USA Today bestselling author Ward Larsen’s globe-trotting, hard-hitting assassin, David Slaton, returns for another breathless adventure, Assassin’s Mark.
With the help of CIA operative David Slaton, America has shaken off a series of high-tech attacks. Then, just as the threat seems to have receded, the most brazen strike of all: Marine One is brought down in the heart of the capital. The president survives the crash, but is clinging to life by a thread.
Once again, Slaton gets the call. With limitless backing from the CIA, the agency’s most lethal assassin is dispatched halfway around the world. But as his mission nears completion, he finds himself targeted by a talented adversary, a ruthless young assassin who moves like a ghost, and whose motives are unclear.
What is clear is that Trident is not yet finished, and that there is a high-level traitor in the U.S. government. And the only way forward is to topple a conspiracy in the uppermost echelons of Washington.
Assassin’s Mark will be available on November 28th, 2023. Please enjoy the following excerpt!
CHAPTER ONE
The iconic blue-and-white whale that was Air Force One coasted smoothly down the glidepath toward Joint Base Andrews. The skies over Maryland had cleared from an earlier overcast and the sun was poised on the western horizon, a fitting ending to a grueling day that had begun here twelve hours earlier.
President Elayne Cleveland stared vacantly out the oval window beside her. The great chrome-lipped engines reflected the last glimmers of daylight. The terrain below gained definition, small farms giving way to pocket neighborhoods as the city came nearer. In the gathering darkness, traffic on the distant Beltway necklaced the capital in red and white light
“At some point there has to be a sacrifice, and we all know who’s got the target on his back.”
Cleveland blinked. Her eyes came back inside. Reluctantly, she tried to process what her Chief of Staff, Ed Markowitz, had just said. He was sitting across from her in a plush aft-facing chair. After the long day he looked no different than he had at the outset, his usual wonkish self: rumpled tweed jacket, bifocals, unkempt hair, and of course the ever-present secure tablet computer. She wondered if Ed, even as a child, had ever gazed out a window and let his thoughts wander.
They’d departed Andrews at daybreak that morning, destined for a long-deferred tour of a new Kansas semiconductor plant. Bringing tech production back to America was one of the few areas on which the parties could agree. After that had been lunch with the governor of Iowa to promote a robotics research initiative. Altogether, it was a pathetic, and all too obvious, attempt at normalcy after weeks of relentless crises. At every stop the reporters had been ruthless, shouting questions that had nothing to do with silicon wafers or AI. Try as she might to lead the country forward, the recent series of attacks against American interests had become a political black hole, an inexorable force that dragged her away from anything productive.
The chain of disasters had begun six weeks ago, and was now referred to by the media as March Madness. First, an Air Force reconnaissance plane had crashed in the Arctic, the wreckage landing on Russian territory. Almost simultaneously, a Navy guided-missile destroyer had sunk in the Black Sea. Both tragedies occurred under suspicious circumstances, and both involved loss of life. Rumors swirled that Russia was responsible. As commander in chief, however, Cleveland could not retaliate based on rumors. She needed hard facts, and while intelligence reports left no doubt that the acts were intentional, attribution for them had proved harder to nail down. Worse yet, making public what they did know would be the world’s worst poker move. Which meant her only play was to duck the questions and promise “a full and thorough investigation” by the nation’s already embarrassed intelligence agencies. More attacks followed, putting America on the precipice of World War Three, yet Cleveland found herself mired in political quicksand, and with a window for action that was closing fast. She had so far managed to keep America out of a shooting war with Russia, but her poll numbers were dropping like a free-falling anvil.
“Thomas is a good man,” she replied, referring to CIA director Thomas Coltrane. “He’s done nothing to shake my faith.”
“I would never argue otherwise, but we were caught flatfooted. Our intelligence agencies are still drawing blanks. The perception is that they’re failing us in our time of need. America was attacked, and we can’t even figure out who was behind it.”
“It’s not for lack of trying. People at the CIA have risked their lives to get to the bottom of this—one man in particular.”
“True, but unfortunately that’s not something we can share. The operator you’re referring to is an off-the-books asset—he’s not even a U.S. citizen, for God’s sake. And if Congress finds out you authorized the agency to send a gun-for-hire downrange . . .”
The president stared at Markowitz as his words trailed off into the recirculated air. A biting reply began to rise, but then she thought better of it. Ed had been with her for seven years now, first in the Montana governor’s mansion, and now in the White House. Was the pressure getting to him? Or is it getting to me?
“The midterm elections are closing in,” Markowitz pressed, “and the Democrats are baying for a response. Needless to say, national security is not ground we can afford to concede.”
“Nobody is conceding anything. Intelligence work takes time.” Cleveland spoke from a position of authority—after graduating from college, she had done a stint in the Army Reserve as an intelligence officer. “What’s on my calendar tomorrow?” she asked, ready to change the subject.
Markowitz finger-tapped on his tablet. “The standard morning briefings until ten, then you meet with the vice president to discuss border controls.”
“I thought he was in Asia.”
“He got back this afternoon.”
She had put Vice President Lincoln Quarrels in charge of the southern border. It was a thankless job, and a problem that had been festering for decades. In Cleveland’s view, it wasn’t a uniquely American issue, but rather a regional manifestation of what was happening across the globe. With the world increasingly divided into haves and have-nots, the exodus of the downtrodden had become a torrent. For America, having oceans on either side and a prosperous Canada to the north, the problem was simply hyper-focused.
The president massaged her temples, feeling the onset of a massive headache. Her eyes went back to the window but snagged on her reflection in the inner pane. Her brown hair, styled dutifully this morning, was drooping after the long day. Even in the ghosted image she could see bags under her eyes. Cleveland rarely found time for diversions of vanity, but the thought of a morning makeover crossed her mind.
The ground seemed to rush up suddenly and the great jet settled onto the runway. Its cantilever landing gear, and two of the finest pilots in the Air Force, bonded for a glass-smooth landing. Elayne Cleveland had never come to think of the White House as home, not really, but it was a place where she could rest. The finest bed-and-breakfast in the world.
Runway lights flashed past the window, the time interval between them lengthening as the great plane slowed. She heard the smartphones of staffers chiming notifications in the adjoining cabin. All of it brought her back to reality, and the idea of an early makeover tomorrow vanished.
There’s just too damned much to be done.
Five minutes later, Elayne Cleveland was descending red-carpeted stairs to the tarmac. She took care not to stumble—there were only a handful of cameras in the press pen today, but any misstep would go viral within minutes. Such was the aquarium she lived in.
She saluted two airmen at the bottom of the stairs and made a sharp turn toward her connecting flight: the Sikorsky VH-92 known as Marine One. The scrum of reporters was a hundred yards away, and Cleveland pretended not to hear their shouted questions, most of which had to do with the deplorable state of U.S.-Russia relations. Markowitz shadowed a few steps behind her, and nearing the helicopter she paused to let him catch up.
“Are you going to ride back to the White House with me?” she asked.
“Not tonight. I arranged for a car to take me straight home . . . Julie and I have plans to celebrate our anniversary. But if you need me for something—”
“No, no,” Cleveland said, cutting him off. “Have a nice time, and give Julie my best. I’ll see you in the morning.”
She turned away, forced a smile, and waved at the distant press gaggle. Cleveland strode as energetically as she could toward the idling helicopter, and at the steps of Marine One she exchanged another salute, this with a young Marine, before disappearing inside.
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