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  About R.J. Patterson “R.J. Patterson does a fantastic job at keeping you engaged and interested. I look forward to more from this talented author.”

  - Aaron Patterson, bestselling author of SWEET DREAMS

  “Patterson has a mean streak about a mile wide and puts his two main characters through quite a horrible ride, which makes for good reading.”

  - Richard D., reader “Like a John Grisham novel, from the very start I was pulled right into the story and couldn’t put the book down. It was as if I personally knew and cared about what happened to each of the main characters. Every chapter ended with so much excitement and suspense I had to continue to read until I learned how it ended, even though it kept me up until 3:00 A.M.

  - Ray F., reader DEAD SHOT

  “Small town life in southern Idaho might seem quaint and idyllic to some. But when local newspaper reporter Cal Murphy begins to uncover a series of strange deaths that are linked to a sticky spider web of deception, the lid on the peaceful town is blown wide open. Told with all the energy and bravado of an old pro, first-timer R.J. Patterson hits one out of the park his first time at bat with Dead Shot. It’s that good.”

  -Vincent Zandri, bestselling author of THE REMAINS

  “You can tell R.J. knows what it’s like to live in the newspaper world, but with Dead Shot, he’s proven that he also can write one heck of a murder mystery.”

  - Josh Katzowitz,

  NFL writer for CBSSports.com & author of Sid Gillman: Father of the Passing Game DEAD LINE

  “This book kept me on the edge of my seat the whole time. I didn’t really want to put it down. R.J. Patterson has hooked me. I’ll be back for more.”

  - Bob Behler

  3-time Idaho broadcaster of the year

  and play-by-play voice for Boise State football DEAD IN THE WATER

  “In Dead in the Water, R.J. Patterson accurately captures the action-packed saga of a what could be a real-life college football scandal. The sordid details will leave readers flipping through the pages as fast as a hurry-up offense.”

  - Mark Schlabach,

  ESPN college sports columnist and co-author of Called to Coach Heisman: The Man Behind the Trophy

  Other titles by R.J. Patterson

  Titus Black series

  Behind Enemy Lines

  Game of Shadows

  Rogue Commander

  Brady Hawk series

  First Strike

  Deep Cover

  Point of Impact

  Full Blast

  Target Zero

  Fury

  State of Play

  Seige

  Seek and Destroy

  Into the Shadows

  Hard Target

  No Way Out

  Two Minutes to Midnight

  Against All Odds

  Any Means Necessary

  Vengeance

  Code Red

  A Deadly Force

  Divide and Conquer

  Cal Murphy Thriller series

  Dead Shot

  Dead Line

  Better off Dead

  Dead in the Water

  Dead Man's Curve

  Dead and Gone

  Dead Wrong

  Dead Man's Land

  Dead Drop

  Dead to Rights

  Dead End

  James Flynn Thriller series

  The Warren Omissions

  Imminent Threat

  The Cooper Affair

  Seeds of War

  GAME OF SHADOWS

  A Titus Black Thriller

  R.J. PATTERSON

  For Bruce, a great man,

  and my favorite Astros fan

  CHAPTER 1

  Undisclosed Location in Russia

  TITUS BLACK SCANNED the snow-dusted terrain below him through a pair of infrared binoculars. In the small farmhouse about a quarter-mile away, he identified a pair of heat signatures and plotted his next move.

  “What’s it looking like out there?” Christina Shields asked over the coms.

  “Why don’t you tell me?” Black said. “You’re the one watching the entire operation unfold from that eight billion-dollar satellite.”

  “Fifty dollars or eight billion—nothing matters when there’s thick cloud cover like there is tonight.”

  A flake lit on Black’s nose, and he looked skyward. In an instant, he considered the new challenge facing him.

  “I didn’t think it was supposed to snow,” he said.

  “According to the forecast, it wasn’t,” she said. “The chance of precipitation was only twenty percent.”

  “Well, they were eighty percent off,” Black said, “because it’s a hundred percent snowing right now.”

  “If you run out of ammo, at least you’ll have something to hurl at the Russians.”

  “Cute,” Black said. “Would you like for me to make a snow angel and take a picture for you?”

  “I’d rather you retrieve the asset and get back to Washington so I can show you up at the range again.”

  Black grunted. “You know if I’d had my gun last time, you wouldn’t have won.”

  Shields clucked her tongue. “Excuses, excuses.”

  The precipitation shifted from flurries to heavy snow during their conversation. The wind chilled Black’s face, resulting in him tugging his bandeau scarf up around his mouth. While Black made a practice of being prepared for anything, the change in weather still surprised him. He decided he couldn’t wait any longer before engaging the hostiles guarding Dr. Aaron Matthews, the American scientist who vanished without a trace two years ago.

  “We’ll finish this conversation after I grab Doc,” Black said.

  “Fair enough, but don’t even think about trying to convince me to go to your range,” she said.

