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Chapter 1 Kumba Ranch

Flathead Valley, Montana

“YOU SURE YOU STILL want to do this?” Liz Riley asked the man in the left seat of the small vintage 1976 Lake Buccaneer amphibious aircraft.

The plane floated comfortably on its hull at the western end of the lake, its fuel-injected 200-horsepower Lycoming IO-360 engine mounted atop the pylon behind the cockpit at idle.

The big man next to her did not answer immediately. His eyes were focused ahead on the light ripples visible on the dark water. He tilted his head to the right, looking to the skies above. Blue with scattered clouds. Perfect flying weather.

“You got this, Reece,” Liz said. Her voice was strong and confident, the southern accent a proud reminder of days lying in the grass in the backyard of her family’s house on the outskirts of Fort Rucker in Alabama, looking skyward, dreaming. The near-constant echoes of turning rotors from Black Hawk and Apache helicopters overhead had instilled in her a love of aviation. She would follow that passion into the Army’s Warrant Officer Flight Program and into the cockpit of an OH-58D Kiowa Warrior helicopter. Injuries sustained in combat cut short her Army career but did nothing to diminish her love of flying.

James Reece turned to his passenger, a passenger who in this case was also his flight instructor and dear friend, Elizabeth Riley. She looked perfectly at home in the confines of the aircraft, almost as if it had been built around her. It did help that she was a full seven inches shorter than Reece’s six-foot frame. Her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail under a crimson University of Alabama ball cap. Ray-Ban aviator sunglasses shielded her eyes from the glare. She was a professional in her element.

“What?” she asked, prompting him to explain the look on his face.

“You know, I intensely dislike flying.”

“You tell me that every time,” Liz replied. “What you mean to say is, you ‘used to intensely dislike flying.’”

“Ah, that’s it,” Reece confirmed.

“And, as I recall, it wasn’t necessarily the flying; it was the taking off and landing.”

“Once again: true,” Reece said. “Just like jumping.”

“Out of planes?” Liz asked.

“Yeah. I always loved the actual jump. Not a big fan of the pull.”

“Why?”

“That was the moment of truth. Either that chute was going to open, or you were going to have a malfunction, in which case you would need to go through your EPs—your emergency procedures. After that you would have a clean canopy overhead or you were fucked and would have to cut away. Once you did that you were stuck to that last option. I’d pack my main, but our riggers would pack our reserves.”

“I can see how that could be disconcerting,” Liz said.

“That was one of the reasons we kept our parachute riggers happy with cases of beer on jump trips.”

“Wise.”

“I also didn’t like the fact that you had a bunch of other jumpers in the air you needed to account for and who needed to account for you.”

“And the landing?” Liz asked.

“Well, with a static-line jump your landing is a hot mess regardless. You do what they call a PLF—a parachute landing fall. It realistically requires about two days of training. The Army manages to cram those two days into three weeks at Fort Benning. The PLF does help reduce injuries, but most of the time it turns into feet, ass, head.”

Liz laughed.

“Didn’t they rename Fort Benning like they did Rucker?” she asked.

“Fuck if I know,” Reece replied.

“How about free-fall landings? Those look fairly graceful,” Liz said.

“With free fall it’s different. You can still hit hard, though, especially when you are loaded down with gear.”

“Well, in this case—no jumping,” she said.

“That’s good, considering we don’t have chutes,” Reece observed.

Liz ignored his comment.

“We are going to take off, spend some time exploring northern Montana, and then land right back at the lake. I’ll be here if you need me,” Liz said, motioning to the controls in front of her.

“That’s reassuring,” Reece responded sincerely. He turned back to the instruments.

“Might want to close the door,” Liz reminded him.

“Good tip,” Reece said. He reached up, pulled the gullwing door shut, and twisted the latch.

“What are our procedures if we have an engine failure?” Liz queried.

Scouting the channel ahead for debris, Reece replied: “If we are on the lake I’ll power forward. If we are in transition, I’ll make a judgment call—but please feel free to take over. If we are airborne over six hundred AGL I’ll turn back. Turn will be to the right to avoid the mountains.”

“Correct.”

Reece scanned the lake and the skies to his right and left.

“Skies and lake look clear,” he said.

“Clear,” Liz confirmed, doing the same checks from her seat.

Reece’s left hand went to the yoke. Liz’s eyes hesitated over his left ring finger, a finger that would soon be adorned with a wedding band. A stainless-steel watch she knew had been purchased by his father, Tom, in Saigon during Vietnam was on his wrist below a powerful forearm. Reece’s arms had once hoisted her to safety in violation of orders in the war-torn streets of Najaf, Iraq. To Liz, it felt like yesterday. She suspected it always would.

