Pain. Fire. This wasn’t happening. No. Hancock looked down at the knife hilt protruding from his chest, the room seeming to swirl around him as she jerked it free, a bloody blade flickering before his eyes before she plunged it into him again. Fury.
He looked down to see a dark red stain spreading across the front of his undershirt…a stain spreading ever wider with every beat of his heart. No.
He fell to his hands and knees, hearing himself scream, the blood trickling from between his fingers. Dimly, as if in a nightmare, he heard the locked door crash open — heard the shouts of his detail. He reached out, the polished wood of the nightstand beneath his hand, but he no longer possessed the strength to pull himself up.
As it had been in his dreams…
Dying. Gunshots resounded through his fast-fading mind as he collapsed onto the carpet, on his side.
Gunshots. One, two, three — another two almost together. He felt something fall beside him and opened his eyes to see the young woman lying there. His murderer.
Her eyes were open, glazing with pain and the coming of Death…but her lips were creased in a smile.
Strangely at peace. Strangely, irrationally, he found himself wanting more than anything else to ask why, but he lacked even the strength to form the words. Dying to know.
It was still early, the pub barely beginning to fill with its evening traffic.
Just a few couples enjoying their meals — a trio of college students watching a rugby game on the television above the bar.
And a man sitting by himself in the very back of the pub, facing the door. His sandwich sat untouched on his plate, an unopened bottle of spring water before him.
As if waiting for someone — but his face betrayed that assumption…empty blue eyes staring out from a worn, tired face. The face of a man who wasn’t waiting for anyone…anymore.
There were no surveillance cameras in the pub — he had made certain of that before entering. Just a place to get a quiet meal before moving on.
Alone and unarmed. It was an unusual feeling, Harry thought, looking down at the sandwich on his plate. Out in the cold.
The television changed suddenly, the voice of an announcer coming over the speakers.
“Reporting live from Los Angeles, California — we regret to inform our viewers that Roger Hancock, the former President of the United States, has succumbed to wounds received in a stabbing last night. Here with us is the mayor of Los Angeles to comment on the savage attack…”
The news brought him no satisfaction, but there seemed an irony in it all — perhaps even a justice, if there was any of that to be found in this fallen world.
He pulled a wallet from an inner pocket of his leather jacket, unfolding it on the table as he brushed his meal to the side.
The pictures. A sad smile creased his lips as his eyes fell on the images of the two of them.
Together.
The ones Rhoda had taken of them that morning — it seemed so very long ago — a sprawling vista of the Blue Ridge Mountains stretched out behind them in one shot.
Places they had never been. Things they had never done. Lies…just like so much else in his life.
Perhaps the love he’d known for her was the only truth in it all.
Flame sprang from the tip of his lighter to the edge of the photographs, the paper curling away from the heat. Curling, blackening, ashes falling unbidden into the tray on the table below — fire searing the tips of his fingers as he held on, hardly daring to let go.
Her eyes staring back at him from the midst of the flames, burning themselves into his memory.
Haunting.
A tear ran down his cheek, and he let it fall, unheeding. Uncaring. Watching as the last traces of those precious memories were consumed.
The mobile phone beneath his hand pulsed with an incoming text and he slid it open, revealing a single word on the screen. Yes.
He knew where this road ended — a casket on a flight back across the Atlantic…if he was that lucky. Time to dance with the devil.
He didn’t send a reply, replacing the phone within his jacket as he rose — leaving his meal abandoned beside a tray of smoldering embers as he walked from the pub.
The ashes of his past.
A mist was rolling in off the cold North Sea, obscuring the masts of the fishing vessels moored in the Royal Harbour, an icy rain lashing at his body as he walked on…into the night.
No turning back.
Author’s Note
As I finish Day of Reckoning, I find myself amazed at how far this series has come since the launch of Pandora’s Grave in the summer of 2011 — and how far it has yet to go.
When I started work on this series years ago, in the wake of 9/11, I wanted to do more than write a fast-paced action thriller. I wanted to tell the story of a man out there in the shadows, fighting for his country. An intensely personal story of heroism and duty, of tragedy and loss. The story of the psychological, emotional, and even spiritual struggles known by those who would take up arms to defend our freedoms — by whatever means necessary.
That’s the story of Harry Nichols, and it is a story that is far from over. If you come away from these “thrillers” with a deeper appreciation of those who have left it all on the field in the service of our country — of those who came home from the wars with scars not easily seen — then I have accomplished my purpose.
To those who have helped make this journey possible, I can only extend my most heartfelt gratitude, and my sincere regret that what follows is only a partial list.
To my parents for their love and support over the years, for encouraging me when there was no one else.
To my cover designer, Louis Vaney — an absolute genius of an artist and the best in the business. As always, you pulled off a masterpiece.
To Janis Zunda Kalnins, the brilliant talent behind the Day of Reckoning video trailer. For your perseverance as we pulled everything together on a tight schedule.
To the members of the Day of Reckoning beta-reading team: Jan Traeg, Mary Thompson, Tommy Lowther, Barry Taylor, and John Curry. Your diligence in sorting through hundreds of pages looking for typos was much appreciated.
To NYT bestselling novelist Brad Thor, with thanks for his support and encouragement with the first novel of this series — and a salute for his willingness to stand in the courage of his convictions, even when those stands came with a cost.
To my fellow novelist Gerard de Marigny, a denizen of Las Vegas whose input on the city was invaluable in constructing the narrative.
And the small group of top-flight independent thriller writers who have become my friends through this process. Robert Bidinotto, Ian Graham, R.E. McDermott, Steven Hildreth, and Ian Kharitonov(who provided indispensable advice on the Russian dialogue in Day of Reckoning). It’s been a pleasure getting to know all of you and I wish you nothing but the best in your own careers.
To a pair of retired pilots who helped me get the “feel” for flying a Korean War-era helicopter.
And to the countless members of America’s military, law enforcement, and intelligence communities(both active duty and retired), who provided input on the technical aspects of the book. Any mistakes are my responsibility and mine alone — their assistance was invaluable. Space(and their own need for anonymity) will only permit me to thank just a few by name.