  Black huffed a soft laugh through his nose. “I know you’re scared of losing, but I promise I won’t let you win every time.”

  “Just don’t miss out there today.”

  “Roger that.”

  Black eased to his feet before crouching low and then hustling down an embankment. After moving within fifty meters of the house, he took cover behind a rusted-out tractor overrun with weeds and coated in fresh powder. As the storm grew in strength, Black recognized the window to retrieve Dr. Matthews was rapidly shrinking. But the weather wasn’t the only variable outside of Black’s control. The biggest one was Dr. Matthews himself.

  When J.D. Blunt first briefed the Firestorm team about the assignment, a mystery remained regarding Dr. Matthews’s disappearance. The FBI never definitively determined if he left on his own accord or if he was forced against his will. And while all indications pointed to abduction, Black wasn’t convinced. All of Dr. Matthews’s affairs were left in order as he had finalized setting up a trust fund for his college-aged daughter, Melissa, only two weeks prior to him going missing. Investigators dismissed that fact as coincidence, instead pointing to the way he left the kitchen a disaster with dishes still strewn across the stove, not to mention he had a turkey roasting in the oven. The burning smell had wafted down the hall, alerting other neighbors to the smell. When they called the building superintendent, he broke into Dr. Matthews’s apartment and found the turkey charred to a crisp. Melissa had been scheduled to return home from college that weekend for Thanksgiving, but she went back earlier once authorities called her regarding her father’s mysterious absence.

  The FBI underwent an intensive search for a year as hundreds of people called in the hotline with tips and information regarding Dr. Matthews, but all proved to be dead ends. After the agency de-priorit
ized finding him, Melissa was left to dip into her trust fund to hire a private investigator to track down her father. Three days earlier, Blunt had been approached by Melissa. The PI had delivered the information but told her that he wasn’t skilled enough to extract her father and needed to get someone else to finish the job. Melissa had remembered her father mentioning Blunt, mostly as a college fraternity brother but also as a Washington insider who could “get things done.” So, not knowing where else to turn, she started with him. Blunt eagerly obliged.

  Black peered through his binoculars one more time to check for the number of people in the building. A fire blazed inside, making it difficult to tell just how many people were in the front room. After a final assessment, he determined that there were three men inside, which meant Dr. Matthews’ abduction was a certainty. Black hated being wrong, especially when after he’d ascribed nefarious motives to Dr. Matthews’s disappearance. But Black couldn’t help himself. General distrust for others was something he struggled to change. However, that perspective served him well as an operative, helping him avoid getting killed on several occasions. Yet this wasn’t one of them.

  “I’m going to engage,” Black said.

  “Roger that,” Shields replied.

  Black pulled out his rifle and steadied it on the tripod beneath the dilapidated tractor. The snow continued to increase in intensity, but it only emphasized the body heat through his scope. A minute passed before one of the men sauntered out onto the porch to smoke. With a gun draped over his shoulder, he flicked his lighter and ignited his cigarette.

  With guards on the premises, Black knew they wouldn’t let Dr. Matthews outside alone. They were clearly protecting the scientist from someone. Questions flooded Black’s mind as he wondered who exactly Dr. Matthews needed protection from—the Americans or someone else? Perhaps there was some other group, because the U.S. intelligence community hadn’t prioritized Dr. Matthews’s disappearance in over a year.

  After a deep breath, Black put the man in the center of the crosshairs and squeezed the trigger. He stumbled toward the railing before falling over it.

  Seconds later, the other men sprang into action, setting up a bunker near the two windows flanking the front door and opening fire. Black rolled behind the tractor’s back tires and waited out the barrage of bullets. For nearly a half-minute, the guards inside the house peppered the area around him, the nearby snow exploding in white puffs. When the shooting paused, Black eased his gun around one of the back wheels to survey the scene. The man who’d been shot was still lying on the ground, while two other men were preparing to shoot. However, Black began to wonder where Dr. Matthews was. The likelihood that he was fending off an attacker with the weaponry expertise the two men inside showed seemed low. Dr. Matthews didn’t even own a registered weapon when he was in the U.S.

  The wind continued howling, creating another misty layer of blown snow Black needed to contend with as he plotted his next move.

  “Are you still flying blind out there?” Black asked over his coms.

  “Pretty much,” Shields said. “But I’m glad to hear your voice.”

  “From what I can tell, everyone in the house is firing on me. I’m not sure where the asset is.”

  “There might be a cellar beneath the house,” she said.

  “If he’s even here.”

  “Are you starting to think this was a setup?”

  “I’m not making any definitive statements at this point,” Black said. “But it’s certainly not out of the realm of possibility.”

  The firing recommenced, sending Black scurrying for cover behind the tractor again. For the next half-minute, Black withstood another round of attack. When the men started to reload, he darted to another position, reducing the angle from which he had to shoot by taking refuge behind a pile of chopped wood. The degree of difficulty required to shoot and kill the guards increased, but he would have more time to zero in on one of the hostiles while moving out of the line of fire.

