his own security consulting firm in the Crystal City complex near Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport. Specializing in corporate security measures, which many of his former associates knew was a sophisticated front, Dalton also accepted "sensitive" assignments for the Terrorism Warning Group within the Counterterrorist Center.
    Reporting to the CIA director, the CTC was designed to bring all elements of the intelligence community together t o collect and analyze information about terrorist groups from all over the world.
    In his role as a private citizen and consultant to international entrepreneurs, Scott could circumvent certain obstacles that might prove embarrassing to the White House or the Pentagon if one of his covert operations went awry. In addition, Scott's activities were not subject to the cumbersome congressional reporting requirements that accompany CIA-directed covert operations. Scott's assignments centered around one basic element of covert operations, no fingerprints and no headlines.
    To that end, Greg O'Donnell often provided pilot services for Dalton's far-flung expeditions. The off-the-record excursions, sometimes as a jet captain and sometimes as a jump pilot, provided a sound financial base for Greg's Learjet charter service.
    "Grab the net," Scott yelled as he waded farther into the rushing current. "This one weighs at least fifty pounds." "In your dreams." The stocky redhead laughed as he snatched the net and splashed into the swirling river. O'Donnell lost his balance and plunged forward into the frigid water. "Holy mother!" he said in a high-pitched voice. "I'm awake now."
    "That's good, 'cause I need some help," Scott declared as he continually hefted the rod, then reeled down. "This guy is strong."
    "Hang on." Greg laughed as he regained his footing. The battle continued while Scott desperately tried to maneuver the thrashing fish closer to shore. Finally, he waded toward the salmon until ice-cold water poured into his hip boots.
    "Net him!" Scott gasped.
    "I'm trying."
    O'Donnell made two attempts at snaring the hefty fish before he stepped in a hole and had to swim back toward the muddy bank.
    "Anytime you're ready!" Scott laughed while he struggled with his catch. "I hope there aren't any serious fishermen watching this."
    O'Donnell lunged again and scooped the thrashing salmon into the net. With his thinning red hair plastered to his hea d and water gushing over the tops of his waders, the freckle-faced aviator proudly displayed the big fish. "Are you implying that I don't look like a professional outdoorsman?" "You look like Howdy Doody coming out of the rinse cycle."
    Scott's comment was interrupted by the familiar whopwhop-whop-whop of a Sikorsky helicopter. Less than fifty seconds later an Air Force H-60 swooped low over them, then pulled up in a sweeping turn as the pilot circled to land near the riverbank.
    O'Donnell studied the helo, then turned to his friend. "You're not in some kind of trouble, are you?"
    Scott flashed his mischievous grin. "I'm always in trouble." Carrying the salmon toward the riverbank, O'Donnell shielded the bright sun from his eyes while he watched the helicopter descend. "Maybe they think we're lost."
    "With a bright red Explorer parked on the road?" Scott asked with a chuckle. "Somehow, I don't think that's it." They watched as the Night Hawk slowed to a hover and settled into a small clearing by the edge of the river. A moment later Dalton saw two figures exit from the side door as the main rotor began winding down. He immediately recognized Hartwell Prost, his former boss at the Directorate of Operations. What the hell is he doing here, and who's the woman?
    "Greg," Scott said in a barely audible voice, "I believe my vacation is about to come to an end."
    Shifting his gaze to the strangers, O'Donnell's aqua-blue eyes widened. "Is