Jasper left his room they’d assigned him on base just before sundown. It would be well into the night by the time he’d return. His plan was to pound the pavement, to run it out of himself. All the negativity. All the poison. The sadness of crushing Davey’s dreams, of listening to his brother’s already crushed life over the phone.

He’d planned to run about ten miles, get his heart pumping, break a sweat, let his mind go blissfully empty with the approach of his well-earned “runner’s high”—that rush of endorphins facilitating the switch from pain to pleasure.

But he hadn’t yet reached either. Despite running for an hour, he couldn’t shake the thoughts of his brother and his family, and whatever shape they were in in North Dakota. Kyle was older, but for the last ten years the roles seemed to have reversed. Perhaps another reason for the resentment he so clearly felt from his brother.

“Looking good, Soldier! Good form!”

The voice pulled him out of his thoughts. A familiar voice. But in an unfamiliar car. Someone was creeping by in an SUV. All black. The passenger, keeping exact pace with Jasper, reached his arm out of the widow and formed a salute. His face was covered in darkness.

Jasper kept running.

“Yo, Jasper. Don’t be scared. It’s me.”

“Who’s me?” called Jasper, breathless. Although he’d made a few enemies in his work, he felt pretty safe a thousand miles away and back on US soil. Especially on base, jogging along one of the many service roads within the expanse of Fort Bragg. It was home turf if there’d ever been any.

The arm pounded on the top of the car’s roof. “Come on, hop in.”

Jackson?

By now the car had pulled up right by Jasper’s feet. Someone had opened the rear passenger door. It was his old superior, the man who had trained him, Captain Dempsey. “I saw you back at the bar with that kid,” the captain said, sliding over to make room for Jasper. “That Davey kid. Figured I’d let you handle that on your own.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Jasper said dryly as he sat next to him in the back.

The captain patted him on the shoulder. “Sounds like someone just got a good dose of reality.”

“Me or the kid?”

Captain Dempsey chuckled as Jackson reached around from the front to shake Jasper’s hand. “I hope you’re not too busy here,” he said with one of those devilish grins that Jasper knew meant trouble.

“I don’t know,” said Jasper, looking back at his former superior officer. “Am I?”

“We can handle the rest of the recruiting drills without you.”

Thank God.

At first, Jasper felt relieved. He hated recruiting. He hated being stuck in the position he’d just been in with Davey. He didn’t mind being that guy that everyone looked up to, sure. Being a role model came naturally. The problems came when he had to do that in an official capacity. When it became his job, a professional trainer. He’d been an obvious choice for the role when his old commander had contacted DARC Ops, but it wasn’t where his heart lay. He’d rather be fighting it out back in any number of foreign hell holes than teaching the Davys of the world.

Fort Bragg, in comparison to his life in Army Special Ops, and then with DARC, was like purgatory. An infinite boredom that threatened to dull his senses as well as his fighting spirit.

“Well?” said Captain Dempsey, his brows arched.

Jasper kept staring at the two men, and his relief quickly faded to apprehension. “Where are you sticking me?”

“I’m not sticking you anywhere,” said Jackson from the front seat.

“Yeah, sure,” said Jasper, snorting a laugh. “We’ll see.” He knew how this usually went. At first he’d present it like a prize, just a bit of fun. And then somewhere along the way, sure enough, it would turn into a nightmare.

He also knew that medics weren’t needed if it wasn’t already a nightmare.

“It’ll be different,” said Jackson. “You’re staying in the U.S. And you’ll be on your own this time. You call your own shots.”

He didn’t mind about staying in the U.S. It was the autonomy that he found attractive.

“And it’s critically important,” said Dempsey, who was apparently already in the loop. He pulled two cigars out from his jacket pocket and offered one to Jasper, who was still too sweaty and breathless to accept it. “They want someone with official connections, a military history.”

“It’s always critically important,” said Jasper, thinking of the nightmare again. Fuck it. That’s what he’d signed up for, right? A long list of nightmares?

“Yes, it’s always important,” said Jackson. “And that’s why I need you on this.”

“Son, just accept the compliment,” the captain said, chuckling as he fired up his cigar with a few big puffs of smoke.

He and Jackson wanted Jasper to accept more than a compliment. At the heart of it was the responsibility of someone’s life. But they didn’t say who yet. The information was painfully slow coming in, especially information about where the hell they were headed. First was Jasper’s quarters, for a quick shower and change of clothes. And then back on the road, leaving the safe confines of Fort Bragg, where Jackson offered a few more details about the man he’d be in charge of protecting.