  Black took his time, steadied his breathing, and squeezed the trigger. He didn’t wait to see if the hostile fell, instead quickly sighting in the other guard. Black fired and watched the man drop. Black switched to an assault-style weapon, opting for his Colt M4A1 over his MK11. As he moved toward the house to inspect his work, he looked at the man who’d stepped outside to smoke, the cigarette smoldering next to his hand on the blood-stained snow.

  The first stair creaked as Black put pressure on it to ease onto the porch, shattered glass from the windows crunching beneath his feet. The first guard that he shot was lying on his back, a bullet wound gaping in the man’s head. Then Black spun toward the other side where he’d seen the third guard but saw nothing.

  Did I miss?

  The room was dark, making it difficult to see if there was any blood spattered on the floor. Black crouched to inspect, his head on a swivel. He swiped his index finger on the ground near the area where the man had fired from. Nothing but dirt. Black shined his light on the surrounding area and didn’t see any apparent signs that he’d hit the man.

  With him gone, Black crept from window to window around the inside of the house, peering outside with his infrared binoculars. The third man was gone.

  Black muttered a long string of expletives before turning on his coms.

  “Shields, has your visibility improved any?” he asked.

  “It’s gotten worse.”

  Black cursed again.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “One of the hostiles is gone. I thought for sure I nailed him, but I can’t find any blood.”

  “I know it’s not the same as the range, but—”

  “Save the wise cracks for later,” he said. “Is there any way you can help me?”

  “Unless this thick cloud cover lifts, you’re on your own now.”

  “Roger that,” Black said.

  He exited through the back of the house and surveyed the area just below the steps. He knelt and studied a few imprints left behind as the snow continued to fall. After comparing one of the markings to others nearby, he determined the ones leading away from the home were much fresher.

  “I’ve got his trail,” Black said. “I’m going after him—and I’m going dark.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Bethesda, Maryland

  J.D. BLUNT WATCHED his first shot on the second hole at the Burning Tree Club skip off the fairway and over a bunker before coming to rest in the rough. He gnawed on his unlit cigar and uttered a few choice words before snatching his tee out of the ground.

  NSA director, Robert Besserman, flashed a wry grin as he strode past Blunt on the way to the tee box.

  “This has become a tradition,” Besserman said as he gripped his club and prepared to take a shot.

  “What? Me outdriving you on every hole?” Blunt said, knowing where Besserman intended to go with the snarky comment.

  Besserman chuckled and didn’t respond until after his strike put the ball in the center of the fairway only about ten yards shorter than where Blunt’s shot landed.

  “You of all people should know that it’s not about the strongest, but about who’s the most precise to win these games,” Besserman said.

  Blunt shrugged. “I didn’t account for the wind.”

  “I hope that’s not an excuse you’d accept from one of your operatives.”

  “I thought you said we weren’t going to talk about work today, only golf,” Blunt said, a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

  Besserman sighed. “Yeah, about that.”

  “You’d make a terrible spy, Bobby. I knew good and well something was on your mind. It’s the only reason to come to this archaic club.”

  “No women. And no listening devices. It’s the only place I ever feel comfortable playing a round of golf.”

  Blunt chuckled. “You do understand that your agency is why everyone is so paranoid in the first place?”

  “The irony isn’t lost on me, but never mind that. I couldn’t risk anyone o
verhearing our conversation, even as unlikely as it might’ve been.”

  They both put their clubs away and climbed into the golf cart. Blunt waited until Besserman was seated before stepping on the accelerator and then navigating along the path toward their balls.

  “You’re starting to worry me, Bobby. You’re not exactly the alarming type.”

  “Just consider this a warning, a friendly heads-up, if you will,” Besserman said.

  “What is it this time?”

  “Are you aware of the newly elected freshman congressman from California? Allan Elliott?”

  “Yeah, he’s always on the news for the outlandish things that he says.”

  Besserman nodded. “That’s the one.”

  “He’s probably feeding everyone that line about how he’s only doing what his constituents elected him to do.”

  Besserman shook his head. “Yes, publicly, that’s what he’s saying. But the reality is he’s simply doing the bidding of Senator Wilson Wellington.”

  “Wellington? I should’ve known. Every time there’s a stench on Capitol Hill, it leads right back to him.”

  “According to Wellington, he’s a new man. And now he’s out to bring about transparency to Washington.”

  Blunt roared with laughter. “The irony can’t be lost on anyone here. He got away with murder, and now he wants to make everyone else pay? It’s just absurd.”

  “Believe me when I say that the entire intelligence community would prefer to see him vanish from office right now. He’s making things challenging for us.”

  “Wellington knows as well as anyone that Washington thrives in the shadows—at least when it comes to matters of national security.”

  “Of course he does, but all I can figure is that he wants to score political points with the younger voters in preparation for his presidential bid, even if that means pulling the covers back on even our most covert programs.”

  “And Firestorm is in his crosshairs?”