She would never be sure if it was the RPG or the resulting crash that had killed her copilot. Liz had struggled in an attempt to release his harness, the metal slick with blood. She screamed at him to wake up, even though his head was partially crushed and a large section of his upper-body cavity had been torn away. The unmistakable crack of AK fire from Muqtada al-Sadr’s Mahdi Militia penetrating the aircraft’s mangled frame forced her onto the streets of Old Town Najaf with her M4. She remembered thinking that being killed in the crash would have been preferable to what would befall her should she be captured by the Mahdi Militia. She also knew that she would not be alive today had it not been for James Reece.

Reece and his four-man sniper team had been in position just blocks away when they witnessed the helo go down. She found out later that he had radioed his command-and-control element back at the forward operating base and requested permission to move to the crash site. That request had been denied. A risk-averse higher command authority, concerned with the political fallout of losing five more SEALs in combat, had ordered Reece to stay in position to provide overwatch while an Army Quick Reaction Force was dispatched to the scene. When Reece heard Liz’s M4 start to mix with the sounds of AK fire, he moved to assist, in a clear violation of orders.

Liz’s helmet had been torn off in the crash, and she had ditched her body armor so she could move unencumbered as quickly as possible toward friendly lines. By the time Reece arrived, the adrenaline that had allowed her to escape the Kiowa had worn off. The back injury, the effects of which she still kept at bay with a vigorous MTNTOUGH daily functional fitness training routine, had all but immobilized her. She was also on her last round, a round she was saving for herself.

Reece had stripped off his own body armor and secured it around the injured pilot. He then secured his helmet to her head, hoisted her over his shoulder, and ran to a stolen vehicle that his Teammate Boozer had maneuvered into a nearby alley. He didn’t stuff the hole caused by a bullet that passed through his calf until they had survived the harrowing drive back to base.

For Liz it was an airlift to Balad for emergency surgery, then a flight to Landstuhl Regional Medical Center in Germany, and then another to Walter Reed National Military Medical Center in Bethesda, Maryland.

For Reece it was an ass-chewing for insubordination and threats of Trident Review Boards, captain’s masts, and courts-martial. Those threats quickly turned to accolades when Liz Riley’s commanding officer called the commander of Naval Special Warfare to express his gratitude to the entire SEAL chain of command for their quick thinking and audacity. He followed up by awarding Army Commendation Medals with Valor to Reece and his sniper team.

The battle in Najaf had bonded Liz and Reece for life. Reece’s wife, Lauren, and daughter, Lucy, had become Liz’s family as well. After they were ripped from the earth she had been by Reece’s side as he brought those responsible to justice. In her mind, the debt she owed Reece would never be fully repaid.

He deserves to finally be happy, Liz thought.

Reece’s strength had returned after his recent ordeal in solitary confinement and the events that followed. She knew that he and his friend and SEAL Teammate Raife Hastings trained every day, pushing each other on steep trail runs, swims in the frigid lake, and in the Sorinex gym they had set up in the barn. They had also improved the range on Kumba Ranch, the Hastingses’ sprawling property in the Flathead Valley, with barricades and TA Targets. Daily competitions with pistols, rifles, and shotguns kept the two men sharp. He looked stronger than Liz had ever seen him. She didn’t need to ask why he trained so hard. She knew.

Though he didn’t talk with her about his time in the darkness, Liz knew it had left an impact. How could it not? His own government had locked him in a small cell with no light and no visitors for three months, an action tantamount to torture. She didn’t know if he talked about it with his fiancée. Men like Reece tended to keep some things locked away, though if she were being honest, there really weren’t other “men like Reece.”

She must have asked him a thousand times over the years to let her take him up and work with him on getting his pilot’s license. He had never shown any interest until recently. And, as with everything he did, Reece was all in.

“It won’t happen today in these conditions,” Liz said, “but tell me what causes and what you do if we start to porpoise.”

“Just like a boat with too much weight up front, in the Buccaneer it’s caused by choppy conditions and too much power, which causes a nose-low attitude. Excess weight in the cockpit can also be a factor, but I’ve been working out so that won’t be an issue,” he said, tapping his trim stomach in jest.

“And if it is?”

“I use more up-elevator until it stops.”

“If it doesn’t?”

“Then I reduce power and come off step and, discretion being the better part of valor, we try this again another day.”

