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  DEAD IN THE WATER

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  Heisman: The Man Behind the Trophy

  Other titles by R.J. Patterson

  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

  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

  STATE OF PLAY

  A Brady Hawk Thriller

  R.J. PATTERSON

  For Steven Colquitt, for baptizing

  by fire in the newsroom

  CHAPTER 1

  Asir Mountains

  Saudi Arabia

  BRADY HAWK GASPED for air as he tried to loosen the cord that had been wrapped snug around his neck. Without having even seen the man initiating the attack, Hawk knew he was up against a formidable opponent, thrust into an arena with gladiator-type stakes. As Hawk wormed his hands between the rope and his neck, his feet lifted off the ground. The assailant put his knee into Hawk’s back, raising him up before slamming him down again. Hawk grimaced, reeling from the assault that defied belief. Only a few minutes ago, Hawk had been loading his clip with ammunition that would kill a man he’d pursued for the better part of a year.

  Hawk jerked and twisted several times, each turn unable to shake free the man or his grip on the cord. In a final desperate move, Hawk summoned his strength and rolled to his right. He proceeded to sweep the man’s leg, sending them both crashing to the ground. As the attacker fell, he lost his grip on the rope, which freed Hawk. Once he realized he was unhindered, Hawk rolled and staggered to his feet. He inhaled a couple of long breaths before rudely greeting his would-be assassin with a flurry of kicks to his ribs.

  The man doubled over in pain before attempting to reach for a knife concealed beneath his pants leg in an ankle holster. After judging to be too far away to stop him, Hawk glanced behind him and grabbed a chair, utilizing it as a shield. When the assassin threw the knife, Hawk fended off the blade. He dashed toward the weapon before picking it up and checking the sharp edge with his thumb.

  Hawk returned to the man, who was still unable to stand up due to the beating Hawk had delivered.

  “Did you come with Fazil?” Hawk asked.

  The man sneered and pursed his lips. Seconds later, he spit at Hawk.

  “I can’t really blame you for refusing to talk,” Hawk said while he knelt down next to the man. “It wouldn’t make a difference either way.”

  In an instant, Hawk unceremoniously slit the man’s throat.

  Hawk stood and shook his head as he watched the defeated warrior try to preserve what life he had left. In less than a minute, he was gone.

  Checking his pulse to be sure, Hawk studied the unusual tattoo on the man’s wrist. The design consisted of a diamond with three dots inside, arranged like a triangle. Hawk had never seen anything like it before, despite being a vigilant student of ancient markings. Making mental notes about the tattoo’s composition, Hawk released the man’s wrist and stared at him.

  Hawk wanted to ponder the assassin’s origin and figure out who’d sent him. After all, he appeared to be the kind of contract killer neither the CIA nor The Chamber would hire. But Hawk didn’t have time to get bogged down in such a mystery. Karif Fazil was in the next room—and he had a date with a bullet from Hawk’s gun.

  CHAPTER 2

  Three weeks earlier

  Washington, D.C.

  HARRY BOZEMAN FINGER COMBED his thinning hair and straightened his tie before studying his teeth in his rearview mirror. He checked his sleeves and brushed off a few stray pieces of lint. Cracking the window, he ignited a cigarette and took a long drag. And with the push of a button, his black BMW Alpina B7 roared to life.

  In a short span of time, Bozeman had gone from a presumed dead CIA station chief to having conversations with the most powerful man in the world. And it was one of these conversations that led President Michaels to persuade Bozeman to come out of the shadows. They concocted a harrowing rescue tale and relayed it to the press through the President’s spokesperson, who then shared that Bozeman would be taking a position with Hillman & Todd, a private security firm with a consulting contrac
t with the government. Bozeman was assigned to work with the White House administration on certain security issues.

  Bozeman had always dreamed of moments like this—on his way to meet the president and discuss weighty matters—even though it had happened through a most unusual turn of events. But he wasn’t about to complain. The end game was most important; it always was to Bozeman.

