at the Agency had always referred to as tai chi of the mind, did the job.
Cam put back his leather seat, closed his eyes and let his mind drift. Maybe because he was on a mission for his father, he thought about his life. What he’d made of it. What he hadn’t.
How close he’d come to meeting his father’s bitter predictions.
“You’re worthless,” Avery used to tell him when he was a kid. “You’ll never amount to anything.”
Cam had to admit he’d seemed determined to prove his father right.
He’d cut school. Gotten drunk. Smoked dope, though not for long. He didn’t like the loss of self-control that came with the short-lived high.
By seventeen, he was a kid heading for trouble.
Angry at his mother for dying, at his old man for caring more for money than for his wife or sons, he’d been a time bomb ready to go off.
Late one night, driving a winding back road, watching the speedometer needle of his souped-up truck climb over one hundred, he’d realized he was going past the dark house of a cop who’d roughed him up a year back. It hadn’t been much, just a little hard handling.
What mattered was that the cop had done it as a courtesy to Cam’s father.
“His old man wanted me to give the kid somethin’ to think about,” Cam had heard the cop tell his partner.
With those words echoing in his head, Cam had pulled his truck to the side of the road. Climbed a tree, jimmied open a window, stood over the sleeping cop while the bastard snored, then went out the same way he’d gone in.
It was an exhilarating experience. So exhilarating that he did it again and again, breaking into the homes of men who danced to his old man’s tune, taking nothing from the break-ins but the satisfaction of success.
One night, it all came apart. He was in college by then, home for a long weekend…and he’d come within a whisper of getting caught.
Playing dangerous games was one thing; being stupid was another. Cam quit school, joined the Army, got recruited into Special Forces. When the Agency expressed interest, he said yes. Risk was what you ate and breathed in covert operations.
He thought he’d found a home.
Not true. It turned out the Agency sometimes asked things of you that made you a stranger, even to yourself.
His brothers had taken similar routes. Fast cars, beautiful women, playing Russian roulette with trouble, seemed the path a Knight took to manhood.
A year apart in age, they attended the same college on football scholarships. They’d even all scored touch-downs in the same game, one memorable championship season.
They’d all quit school after a couple of years, joined the Army, then Special Forces and, finally, maybe inevitably, the clandestine labyrinth of the Agency.
Just as inevitably, they’d grown disillusioned with what they found there.
The brothers returned to Dallas and went into business together. Knight, Knight and Knight: Risk Management Specialists. Cam had come up with the name after hours of solemn planning and not-so-solemn drinking.
“But what in hell does it mean?” Matt had asked.
“It means we’re gonna make ourselves a fortune,” Alex had said, grinning.
And they did. Powerful clients paid them exorbitant amounts of money to do things that would have made most men’s bellies knot with fear.
Things that the law just wouldn’t—or maybe couldn’t—handle.
The only person who seemed oblivious to their success was their father…and then, last night, Avery had turned up at Cam’s Turtle Creek triplex.
Avery hadn’t wasted time on preliminaries. He’d explained that his oil contracts negotiator in the sultanate of Baslaam hadn’t reported in for almost a week and was unreachable by cell phone or satellite computer.
Cam had listened, expressionless. Eventually Avery fell silent. Cam still said nothing, though by then he knew what had brought his father to him.
Moments crawled by. Avery grew red-faced. “Goddammit to hell, Cameron, you know what I’m asking.”
“Sorry, Father,” Cam said tonelessly. “You’ll have to tell me.”
For a second, Cam figured Avery was going to walk out. Instead, he took a deep breath.
“I want you to fly to Baslaam and see what the hell’s going on. Whatever your fee is, I’ll double it.”
Cam had tucked his hands in the pockets of his trousers, leaned back against the railing of the wraparound terrace that looked out on the city.
“I don’t want your money,” he said quietly.
“Then what do you want?”
I want you to beg, Cam had thought. But the damnable code of honor drummed into him by the Army, by Special Forces, by the Agency and maybe even by his own convictions, kept him from saying the words.
This was his father. His blood.
Which was why, less than eighteen hours later, he deplaned into a desert heat so fierce it slammed into him like a fist.
A small man in a white suit hurried toward him.
“Welcome to Baslaam, Mr. Knight. I am Salah Adair, the sultan’s personal aide.”
“Mr. Adair. Good to meet you.” Cam waited a couple of seconds, then made a show of looking around. “Isn’t the rep from Knight Industries with you?”
“Ah.” Adair smiled brightly. “He has undertaken a survey beyond the Blue Mountains. Did he not notify you of his plans?”
Cam returned the bright smile. The negotiator was an attorney. He wouldn’t have recognized signs of oil from signs for a neighborhood gas station.
“I’m sure he notified my father. He must have forgotten to tell me.”
Adair led him to a black limo, part of a mixed convoy of old Jeeps and new Hummers. All the vehicles held soldiers bristling with weapons.
“The sultan sent an escort in your honor,” Adair said smoothly.
The hell it was. No escort would involve so many armed men. And where were all the regular citizens of Baslaam? The paved road that led into town was empty. As the only road in a country trying to claw its way into a semblance of the twenty-first century, it should have been crowded with traffic.
“The sultan has arranged a feast,” Adair said with an oily smile. “You will taste many delicacies, Mr. Knight. Of the palate…and of the flesh.”
“Great,” Cam said, repressing a shudder. This part of the world, delicacies of the palate could make a man’s stomach roll. As for delicacies of the flesh…he preferred to choose his own bed-mates,