“At this moment, he’s probably in the top five most powerful men in the world,” explained Jackson. All that really told Jasper was that he’d be a giant pain in the ass.

As the SUV sped down the freeway, Jackson finally explained further. He’d be in charge of overseeing the hospital stay of a high-profile foreign dignitary. They were driving to meet with an associate of this dignitary, Mr. Awadi.

“I have to warn you,” said Jackson. “They’re pretty paranoid right now.”

“When aren’t they?” Jasper scoffed.

“They have a reason. Prince Saif’s pacemaker has been on the fritz. They think someone is trying to compromise it.”

Jasper’s eyebrows rose at that. “On purpose?”

“A hacker,” Jackson said. “I’ve got Tansy and Carly working on that end of it. Your job is the prince, to monitor him while he’s in the hospital undergoing treatment. They want everything to go smoothly there.”

The lights outside of the car grew brighter as they approached downtown Raleigh. And even brighter still as they drove under the valet arch in front of a hotel’s main entrance.

“You remember the customs, right?” asked Jackson as the two men got out of the car.

“What, he’s gonna want a kiss on the cheek or something?”

They entered the muzak-filled main lobby of the hotel and Jasper immediately noticed the guards wearing dark suits stationed near the entrance and elevator.

“Those yours?” he asked Jasper, nodding his head toward the men.

“No,” he said. “That’s Awadi’s personal staff.”

Jasper watched as Jackson nodded to one of the men, receiving a nod of approval back like they knew they both belonged to some secret worldwide fraternity of security guards.

“Why don’t they just fill the hospital with these guys?” he asked as he pushed the elevator button.

“There might be some. Probably our men. But they’ll just get in the way there. We need someone like you with expert medical knowledge. And let’s be honest, these kinda guys, even guys like me, we’re more concerned with causing bodily harm, not fixing it.”

It was almost a wash for Jasper, his past experience of both leveling up the same. It was an odd contrast. How did the old saying go? 18Ds—one finger on the trigger and another on someone’s pulse. Somewhere he’d had to equate the two, to find the balance, to make the switch from doctor to killer. But since he’d done his fair share of harm, it was probably time to start leaning more heavily the other way. If he couldn’t be a country music star, he could always try retiring as a paramedic in a little sleepy New England village somewhere.

The elevator doors clanged shut, and they were on their way up to the top floor of the hotel. Jackson pulled out a key card when they came to a stop on floor twenty.

“Doors won’t open without this,” he said, sliding the card into a little slot below a digital screen.

“That’s some pretty fancy security,” Jasper joked as they stepped off the elevator. But their steps and laughter came to an abrupt halt.

Standing in their way were two huge guards with guns drawn. They looked down on them, gripping their guns a little tighter.

“Here’s your security,” murmured Jackson.

“Excuse me?” one of the guards said.

“This floor is closed,” said the other.

“We came up to see Mr. Awadi,” said Jackson.

“Names?”

“Just tell him it’s DARC Ops.”

Their faces suddenly softened. One of them said, “Jackson?”

They were evidently glad to meet Jackson, the fabled leader of DARC Ops, hero and celebrity to security outfits everywhere. One of the guards walked back to a room down the hall while the other, still beaming, shook hands with the men.

“How do you know it’s really me?” asked Jackson, grimacing.

“Easy. No one would dare impersonate you.”

After all the flattery and the almost infantile comradeship, Jasper and Jackson were shown into the penthouse suite, a lavish setup that looked more like someone’s full-time apartment than a hotel room. There were such useless extravagances as a gushing water fountain, a baby grand piano in the marble-laden foyer, and in the main room, a fully stocked bar that should have been useless for any self-respecting Saudi.

“Come in, come in,” said a smiling, elderly man in a white gown and thick sunglasses. He walked with a stiff hunch in his back, and his feet seemed to move in small, toddler-like increments. Little baby steps all the way out of the hallway and into the brilliantly lit living room.

“Don’t worry about that shit,” he told Jackson when the DARC Ops leader tried on his Saudi greeting. “We’re in America. Right?”

“That’s right,” said Jackson. “North Carolina.”

They must really have wanted Jasper involved in the case to fly out to meet him near the base.

“So what do they do in North Carolina?” he asked, his accent stumbling over the state’s name.

“I don’t know,” said Jackson. “We’re not from here, either.”

“Is this the guy?” the Saudi asked, looking hard at Jasper.

Jasper nodded before Jackson could say anything. Indeed, he was the guy. He’d been “the guy” many times in the past and for various reasons. It was a suitable, safe name.

