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  "Yes," he said, sitting up in bed. "Who's this?" "Are you looking for the father and his boy?" "Who is this?" he repeated.

  "Be downstairs in twenty minutes. You and your friends." "Hold up! We're not going anywhere unless—" Click. The caller hung up. No names. No explanation. No additional instructions. Just be downstairs in twenty minutes. Payne set the phone in its cradle as footsteps filled the hall. Jones reached his room first, followed by Kia. Both of them wide awake. Ready to roll.

  "Who was it?" Jones asked.

  "He didn't say."

  "What did he want?"

  Payne looked at them, confused. "Us."

  Twenty minutes wasn't enough time for most people. But these were the type of contingencies that Payne had trained for. When he walked into a room, he searched for exits. Danger zones. Blind spots. Sometimes it wasn't even a conscious act. His mind automatically worked through the possibilities like a computer crunching data. All the details were just sitting there in his brain, ready to be used if he ever thought they were necessary. And today they were.

  He walked outside at 7:00 a.m., still forty minutes before daybreak. The weather was breezy and brisk, colder than it was when he arrived on Jeju twenty-four hours before. He wore jeans, a thick sweater, and a winter coat. It concealed his gun and body armor. Anonymous phone calls were a rarity in his business. He would take every precaution.

  To Payne, the front exit was too obvious. Too predictable. The perfect spot for an ambush. So he left the hotel through one of the employee lots, walking behind trees and bushes until he reached the front of the hotel. Virtually invisible in the predawn light.

  But no cars were waiting for him. No one was standing around. Even the valets were inside, trying to stay warm. Some people would have been spooked by this, but not Payne. He preferred it this way. The fewer distractions, the better. Just him and whoever wanted to meet.

  He'd take those odds any day of the week.

  He heard the vehicle before he saw it. A rumble, a sputter, and the occasional grinding of gears. The sound echoed through the darkness like a rooster greeting the sun. It finally came into view as it entered the resort grounds, passing the chiseled entrance sign that gleamed in its spotlight. The truck was American, decades old, probably abandoned at the end of the Korean War because it was too old to salvage even back then. How it still worked was a mystery. It coughed and sputtered as it crawled past the manicured shrubs, belching smoke as it did.

  The man behind the wheel looked older than the truck, his wrinkles bathed in light every time he passed under one of the fancy lampposts. White hair, gaunt face, his eyes nothing but slits. Partially from his Asian features. But mostly because he had to squint to see.

  If ever a man and his truck belonged together, it was these two.

  Payne watched him as he drove up the hill and through the parking overhang, stopping on the downslope of the other side, as if he needed momentum to get started again. The back of the truck was filled with a variety of fishing tools. Rods and reels. Several nets. Two ice chests that were big enough for salmon. Nothing new or expensive. Simple tools for an age-old craft.

  The motor continued to run as he stepped out of the truck. He wore grimy old clothes that reeked of the sea. His spine was crooked, his posture hunched, his skin splotched from the sun. He just stood there, whistling absently, his eyes straining to see the pocket watch he held next to his face. Anxious. Waiting. This was a man who was meeting someone.

  Cautiously, Payne stepped into the light. Just far enough to be seen. 'Good morning."

  The old man froze until he spotted Payne in the shadows. Moving slowly, he trudged toward him until he was close enough to whisper. The same voice as on the phone. "Are you Payne?"

  "Maybe. Who are you?"

  The old man leaned closer. "A friend of Mr. Lee."

  "In that case, I'm Jonathon Payne."

  He smiled, glad he had found him so easily. "Are your friends coming with us?"

  "That depends. Where are we going?"

  "To find the boy."

  Payne arched an eyebrow. "Which boy are you talking about?"

  The old man pulled out a copy of the photograph. The one Payne had taken from the Parks' house. He pointed to it with gnarled fingers that were covered in calluses. "Yong-Su."

  "You know where he is?"

  "I know where he was. That's the best I can do."

  Payne considered the old man's answer, trying to read between the lines. Trying to figure out how he fit into all this. Was he a relative of the Parks? A friend? Or was this some kind of trick meant to distract Payne from danger that waited around the bend? His gut told him he was safe, that there was no real threat, but he realized a second opinion never hurt.

  So he casually unzipped his coat—his signal to Jones— and waited for a response.

  Three seconds later, his cell phone rang. He grabbed it with one hand and signaled for the old man to wait with the other. Very calm, very natural. Like any other day at the office.

  "Hello?" Payne answered.

  Jones was positioned on the hotel roof, which offered him views of the grounds, roads, and sea. Visibility was poor due to the lack of sun and a thin layer of fog that had settled over the golf course, but from his vantage point, nothing looked suspicious. "We're clear."

  "Hello?" he repeated, as if there were a bad connection. It prevented him from faking a conversation. It also allowed Jones to call right back if anything changed. "Hello?"

  The old man laughed. "You need a new phone."

  Payne shrugged and smiled. "And you need a new truck."

  He laughed louder. "You are probably right."

  "So," he said, "how do you know the boy?"

  "I don't. I've never met him before. I am just a poor fisherman who lives at sea."

