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rumors that one of the survivors had blackmailed a judge. When he was fourteen years old, though, that kind of thing had been hard to understand.
    At twenty-eight, he had full clarity.
    He remembered that his father had visited him once in the detention center, saying to him, I’ll find them, Chayton. And I’ll kill them. They took the best thing either of us ever had . And he had always assumed that his father was on the hunt, like he was, for the remaining two.
    And then he had found a picture of his father just two weeks ago in the renovated attic—now a study or library of sorts—of a Raleigh socialite. He had entered the enormous private residence without invitation and had left with the photograph, which he now stored safely in his above-barn apartment in Apex. The picture confirmed to him that he was on the right course.
    The picture also made him remember the names the way people remembered where they were when 9/11 happened: James and Raymond Gunther, Tommy Boyd, and Franklin Overton. He had killed Raymond Gunther and Franklin Overton on the scene that day. And he had seen a newspaper article about the death of Tommy Boyd. It was a story about a meth lab that had exploded in Brunswick County, killing Boyd, but police had a witness who had led them to suspect foul play. Soon the authorities had posted on-line and in the newspapers a rough artist’s sketch of a man who resembled his father. He remembered feeling proud at even the thought of his father exacting revenge, but Mahegan had had no clue regarding his dad’s whereabouts until his first night in Raleigh a few weeks ago.
    While he didn’t know the status of James Gunther for a long time, either, he had recently heard some news about the man, as well. Turned out his construction business had thrived and had grown to the point where he had to hire on his son, James Jr., to help him manage the company. Mahegan seethed at the thought. His mother had died a vicious death, while Gunther not only had lived, but also had prospered. Other than the punishment Mahegan had meted out that day, justice had not been served.
    At seventeen, Mahegan had enlisted as a private in the Army, and he had quickly become an Airborne Ranger, graduated from Officer Candidate School, and then become a Delta Force operator. But the mustangs inside broke loose again the day he saw his best friend blown to bits. Killing a prisoner of war, though, was probably the best thing that had ever happened to him. That misdeed had led him to his current status as the only domestic contract operative for the Joint Special Operations Command. Major General Bob Savage kept him off the books and called on him only when absolutely required. He was a cleaner. A fixer. A problem solver. A consultant.
    But this matter today was personal, and Savage had little idea of what Mahegan was doing at this moment.
    The truck slowed, causing Mahegan’s massive frame to lean into the firm shoulder of the man the driver had called “Dos.” He watched as the truck spun around a cloverleaf exit and turned onto New Elam Church Road. From there, the driver wound along several unnamed roads and turned onto a muddy red-clay path. They dipped through a small wet area, and Mahegan noticed the low ground on both sides of a densely vegetated forest. As the truck’s engine roared, they climbed a hill, turning west before reaching the top. Mahegan was staring due east as he looked along the rear axis of the truck. He saw swampy, low ground surrounded by oak, maple, and pine trees. The underbrush was thick, as were the mid-level trees, such as dogwoods. He thought he saw a small herd of deer grazing along a stream.
    Looking to the south now, Mahegan noticed the lazy drift of steam from the Shearon Harris Nuclear Power Plant cooling tower about four miles away. Turning to his left, he saw a chain-link fence standing ten feet tall, with menacing curls of razor wire preventing anyone from