“Call me Rick,” said Jasper. Rick had always been the guy’s name.

“Okay, Rick. Call me Mr. Awadi.”

Sure. Real original.

“So like I said, Mr. Awadi’s boss needs our help.”

“That’s right. He doesn’t trust anyone except for Mr. Jackson.”

“We bonded after I saved his ass from an assassination attempt.” Jackson said it as if it were just some minor little memoir, on par with fixing his flat tire or going fishing in Wisconsin. Jasper caught his eye, raising an eyebrow, but Jackson left it at that. No need to waste anyone’s time with further elaboration on how or from whom, of course. Just another day at DARC Ops.

“He’s a good man,” said Awadi, smiling.

“So, tell us about our boss,” said Jackson.

Awadi looked past them, around the room. “He’s not my boss. He’s the prince.” He kept looking for something.

“What’s wrong?” asked Jackson.

“I forgot to check something,” he said. And then he called out a name in Arabic. A young, extremely skinny man appeared a few seconds later. This time when he spoke, Jasper could pick up the words. Something about the room. An uncertainty. A definite displeasure.

He turned to Jackson and said, “Good thing you’re here.”

“Why?”

“Because Salmha is incompetent. I told him to check for bugs and he’s having trouble. Could you do me the pleasure?”

It seemed odd the way he said it. As if it was a test.

“You want me to check the room for bugs?” asked Jackson.

“Anything,” said Awadi. “Anything that can listen.”

“I wish you would’ve told me earlier. I could’ve brought—”

“Do what you can,” said Awadi. “Please.”

The young man returned with a briefcase, opening it up on the coffee table and then stepping back out of the limelight. He seemed happy to do so, to leave off the responsibility to the experts.

“This is your specialty,” said Awadi. “Is it not?”

Jackson barely looked at the contents of the briefcase before saying, “I can’t use this equipment.”

“No? Why not?”

Jackson took another look before shaking his head and closing the lid.

“Is there a problem?” asked Awadi.

“I can get better results with a phone,” said Jackson, fishing one out of his pocket. “Don’t you just hate that?”

“Well, I don’t know, but I hate being listened to. Do you understand me?”

“Forget bugs,” said Jackson. “Your phone is your bug.”

“My phone?”

“So the question is, can someone tap into it?” Jackson started working his phone. “What I can check right now is if there are any devices nearby that can grab your signal. That’s the easiest thing to check.”

He was looking for an IMSI catcher, a device that could capture your phone’s activity. Anyone could buy one for a few thousand dollars.

“Meta data,” said Jackson. “It’s like your fingerprints.”

“I know meta data,” said Awadi.

“You do?” Jackson had leaned over to show Jasper his screen, a framework map of the neighborhood showing all the devices. An IMSI catcher would show up as a red circle. There was none.

“Well, I know the metadata,” said Awadi. “But I dont know . . .”

“An IMSI catcher intercepts your phone’s metadata remotely,” said Jackson. “With that they can tell when you left your house, the license plate on the car you’re in, where you went, who you sat with.”

“Yes, I know all that,” said Awadi. “So is there one of those, uh . . .”

“IMSI catchers?”

“Did you find one?”

“No,” Jackson said, putting the phone away. “You’re clear.”

“You hear that, Salmha?” he called to his servant out of the room. “He said we’re clear.” He waited a minute, smiling. And then he called again, “You hear that, Salmha?” He started drumming his fingers on his knee impatiently. The whole situation was becoming awkward.

“Maybe he’s in the bathroom?” said Jackson.

“Salmha!” yelled Awadi before launching into an angry tirade of Arabic. It was too fast and too hostile for translation.

“I’m sorry,” he finally said, getting up. “I don’t know what’s happened to Salmha.” He started shuffling away while calling his servant’s name again for the twentieth time.

“Should we . . .” Jasper started to say. But Jackson just shook his head. Best to let them deal with whatever it was.

After a minute, Awadi returned with a grave look on his face, like he’d just stumbled upon a dead body. “Jackson, can you have your doctor come over here please?”

“His name is Rick,” said Jackson.

“Rick, can you please come?” He sounded very serious, quiet. Scared, almost.

Jasper joined him in the luxurious bathroom, where they found Salmha on the stone tile floor and hunched in the fetal position. He was breathing, conscious, but in great discomfort. Jasper immediately checked for any signs of blood or vomit, or even drool. But there was nothing.

Awadi said something to him. But there was hardly a response. He then turned to Jasper, saying, “He’s my food tester. Something must be wrong with the food.”