  He turned the radio on and tuned into a local news talk show program that usually consisted of people on opposite ends of the political spectrum yelling at each other. Bozeman listened only for amusement, chuckling as the two rivals bickered over policies and past records.

  If they only knew none of it mattered. It’s all there just to distract you from what’s really going on in your government.

  Bozeman awoke to this reality years ago when he first discovered what was happening by stumbling into a meeting. The former CIA station chief in Rome used to believe his job had meaning, that mapping out terrorist activities and putting together ops to arrest or eliminate these emboldened anarchists mattered. But the constant whack-a-mole approach to addressing terrorism wasn’t working. Then he learned that the powerful people in charge didn’t care if such groups were blown into oblivion. Instead, they served a purpose, forming a vital cog in the wheel of holding on to power. And that’s when Bozeman realized he’d spend the rest of his time on earth fighting to get rich rather than fighting a battle that was designed to be endless, no matter how noble the cause appeared to the rest of the world.

  Since exiting the CIA by faking his own death years ago, Bozeman reinvented himself and embraced his new role, one only a creative entrepreneur could design. He bridged several power players together who shared common goals and connected them all loosely to The Chamber. Sometimes even certain people at the CIA who knew his secret contacted him when the agency wanted a particular outcome but didn’t want its name ever affiliated with the result. When a particular objective aligned with several of his contractors, he didn’t hesitate to grab double or triple portions from the overflowing money pots.

  It was clear that Brady Hawk was one of those coalescing aims.

  Traffic crawled along as Bozeman made his way toward the White House. He suspended his thoughts for a few moments as the two blathering political foes entered into a robust debate about the United States’ relations with Saudi Arabia.

  “It’s time to cut bait with them, Fred,” one of the commentators said. “Look at all the abuse of human rights that occur over there. Now, they’re sabre rattling. We don’t need them.”

  “I know some people, like you, Al, think that kowtowing to the Prince’s demand shows weakness, but we can’t let this spat fester for the sake of our ability to battle terrorism in the Middle East. We don’t have many allies left in that godforsaken part of the world, and drawing a line in the proverbial sand with one of our best allies is bad politics and shortsighted.”

  Bozeman chuckled and shook his head.

  It doesn’t even really matter.

  However, Bozeman knew it mattered in the court of public opinion, which was where President Michaels had been flagging lately. His approval ratings had dipped to an all-time low since he’d taken office, and there seemed to be no bottom in sight. Even the hardline party loyalists had already begun to turn on Michaels.

  Bozeman parked and strode toward the checkpoint, where he presented his credentials to a guard who scrutinized the documents for a few seconds longer than anyone else had. After his gaze bounced between the identification badge and Bozeman’s face, the guard waved him in and directed him toward the metal detector. Bozeman breezed through without incident and let the head of the secret service know that he’d arrived.

  While Bozeman avoided roaming the halls of the West Wing, he still needed to go through some semblance of protocol to avoid drawing too much attention for his presence. No one other than secret service members would ever see him meet with President Michaels, and that’s how it had to be. If others noted Bozeman and Michaels’s meetings and knew who the former CIA Rome station chief was, whispers might float around Washington that Michaels was usurping CIA authority or worse—using the CIA for a more clandestine agenda.

  Bozeman paced around the room as he waited for Michaels. After a five-minute delay, Michaels strode into the room. He offered his hand and flashed his 60-watt smile, the same one that helped him get elected over the dour disposition of the candidate he’d defeated.

  “Good to see you, Harry,” President Michaels said, clamping down on Bozeman’s hand and giving it a firm shake.

  “You too, Mr. President.”

  “Let’s get down to business, shall we?” Michaels said, gesturing toward the pair of chairs in the corner of the room.

  Bozeman nodded and lowered himself into the seat, cautiously eyeing Michaels, who settled into the opposite chair.

  “How can I help you, Mr. President?”

  “If that much isn’t obvious to you yet, I’m not sure you’re the right guy for the job, Harry.”

  Bozeman cocked his head and tilted it to the right, his eyebrows arching upward. “Your approval ratings, I assume, would be the purpose of this meeting.”