“Pretty close; remember to slowly reduce power,” Liz reminded him.

“Right. Slowly.”

“There are ripples today, so we have perfect training conditions for your first water takeoff. If it were glass, we wouldn’t be doing this. Glassy water is the enemy. Well, not really, but it’s dangerous, especially on landings. You lose your depth perception. We’ll do it, but not until you have more experience reading the water.”

“I trust your judgment,” Reece said.

“What’s the airframe’s no-go criteria for water takeoffs?”

“Any waves over twelve inches,” Reece replied.

“Your time sailing will help you when maneuvering on the water,” Liz continued.

“Yeah, I’m noting a few similarities.”

“Think of the Lake Buccaneer as a boat on the water and a plane in the air. As soon as we are airborne, things will change. What’s happening on the lake is different than what is happening up there,” she said, looking skyward.

“Understood.”

“Take me through it,” Liz said.

“All right,” Reece began. “Seat belts—check. Briefings—complete. Doors—secure. Magnetos—both. Circuit breakers—on. Flap handle—down. Hydraulic pressure gauge—up. Water rudder—up. Trim—set.” Reece checked the indicator and twisted his head to visually confirm the tabs on the tail were in the correct position. “Fuel selector—on. Mixture—rich. Prop—full forward.”

Liz pulled her headset down around her neck.

“This is a loud aircraft, but on the water I like to have auditory cues. You did great by the numbers; now it’s time to get a ‘feel’ for the plane. We can put the headsets back on once we are in the air.”

“Just like our Peltors back in the day,” he said, following Liz’s lead with his headset. “Some guys liked them, and others couldn’t stand them. They protected your hearing but made it tough to identify the direction of incoming once the bullets started flying.”

The distinct growl of the engine coupled with the propeller behind the exhaust filled the cockpit.

“This thing sounds like my old Harley,” Reece observed.

“Greg O’Neal and Harry Shannon down in Florida refer to them as ‘Sky Harleys,’” Liz responded. “The sales pitch for these birds back in the seventies and eighties was ‘the most fun you can have with your clothes on.’”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Reece said.

Jonathan Hastings, the patriarch of the Hastings family and the man who owned the plane in which they now sat, had sent Liz to Kissimmee, Florida, for the Lake Amphibian twenty-five-hour owner’s course under the tutelage of instructors who lived and breathed these classic airframes. Already a Certified Flight Instructor, Liz received her specialized Lake Amphibian qualification at the O’Neal’s Seaplane Base, managed by Greg’s son Ben on nearby Live Oak Lake, close to where Armand Rivard set up shop after buying the Lake Amphibian company in 1979. Greg O’Neal had put her through the paces during the certification process, and Liz had fallen in love with a plane that traced its roots back to the iconic Grumman Goose, Widgeon, Mallard, and Albatross aircraft of the 1930s and 1940s. The legendary aviation mechanic and Lake Amphibian guru Harry Shannon, of Amphibians Plus, had passed along his intimate knowledge of the unique aircraft as well.

Liz glanced from the former SEAL to the instruments, double-checking her student before turning to look in the two seats behind them. A small Eberlestock go-bag was on its side, partially obscuring a new coyote-tan SIG Sauer MCX-SPEAR LT with Tango6T 1-6 x 24mm optic. From the profile of the magazine, she could tell it was the 7.62 x 39 version. Liz was more familiar with weapons than she was with earrings or purses. It had a Dead Air suppressor, VTAC sling, folding iron sights, a SureFire Scout light, and an NGAL laser aiming device. All of Reece’s weapons had been confiscated in an FBI raid almost two years earlier, so the SPEAR was a new addition to the arsenal. Because they had been seized in an investigation into the assassination of the president of the United States and Reece had been taken to the federal penitentiary in Florence, Colorado, and locked in solitary confinement in violation of the Fifth, Sixth, Eighth, and Fourteenth Amendments, getting them back had proven to be a bureaucratic nightmare.

Reece noticed Liz staring at the rifle behind them.

“Just in case, Liz.”

“Just in case,” she repeated.

Reece nodded and his right hand went to the overhead throttle.

Katie Buranek sat in a chair on the small beach, her feet propped up on the stone fire ring, gazing out across the lake through binoculars at the single-engine aircraft that appeared to be more of a boat with wings. It had a unique, almost odd, configuration with the engine and propeller mounted above and behind the pilots. She tucked a strand of blond hair behind her ear and rested the 10 power Swarovski binos in her lap. The fingers of her right hand found the diamond engagement ring on her left ring finger, the dazzling gemstone fixed in a simple but elegant and timeless platinum setting.

