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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

  Line of Fire

  Blow Back

  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

  Extreme Measures

  Final Strike

  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

  LINE OF FIRE

  A Titus Black Thriller

  R.J. PATTERSON

  For Dr. Will Power,

  a fantastic professor

  and an even greater man

  CHAPTER 1

  Mukunudhoo, Maldives

  TITUS BLACK CROUCHED next to a coralwood tree and wondered how many people he’d have to kill before breakfast. Amassing a high body count was never advisable, but especially so on such a small island. At three minutes before 5:00 a.m., the long, narrow strip of land plunked in the middle of the Indian Ocean was relatively quiet. Too quiet for Black’s liking.

  “Any movement in the area?” Black asked into his coms.

  Christina Shields, his tech-savvy partner, who was sitting in the safety of the Firestorm headquarters in Washington, sighed. For a few moments, the only thing Black heard was the rhythmic click, click, click coming from her keyboard.

  His impatience boiled over. “Shields?” he asked again. “Are you awake?”

  “Oh, I’m here,” she said, the boredom in her voice overt. “There are like eight people awake on that little slice of paradise. And I can almost guarantee you that none of them have entertained the idea of selling long-range missiles to anyone, let alone terrorists.”

  Black grunted. “I know you’re jealous that Blunt kept you back in Washington, but it’s probably better this way. I know how you hate wearing a hijab.”

  “You can save me a late night and just pack up right now,” she said. “There are maybe a half-dozen heat signatures I’m picking up within a one-mile radius of you right now. Whatever intel we received on this weapons deal was either bogus or changed at the last minute.”

  Black peered through his binoculars at the dock. A couple armed men strode back and forth around a construction site, pausing only to light a cigarette. While Shields’s pleading to end the mission irked, Black agreed with her, something he didn’t want to admit aloud. So far, the most excitement he’d seen was watching the guards go through nearly an entire pack of smokes.

  “Gotta hand it to the Chinese,” Black said. “They sure know how to partner up with someone. I mean, if you had to pick a site to build an—wink, wink—oceanic exploration station, is there a better spot in the Indian Ocean than Maldives?”

  Shields huffed. “Ocean exploration station, yeah, right. If you believe that, can I book you for two weeks at my seaside resort in South Dakota when this is all over with?”

  Black chuckled as he scanned the unfinished research center. “Does that come with or without poolside drink service?”

  “With, of course.”

  “In that case, book me for three weeks instead of just two. That’s a deal I need to take advantage of.”

  Shields laughed again before turning serious. “Look, if it’s not clear to everyone in the world that this facility isn’t a front for transporting weapons, they’ll deserve whatever destruction the Chinese hurl at them. Because that place obviously isn’t only, or even primarily, about conducting research.”

  Black nodded in agreement, though he wasn’t as concerned with that as he was the trading partner the Chinese had selected. For the most imminent threat was the rise of Al-Jaladun, headed by estranged Saudi prince, Abdullah Alsheri.

  “I was hoping to get a crack at Alsheri this morning,” Black said. “He’s been doing nothing but taunting America ever since he developed a following big enough to protect him.”

  “Oman has helped shelter him, too,” she said. “But unless he gets his hands on something like he’s trying to buy today, it’s all just noise. That’s why you’re there to make sure he doesn’t ever have the chance.”

  “We should just take him out at his hiding spot in Oman,” Black said. “One drone strike and—”

  “Drone strikes are the very reason this team exists,” Shields said. “Rememb
er? We’re about targeting certain people instead of relying on drones, which might as well be fertilizer for creating more terrorists. Of course, we could just lay waste to some cave in the desert if we wanted to, but the political fallout would be hellacious.”

  “It’d be a helluva lot more fun to watch than two dudes chain-smoking cigarettes before dawn.”

  She chuckled. “That it would. But you’re there, staking out a dock in Maldives because an undercover CIA operator managed to overhear Alsheri speaking about a weapons deal. However, with the way you’re talking, I’m starting to think I got the better end of the deal here.”