  "Then I don't understand."

  "But my son," the old man clarified, "he helped the boy. He knows the father. He helped him in his time of need."

  "Well, I'd love to speak to him."

  "Then let's get going. It's a long drive."

  "Can't we just call him?"

  "Not with your phone. It doesn't work." He cackled softly. "Besides, my son needs to meet you in person. He needs to look you in the eye. He needs to judge your character."

  Payne nodded, willing to take the risk. "In that case, I'd be happy to meet him. But I'm going in my own truck. I'd feel safer that way."

  "Suit yourself," said the old man. "But my truck is going to outlast us all."

  * * *

  25

  The man who planned the attack had a healthy fear of computers. He respected their place in the world and understood their importance in certain situations, but during the past decade he had seen too many colleagues arrested or killed because of computer issues. No matter how much training his people had, they were no match for the American agencies who spent billions of dollars on the latest technology that had been designed to catch them in the act.

  Somehow, someway, his men always screwed up.

  Intel was intercepted. Information was deciphered. Evidence was recovered.

  In his heart, he knew this mission had to be different from all the others. Its impact would be global, reaching the farthest corners of the world in a way that had never been attempted. To do that, deception was the key. Everyone had to believe one thing—when, in fact, the very opposite was true. But that wasn't possible if he left a trail of binary breadcrumbs for the authorities to follow. Never knowing what they would find. Or when they were going to find it.

  So early on, he made a gutsy decision. All information pertaining to this mission would be delivered by hand, passed from person to person in the most damning places possible, for the sole purpose of documentation. Unlike most criminals, he wanted to record what was going on because it would actually help his cause in the long run.

  Then, when the time was right, he'd give the authorities more than just breadcrumbs.

  He'd give them the whole loaf of bread.
>
  According to the soldier's sources, the facility would be deserted for the hajrj. A few security guards might be roaming around, but his team didn't have to worry about engineers, technicians, or custodians, even though it didn't matter to his men. Their orders were to kill everyone inside, and they'd do so without remorse. One. Ten. Twenty. What difference did it make?

  They'd kill many more in the near future.

  Scanning the horizon, he pulled the van forward, tires crunching on the gravel driveway that was laid in the arid ground to provide traction for the heavy trucks that would stream in and out of here like worker ants. Surrounded by a barren landscape that stretched all the way back to Mecca, the main building sat ahead, obscured by the cover of darkness. Although construction had been finished three months before, the place wasn't fully operational.

  Of course, it would be once his men were done.

  They were dressed in black and fully armed when they exited the van. The leader checked his list and entered the security code into the main entrance's keypad. The door buzzed open. One after another, all four soldiers streamed into the lobby, each scattering in a different direction, their footsteps barely audible. Communication would be done through a series of earpieces, each equipped with a transmitting device that allowed speech as well as audio while scrambling their signals to outside receivers.

  The team leader was the most experienced soldier, so he had the most important job. He was in charge of the security office that sat at the end of a long corridor on the first floor. Monitors cast an eerie glow on his face as he studied the images that flickered in the dark room. Twenty-four screens in all, each offering a different view of the facility.

  He sat in the chair and fiddled with the buttons. Before long, he was able to zoom in and out on different cameras. Able to warn his men if necessary.

  As a precaution, each of them was given a code name to be used in the field. Something simple. Something easy to remember. In this case, they opted for the names of the four evangelists, the men who wrote the Gospels in the New Testament. It seemed fitting to use Christian names while inflicting damage on the Islamic world.

  "Matthew?"

  "Check."

  "Mark?"

  "Check."

  "Luke?"

  "Check."

  John, the team leader, scanned the screens, searching for trouble, eventually spotting a guard in the rear of the plant, strolling down the back walkway. "Mark, we have a live one. Two rooms to your left. Coming your way."

  "Armed?"

  He zoomed in tighter. "Nothing in his hand. Maybe in his belt."

  "I'll let you know."

  Mark slid behind a large generator and waited patiently for his target to approach. Twenty seconds passed before he made his move. When he did, it was quick and silent. No gun was necessary. Just a hand over the guard's mouth and a brutal snap of his neck, instantly killing him. John watched l he scene with pride.

  "I'm clear."

  "Search the body, then stash it."

  Mark frisked the dead guard, finding a gun in a hidden holster. He held it up to the camera so John could warn the others.

  "Be aware, the guard was packing."

  "Check," said the other two.

  Not that they were worried.

  Meanwhile, John returned his attention to the video screens. First checking for other guards, then looking at the building itself. Valves and pumps filled half the rooms, mostly in the rear of the structure. Some of the pipes went through the walls, leading to the empty reservoirs out back. They'd get to them eventually, but right now he had other concerns. Foremost was finding the main control room. It was somewhere on the first floor, protected by additional codes.

  Matthew spoke. "I think I see it."

  John punched a few buttons and zoomed in closer on the room that Matthew was pointing to. He spotted another keypad, just to the left of the metal door, but couldn't read the sign since it was written in Arabic. The walls were reinforced with extra concrete, plus there were no windows. From his perspective, it seemed like the right place.

  Why add extra protection if this room wasn't important?

