Sword of God - By Chris Kuzneski Page 0,1

Requin).

Yet on this day, the thing that captured his attention was the helicopter.

He heard it roar down the river valley, nearly brushing the Gateway Clipper and the top of the Smithfield Street Bridge. It soared over die twinkling lights of Station Square and flew parallel to the 635-foot track of the Monongahela Incline, a landmark built in 1870. The old-fashioned cable car chugged up the hill at six miles per hour, a slow pace compared to the chopper, which banked sharply and aimed right toward Payne's building.

The glass and steel structure was built by his grandfather, a self-made millionaire who went from mill worker to mill owner in less than thirty years. Payne revered the man, yet had bypassed the family business for a career in the military. There he'd led a Special Forces unit called the MANIACs, an elite counterinsurgency team comprised of the top soldiers that the Marines, Army, Navy, Air Force, and Coast Guard could find. Whether it was personnel recovery, unconventional warfare, or counterguerrilla sabotage, the MANIACs were the best of the best.

Payne reflected on those days as he listened to the roar of the chopper while it hovered outside his window. It transported him to another time and place, back when he carried a gun for protection and a knife for fun. When he risked his life and killed for his country without giving it a second thought. Back before his grandfather had died and left him a corporation to run. That was the main reason he had left the military—to honor his grandfather's dying wish.

The shrill of the desk phone cut Payne's memories short. Annoyed, he let it ring a few more times before he answered, finally turning to face the window to see who was calling. He stared at the chopper, eye to eye, more than a thousand feet above the city. The only thing separating them was three inches of bulletproof glass and Payne's reluctance to get back in the game.

"This is Payne."

"This is Colonel Harrington. Sorry to drop in like this, but we've got a situation."

Payne had heard those words hundreds of times before, and it always meant trouble. Once in his lifetime, he wanted to hear the term situation followed by a dose of good news.

"Colonel, I'm guessing you didn't get my memo, but I'm retired." Harrington growled. "I'm guessing you didn't get my memo. I don't give a fuck."

The chopper landed on the building's helipad, where it was greeted by four armed security guards who questioned the pilot and searched the aircraft before escorting the colonel inside. Unarmed, he wore the domes of a civilian—khaki pants, white dress shirt, black overcoat—an outfit that would have blended in with the business world, if not for his dramatic arrival. Normally Payne's visitors parked in the garage under the building instead of on the roof.

Then again, his entrance wasn't the only thing that stood out. There was something about Harrington, a quality that one noticed but couldn't put a finger on. Maybe it was his board-straight posture or his striking white hair, shorn tight on the sides. Whatever it was, he had a presence. An air. One felt it when he walked into a room. The man commanded attention.

Payne waited for him in the conference room, a chestnut-lined chamber equipped with the latest audiovisual gadgets—computers, plasma screens, high-speed connections. Plus it was windowless, which was the best safeguard against laser-guided listening devices. Or getting lased, as the military calls it. A single video camera, mounted in the far corner, tracked Harrington as he strode toward Payne, who stood at the head of the conference table.

Instead of saluting, Harrington simply nodded. "Colonel Joshua Harrington, U.S. Army."

Payne looked him straight in the eye. "Jonathon Payne, U.S. Navy. Retired."

"Yes, Payne, you've made that quite clear. Still, I think you'll want to hear me out on this."

"Oh, yeah? Why's that?"

"Because it involves you."

Payne was not surprised. "That's a shocker." Harrington sneered and sat in one of the leather chairs. He waited there, poker-faced, until Payne took a seat as well. "This also involves that buddy of yours, David Jones. Is he here?"

Payne nodded. "Yeah, I think he's still around. Do you want me to get him?"

"No need. I'll get him myself." Harrington pointed toward the video camera in the corner of the ceiling, then pointed to the chair next to Payne. "Don't worry. He'll be here shortly."

Payne grinned, duly impressed. The colonel was in the room less than thirty seconds yet had properly assessed the situation.