  “I’m starting to think the agent heard incorrectly. If I sit here much longer, the second-hand smoke wafting this way is gonna kill me.”

  “All the information passed back to Washington for the past three months has been dead on, so it’s curious that this was wrong. Maybe the ship was delayed. It could be that simple of an explanation.”

  Black sighed. “If that’s the case, they’re not going to make this exchange in broad daylight. And who knows how long it’ll take for these punks to line everything up again.”

  “Just be patient.”

  “You know that’s not exactly one of my best character traits.”

  “That’s why I’m reminding you.”

  Black noticed a light flashing in the distance on the water. “Hold the phone. I think something might be happening. You see anything?”

  Shields cursed before the sound of her slamming her fist on her desk reverberated in Black’s ears.

  “Problems?” Black asked.

  “Satellite just went out. It’ll take a few minutes to re-task one over your position.”

  “I thought you said that wasn’t going to be a problem this time,” Black said as he eased through the vegetation toward the dock.

  “Well, this whole operation has taken far longer than either of us anticipated. The delivery was supposed to be made an hour ago. Unfortunately, the sat location didn’t hold up.”

  “I’m going in for a closer look.”

  “Stay where you are, Black. I’m blind right now. You have no idea what you’re walking into.”

  “Yeah, I do. There are two guards in front of me who are going to die before they reach the age of forty if they don’t stop smoking like they are. I might help them die of something else if I don’t get the answers I’m looking for.”

  “I’m warning you, Black. This isn’t a good idea.”

  “I’ll be fine,” he said before stopping dead in his tracks. “Wait, do you hear that?”

  “Hear what?”

  “I’m getting some static on my end. You’re cutting in and out.”

  “No, I . . . anything. Sounds . . . to me.”

  “Shields? Shields?” he asked.

  No response.

  He cursed under his breath before pocketing his coms device. A boat pulled up to the dock and two men got out. They pointed toward the eastern horizon, which was just starting to glow with the day’s first light. Hawk strained to see anything in the distance. Nothing.

  What the hell are they looking at?

  Black removed his binoculars from his bag and scanned the water. The only thing he saw was another island. Not a vessel in sight between the two pieces of land sitting in the middle of the Indian Ocean.

  I need to hear what they’re saying.

  Black crept closer, stealthily moving through the trees. As he approached the clearing, he stopped and then knelt next to a bush for cover.

  On the dock, the guards laughed with the two guys who’d just arrived. It didn’t take more than a minute before all four men were laughing and smoking as a small plume arose over their conversation circle.

  Black scanned the area one more time before deciding to take up a concealed position closer to the water. He took two steps before he felt a cold barrel jam into his back.

  Black raised his hands and turned around slowly. In front of him appeared to be a local militia comprised of three men, all with their weapons trained on him.

  “Hello, gentlemen,” Black said. “What seems to be the problem?”

  One of the pistol whipped Black, knocking him out.

  Black crumpled to the ground.

  CHAPTER 2

  Washington, D.C.

  SHIELDS REMOVED HER earbud and fiddled with her coms. The satellite was almost back into position so she could see the area where Black had been watching the supposed site of the weapons exchange. Without a way to contact him, the only option remaining was to visually check for him.

  She glanced at her watch.

  “10:30,” she said aloud. “He’s probably on a plane back to the mainland by now.”

  The com beeped, signifying that it was working properly and connected. Shields jammed it back into her ear and spoke into the microphone.

  “Black, are you there? I’m back online.”

  She waited.

  Not a sound.

  She growled and asked in vain a few more times for him to respond. After a sigh, she turned her attention to her monitor. The satellite came online, focusing on the quiet dock in Mukunudhoo. Only this time, there weren’t even two men standing on the docks. The boat was still there, but the four other boats that were tied up when she last studied the scene were gone. She quickly identified all of them floating at sea. Back on the dock, nothing looked remotely like a weapons exchange.

