I pulled the tines of the fork past my tightened lips. “I’ve never cared for cauliflower before,” I admitted. “But this is so good.”

“Thank you,” Vincent said. “Parmesan, olive oil, and garlic. It’s simple.”

I raised a bite of the cooked-to-perfection filet. “The steak is perfect, too.”

He grinned. “Thank you.”

“A man that can cook,” I said. “A rare find, indeed.”

“I had to learn to cook. I don’t like to eat out. After going to work for New Dawn, I realized you never know what you’re eating. When I die, I prefer it be from natural causes, not from eating something that’s been slipped into my food. If I eat out, it’s unpredictable.”

“If you can cook like this, why eat out?”

I feared staying with Vincent would seem awkward. That I’d feel out-of-place. I was wrong. From the moment I got there, he made me feel as if I belonged. Although our lives were filled with tension from what was happening at work, we spent our evenings at home together, doing our best to relax.

His home, a sprawling ranch on a wooded lot, was fitted with a state-of-the-art alarm and surveillance system. Having infrared cameras, various monitors, and motion sensing perimeter lights put my mind at ease.

I suspected the home was what he’d dreamed of as a child. What he would have purchased when his mountain of coins amounted to a fortune that would have allowed him to.

I finished my meal, consciously taking the last bite at the same time Vincent finished his. I reached for my glass of wine. “That was fantastic.”

He beamed with pride. “Thank you.”

“Will you let me cook tomorrow?”

“As long as you’re a guest in my home, I’ll do the cooking.”

I smiled. “If you insist.”

“I insist.”

Vincent further insisted we eat in peace. Discussing work, the New Dawn program, or our plans to escape the grasp of the DNI only came after we finished our meal.

I rinsed the dishes and Vincent loaded the dishwasher. After tidying the countertops, he poured a cup of coffee and sat down at the dining room table. Still nursing my glass of wine, I took the seat across from him.

“I want something from you,” Vincent said. “And you may not be comfortable giving it to me.”

“What is it?”

“You use an iPhone. I’d like to have your iCloud ID. Your login information.”

“Huh?” I stammered.

“I want you to carry your personal phone with you at all times. I can promise you I’ll never log into your account unless it’s an emergency, but if anything ever happens to you, it’ll let me track your location.”

I saw no harm in giving him the information. In fact, it gave me additional peace of mind. “I’m okay with that, but you’re going to give me yours, too.”

His eyes narrowed. “What?”

“It’s about trust,” I explained. “And, I might need to know where you are, too.”

“I don’t carry my personal phone.”

“Well, when you do, I’ll know where you are.”

He shrugged. “I’m fine with that. I don’t have anything to hide.”

I reached for my phone. “I’ll text the ID and login to you.”

He shook his head. “Write it down on a sheet of paper.”

“I will as soon as we’re done.” I set my phone aside. “So, how was your day today? Mine was oddly uneventful.”

“Director Martin tossed me the newspaper and asked my opinion of it all.”

“He did the same to me,” I said.

“What did you say?”

“I told him I knew nothing of Wallace, or his relationship with the men. When it came to Pike, I said nothing shocked me.”

“What did he say?” he asked without looking up.

“He took the newspaper and stomped off. What about you?” I asked. “What did you say?”

“I acted shocked, of course. He suspects the DNI has sent a goon squad to kill us all.”

“He doesn’t think it was an in-house job?” I asked. “That someone in New Dawn did it?”

“He said marines don’t kill marines. He said it was likely the work of men from another one of DNI’s similar programs. One that utilized Army special forces.”

“He said that?”

He took a drink of his coffee, winced, and lowered the cup. “Pretty much exactly.”

“If he doesn’t think that marines kill marines, then he thinks what we think. That the DNI is eventually going to wipe us all out. Correct?”

“He mentioned that theory. Yes.” He lifted his eyes from his cup of coffee. His gaze was blank. After a moment, his eyes met mine. “I just thought of something.”

“What’s that?”

“Something else he said.” He rubbed his temples. “He said Shephard was truly scheduled to go to Somalia, but that he never arrived. If what he said was true, someone gave the order to ship Shephard out. Someone else gave the order to kill him. There’s more than one person calling the shots.”

“Maybe Martin gave the order to ship Shephard to Somalia.”

“He didn’t say so, but I suppose he could have,” he said, seemingly trying to convince himself that may have been the case. “Do you have any idea who calls the shots? From the Office of the DNI? Who assigns the targets?”

I shrugged. “That’s above my pay grade. I have no idea.”

“This is becoming frustrating,” he said.

“It’s been frustrating since we figured out what’s going on,” I admitted. “Being in a situation where I might have to kill someone scares me to death.”

“I’d just like to know who my enemy is, so I know who to kill.”

“Did you see that movie with Jack Nicholson?” I asked. “When he says, ‘You can’t handle the truth?’ The one about the marines?”

“A Few Good Men?”

“That’s the one,” I said with a nod.

“That was a damned good show.”

“I love Jack Nicholson,” I said. “He’s got to be my all-time favorite actor. I’ve seen all his movies. Anyway, that’s what I feel like. Like I can’t handle the truth. I just want this to end.”

“As do I,” he said. “My only problem is that I’m not sure which direction to attack.”