  Michaels leaned forward before clapping his hands and pointing at Bozeman. “You’ve got it. I need help to make a miraculous comeback with the people in the arena of public opinion or my election bid next year may never even get off the ground.”

  “I think I can help you with that.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “The same thing I always do: The proven method for resurrecting the career of any president—war.”

  Michaels took a deep breath and exhaled before knitting his brow. “But are you sure? The people are protesting in the streets. They want peace.”

  “They say they want peace. But what they really want is to feel safe.”

  “That distinction is a little lost on me. Seems like those two go hand in hand.”

  Bozeman flashed a sardonic grin. “Consider this example for a moment. If you live in a neighborhood where armed guards are on every corner, you feel safe because even if someone tries something, they’re not going to get away with it. Justice will be served—and maybe even with a cold hard bullet. Now, what if you live in a neighborhood where there are no armed guards but everybody supposedly gets along and it’s all rainbows and unicorns. But at any moment, any one of those neighbors could turn on them and commit a crime, and the residents wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. Which sounds safer?”

  “The first one, of course.”

  “Exactly, though that may not be rooted in reality. Crime may have been more prevalent in the first scenario despite the presence of guards. But facts don’t matter any more. It’s all about how people feel. That’s why you need to help them realize they are safer because you’re tough on terrorism—and you get your man. If you want to see spikes in recent presidencies, just look at what happened when Saddam Hussein was caught or Osama Bin Laden. Huge waves of favorable ratings.”

  Michaels smiled. “This is an idea I can get behind. How do you propose going about and making this happen?”

  “Glad you asked,” Bozeman said as he stood. “I’ve got just the plan.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Portree, Isle of Skye

  Scotland

  AS HAWK AND ALEX WALKED up the long pathway to the stone villa situated atop a grassy knoll, he watched the surrounding trees sway beneath the weight of a relentless wind. He stopped and took in the dramatic scene in the distance just beyond the house—rollicking waves colliding with rocks rising from the shallow waters against a backdrop of a never-ending gray sky hovering over the Loch Portree. After a long moment, Alex tugged on his arm.

  “Come on, let’s go,” she said. “You know how much Blunt hates to be kept waiting.”

  Hawk didn’t move. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? The rhythmic chaos?”

  Alex pulled on Hawk again. “It looks like our lives right now, though far more predictable. Now, let’s g
o.”

  Hawk relented and directed his gaze forward. “It’s not going to be like that forever, you know.”

  “Yeah, I know. It’ll be peaceful when we both get shot in the head and die. Until then, we must shoulder this burden for everyone else who fortunately doesn’t have this calling.”

  Hawk sighed and shook his head. “Perhaps, but that’s our fate, right?”

  “I wish I could choose another fate.”

  “That’s the thing about fate—it chooses you, not the other way around.”

  They stopped at the doorstep.

  “Why don’t you choose to knock on the door?” Alex asked. “I’ve had enough of this psycho-babble talk for now. It’s starting to hurt my head.”

  Hawk went to knock, but before he could, the door swung open.

  “I thought you two would never make it,” Blunt said, gesturing for them to come inside. He scanned the area and shut the door, locking it behind them.

  “How many places do you own exactly?” Alex asked, gawking as she ran her fingers along the oak wood inlays and looked up at the elaborate mosaic built into the ceiling . “This place is amazing.”

  “Not enough, apparently,” Blunt said, leading the trio toward the sitting room.

  “Did someone discover your German chalet?” Alex asked.

  “I’m not sure, but it’s possible, which makes it useless to me now.”

  Alex started to ask another question, but Blunt waved her off emphatically.

  “Let’s just get to the matter at hand, shall we?” he said as he slunk into a recliner.

  Hawk and Alex took a seat on the couch across from him.

  Blunt sat up and leaned forward. “Unfortunately, since you killed Thor, The Chamber will assume that you’re both still alive. Neither of your bodies were found, and your attacker was killed in Washington. Not to mention all his money was drained from his account.”