  "Thoughts?"

  Matthew looked back at the camera and shrugged.

  "Can you hear anything?"

  He put his ear next to the door. Not a sound.

  He dropped to the floor and looked under the door. But the room was dark, at least from his limited perspective. From his knees, he shrugged again.

  "While you're down there, say a prayer to Allah. Because if we punch in the wrong code, we might sound an alarm."

  Matthew looked at the camera and flipped it off.

  "Was that to me or Allah?"

  He ignored the question. "Listen, there's no way this system is one-and-done. There has to be a margin for error. People hit wrong buttons all the time."

  "You're probably right."

  "Then give me the code. I'll try it once. If it doesn't work, we can try something else."

  John nodded and glanced at his list. He read the numbers aloud.

  Carefully, Matthew entered them into the keypad, each sounding a tiny beep.

  One. Beep.

  Nine. Beep.

  Eight. Beep.

  Seven. Beep.

  Then, as if by magic, the door popped open with a quiet click.

  * * *

  26

  Yesterday, Kia had warned Payne and Jones about the threat of speeding tickets. Traffic cameras and detection units were spread evenly across Route 12. But on this day it wasn't a concern, not as long as they followed the old man and his truck, which smoked and wheezed more often than a fire-breathing dragon with asthma. It was simply unable to speed.

  Jones drove, once again, while Payne studied a road map of the island. Kia hovered over his shoulder, answering questions and explaining the significance of certain areas, including the Jungmun Tourist Complex, which sprawled for several miles along the southwestern coast of Jeju. It featured several dozen attractions—including Cheonjaeyeon Falls, where they had stopped the day before—with Americanized names that he could barely read let alone pronounce.

  Yeomiji Botanical Garden was reputed to be the largest in Asia, growing more than 2,000 varieties of tropical and subtropical plants in 150,000 square yards of indoor and outdoor fields, all of it centered around an observation deck that stood more than 125 feet high. Down the road was Jusangjeolli Cliff, a series of 60-foot stone pillars that formed when lava from Mount Halla poured into the raging sea. Jungmun Beach lined the nearby shore, filled with white sand that contrasted sharply with the surrounding black hillside, home to Haesikgul Cave, a natural sea cave featured in dozens of movies because of its scenic beauty.

  Unfortunately, none of these sites could be seen from the highway; they were blocked from view by parasitic volcanoes and thick blankets of trees, a surreal mix of pines and palms sprouting up through the black core of the island. Payne followed their progress by watching road signs, tracing their route with his finger, looking for auxiliary routes in case they needed to escape.

  They continued their journey along Route 12 until the old man approached the exit for Daeyu Hunting Ground. He eased his truck onto a secondary road and started driving north to the base of Mount Halla, its snowcapped peak rising six thousand feet above the rocky shore.

  Jones stared at the mountain and sighed. "Bet you ten bucks he doesn't make it."

  Payne laughed, even though it contradicted the anxiety he felt for the first time since they'd left the resort. To him, hunting grounds meant guns. Lots of guns. People legally armed, carrying weapons in full view. And there was nothing he could do about it. No time for advanced scouting. No way to secure the perimeter. It was three of them against an entire lodge of potential threats. Never knowing where a fatal shot might come from.

  He turned toward Kia. "What do you know about this place?"

  "Not much. I've never been here before." She flipped through her tour book, hoping to find something useful. "It
says it's the only official hunting range in all of Asia. There's bird hunting, clay shooting, target ranges for pistols and rifles. You can rent guns. And guides. And even bird dogs. Plus there's a breeding farm with more than fifty thousand pheasants."

  "Damn!" Jones said. "That's a lot of birds."

  "I'm more concerned with the guns."

  "Me, too. But still, that's a lot of birds. I'm talking Hitchcock?

  Payne ignored him. "What kind of restrictions?"

  She scanned the information. "None. It's a private resort. Beginners are welcomed."

  "No licenses or permits?"

  "Not according to this."

  "Good."

  "Why's that good?"

  Payne smiled. "Because we don't have any."

  The main facility was straight ahead, at least according to the road sign. But instead of continuing forward, the old man turned onto a narrow dirt path that curved to the right and disappeared into the surrounding trees. The old truck rumbled and shook as it left the pavement, its bald tires struggling for traction in the mud and fallen leaves. Yet the damn thing never stopped. Not once. It just kept chugging along.

  As Jones made the turn, Payne rolled down his window and listened to the cacophony of gunshots that filled the air. Rifle blasts to the left. Handguns to the right. All of them too close for comfort. Discreetly, he tilted his side-view mirror and made sure no one had turned in behind them, a sure sign of an upcoming ambush. Thankfully, the path remained clear.

  A quarter mile later, a large hunting cabin came into view, nestled among a grove of pines that towered above it. A Korean man dressed in khakis and a plaid shirt stood in the doorway. He smiled and waved at his father, who pulled into the driveway, did a three-point turn, then drove back toward Payne and Jones. They slowed to a stop, expecting the old man to pull alongside of them to deliver further instructions, but the old man just waved and kept going. Late for another day of fishing.

  Payne shrugged. "Guess he was busy."