  Peering closely at the screen, she zoomed in on all the fishing vessels. She cross-referenced each one with the most recent screen shot she’d saved when Black was studying the area. They were all there.

  There’s no way another boat arrived and left—at least not a fishing boat.

  She panned around the island, searching for any ship that had the ability to speed away during the time she’d lost visual contact. After a quick inspection, she saw nothing but trawlers and lazy fishing boats bobbing along under a dawning sun.

  “Dammit, Black. Where are you?”

  She tried to raise him on the coms a few more times before tossing her laptop into her bag and heading home. A full day at the office in preparation for the operation as well as a few other side projects Firestorm Director J.D. Blunt had her working on had worn her out. She was hungry and growing increasingly irritable.

  Keeping her earbuds in, she headed home, satisfied that at least she’d be able to communicate with Black when he came back online.

  On her way out of the city, she called ahead so she could grab something quickly from Al Volo, her favorite Italian restaurant. She preferred to dine in and eat alone, but it was late and she wanted to grab something and get in bed as soon as possible. When she pulled up to the take-out spot at the curb, she hustled inside to avoid getting wet from a shower that had just started.

  “Hi, Miss Shields,” the scraggly haired teenage boy behind the register said as she walked in.

  She remembered that he’d rung her up a few weeks ago but was stunned he remembered her name.

  “Nice memory,” she said, flashing him a smile. She shifted back and forth, stretching for a moment before the cuff of her pants caught on part of her prosthetic. Realizing the mistake, she bent over to fix it.

  A man seated on the bench behind her butted into their conversation. “I’d remember your name too with a—”

  “Don’t be crude,” the kid said.

  “Prosthetic leg like that,” the man continued as he scowled at the kid.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the kid said as he processed Shields’s credit card. “It’s just that—”

  “I’d never talk to a lady like that. But I’m glad you’re willing to stand up to anyone you think that will.”

  Shields sighed. “This whole little exchange is encouraging, but I’d really just like to get my food and get home. It’s been a long day.”

  “Of course, Miss Shields,” the teen said as he reached for a plastic bag bulging with styrofoam containers. He handed it to her and gave her a friendly wave.

  “Seriou
sly, lady,” the patron said, “that is a nice prosthetic leg.”

  “The kid was right,” she said as she put her back against the door. “We both know what you were really going to say.”

  The man placed both his hands in the air. “No, actually, I was admiring your prosthetic. I’m Dr. Hugh Parker. I’m a prosthetist at the VA.”

  She stopped for a moment. “In that case, I’ll take the compliment, though I didn’t make it. Just had my leg blown off by an IED in the war to get this thing.”

  “Give my compliments to whoever created that for you because it’s a fantastic piece.”

  She forced a smile and nodded. Once she got inside her car, she placed the bag on the passenger seat and pulled the door shut. She closed her eyes and sighed before wiping away rain from her face. The exhaustion of an intense day had finally caught up with her. Her head was buried in her hands when a rapping on window arrested her attention. She snapped toward the glass and noticed a man with his face just inches away outside.

  “Christina? Is that you?” asked a man who was shielding himself from the rain with a newspaper.

  Shields winced and closed her eyes again. She shook her head, partially out of disbelief, partially out of her desire to send a subtle message to the guy. While he knew who she was, she didn’t recognize him or care to engage with him.

  She pushed the ignition button, and her car roared to life.

  “Christina, it’s me,” he said, tapping on the window with a key. “It’s me, Joe Dunn, from college.”

  She furrowed her brow as she scanned the face of the man. While she recalled Joe Dunn, this man looked nothing like him. The Dunn she remembered was a skinny, scruffy-faced twenty-something who was usually hung over. This guy’s muscles nearly bulged out of his shirt, add that with a bald head, and he looked nothing like her friend. And this man was sober.

  “Oh come on, Christina. You don’t remember me? We danced together for an hour and a half at the Zeta spring formal when your date passed out five minutes after walking into party.”

  “Well,” she said as she rolled down her window a smidge before stopping, “what was I wearing that night?”