Most of these guys from Saudi come over with their own food testers, to make sure they weren’t about to be poisoned. Who would poison him was apparently beside the point. Awadi was traveling outside the safe confines of Riyadh, and therefore vulnerable.

It could be hoped that Salmha was just sensitive to a little American cooking, and nothing more.

“Salmha, can you hear me?” Jasper said in Arabic.

Yes, he could hear, he mumbled in reply.

“Do you know where you are?”

Yes, he knew that he was in the bathroom in a hotel suite on the twentieth floor. Raleigh, North Carolina. It was all good news, that he was at least conscious and coherent. But what the hell was wrong with him?

“Where does it hurt?” asked Jasper.

The man was clutching his stomach, so that as much was obvious.

“Where does it hurt, Salmha?” asked Awadi.

Jasper had already gotten him to sit up, his back pushed up against the wall. He was holding his chest right below his ribs, but Jasper moved his hands away so he could press onto his abdomen, examining his organs.

Jackson had left the room, returning within a few seconds. “Jasper, the food’s in the other room. Do you want to see it?”

“Yes, do you want to check out the food?” asked Awadi, sounding like he was already interviewing for another food tester.

“There’s no need to check it,” said Jasper, looking at the man’s eyes now. Looking at his tongue. And then looking at his hands. “The food’s fine.”

“Food’s fine?” asked Awadi.

“Probably too fine,” said Jasper as he finished up his exam got back to his feet. “He ate it too fast.”

“What?” Awadi looked confused, looked down at his man.

“Gas pain,” said Jasper, trying not to laugh.

“He’ll be okay,” said Jasper. “Let’s get him up and lay him in bed.”

Jasper and Jackson helped the man off the bathroom floor and walked him into the bedroom. He was apologizing in Arabic, saying that he felt okay, and sorry for all the bother.

“So,” said Jackson, helping the man into one of the suite’s many king-size beds. “Do you think we can talk about the prince, or . . . ?” He was starting to sound annoyed with all the little delays.

“Prince Saif,” said Awadi. “Yes, of course.” They walked back, slowly, to the main room while he began the briefing. “He has many enemies, as you could guess.”

“Why don’t you explain that,” said Jackson. “His enemies. Who are they?”

“Anyone in the business of selling oil, who profits when we keep production down,” said Awadi. “Look at your own country. Your shale oil and fracking wouldn’t be profitable if gas were below thirty-two a barrel. You understand what I mean, right? Our royal family has been flooding the market for over a year now, and not many people are happy. You understand?”

Jasper didn’t want to admit how well he understood. It was called “break-even economics.” And right now, if you weren’t a Saudi, you weren’t breaking even.

“There were threats made,” said Awadi. “Big threats made. Assassination attempts. Two this year already.”

“In the Kingdom?” asked Jackson incredulously.

“Yes. Attempts in the Kingdom.”

“At least your track record’s better here in the US,” said Jasper with a hesitant smile.

“Yes,” said Awadi. “But right now it doesn’t matter where he is. The threat can come from anywhere. The hacking.”

“When is the prince due for surgery?” asked Jackson.

“Surgery for what?” Jasper interrupted.

“His heart,” said Awadi. “He’s getting a new pacemaker.”

Jackson turned to his medic. “They’re worried about the potential for it to be hacked, among other things—like it’s malfunctioning. Badly.”

“Yes, of course, the pacemaker,” said Awadi, his eyes wide. “We have no other choice but to have surgery on his heart. But what if they could stop the pacemaker entirely?”

“They can stop it,” said Jackson. “They can hack into it and compromise its functions.”

“Yes, certainly,” Awadi’s eyes were still wide with concern. “They can hack.”

“So, our mission,” said Jackson, looking like he was trying to resist rolling his eyes, “is to not let them hack it. We’ll be monitoring it from the outside. And your mission, Rick, is to see to it that the prince has a nice, uneventful stay at the hospital. You know your way around a hospital setting, right?”

“Sure,” said Jasper. He’d been to far too many hospitals, as a caregiver and recipient. In fact, part of his training when he was active duty had him working in the regular rotation at a hospital near Fort Bragg. And part of that rotation was spent with one irresistibly attractive nursing assistant, when they’d learned much more about each other’s bodies than those of their subjects. Several weeks and a pregnancy scare later, it was decided that they’d learned enough. Jasper had to deploy, and the relationship fizzled away.

“So?” said Jackson. “You on board, Rick?”

“Of course.” Jasper tried to get his mind off his night’s turn, tried not to wonder too much about where it’d ended up. “Yeah,” he said. “Count me in.”