They had made Montana home, and though they had not set a date, a wedding was in the early planning stages. Reece had been intentionally vague on the how and why behind the injuries he had returned with a few months back; he seemed different. She didn’t know whether it was the investigative journalist in her or her instincts as his lover and fiancée, but there were changes, some stark, others subtle. Though he was never far from a gun, his eyes no longer had the look of a hunted animal, cornered and tensed, ready to explode in a sudden fight to the death at any moment. His eyes still shifted from brown to green to hazel depending on the environment. It wasn’t that. It was a sadness.

Katie reached down to pet Pollux behind his right ear, and her hand was soon nudged by Castor. The two black Labrador retrievers had been in the back of the old FJ40 Toyota Land Cruiser that Reece had borrowed from Caroline Hastings after his resurfacing. He had told Katie the dogs used to belong to an old friend who could no longer care for them; he didn’t specify why. Healthy and strong, they had taken to her and loved when Zulu, the Hastingses’ Rhodesian ridgeback, came down to play.

Katie had started a vegetable garden in a small greenhouse that Reece and Raife had built by the barn where Reece’s old 1985 Jeep Waggoneer still sat inoperable. They shared her 4Runner, but she knew his friend Kurt Williams of Cruiser Outfitters in Utah was on the lookout for a 1988 FJ62, Reece’s preferred mode of transportation.

Caroline Hastings, the matriarch of the Hastings family, would drive down from the main house with Zulu a few times a week. The three dogs would chase each other and swim while the two women worked in the garden and Caroline passed along what she had learned of gardening and life to someone she already considered a daughter-in-law.

Though Reece had never been what one would call a “morning person,” most days before sunup, Katie would feel him swing his legs from the bed and slip from the room still cloaked in darkness. After he was gone, she would slide her naked body into one of his T-shirts and move to the bedroom window, watching in the early nautical twilight as Reece walked barefoot to the lake with coffee in hand to watch the sun rise over the mountains. In the dim light of a new dawn, Reece would disappear as he walked the well-worn path. As the sun crept closer to the horizon, Katie would begin to make out familiar shapes: the deck, the sloping lawn, the beach, the fire pit, the dock, and finally the man she loved, his frame silhouetted against a sky shifting through brilliant hues of red, yellow, and orange. He would come into focus at the end of the dock, leaning casually against a pylon, sipping what she knew was a light-blend coffee mixed with cream and local honey.

What was he thinking about?

Her?

Their future?

His future?

His wife Lauren and daughter Lucy? Was he asking them for forgiveness or was he communing with their memories as the world came to life?

Their lives had been violently extinguished, their final moments filled with horror. Reece blamed himself. But instead of waiting for what he thought was a terminal brain tumor to reunite them in the afterlife, he had done what he did best. Reece had visited upon his enemies a violence and terror unlike anything they could have ever imagined. And Katie had helped him. She had become part of the story.

Was he thinking of his SEAL Teammate Ben Edwards, standing behind Katie, her neck wrapped in det cord, a detonator in his friend’s hand?

Or was he thinking about Boozer and the 9mm pistol used to take his life in an attempt to make it look like suicide, a mistake that had exposed the conspiracy?

Katie knew now that Boozer had been the key. Boozer was a .45 guy and would never have taken his own life with a 9mm. That realization had started Reece down the warpath toward a reckoning.

Or was he thinking of Freddy Strain? His former sniper partner had tracked Reece down in Africa and presented him with a choice, one that had ultimately led to Freddy’s death on a rooftop in Odessa.

Was he thinking of Raife’s sister, Hanna, hunted for sport on an island in the Bering Sea? Or was it a more recent event? The assassinated president? Revelations about his father? Or something else? Something of which she was not aware. A classified mission?

Was he thinking of a certain Israeli? A spy he had known in Iraq? A woman who was blown out of the sky by the same terrorist who had killed Freddy?

Reece had known pain. Was it possible for him to move on? Had he forgiven himself? Had a new chapter finally begun for them both?

Katie would never intrude on Reece’s memories of the dead. Those were his. She suspected these quiet mornings were his time with ghosts. They would always be with him.

Once morning had broken, she would watch him turn and walk back to the cabin, where he would make her a cup of coffee in the kitchen. Before he cracked the door, she would strip off her shirt and settle back into bed for a reawakening from the man she loved.

She would hear him set her coffee on the nightstand to the side of the bed and then feel him slip back under the covers, his cool body quickly warming next to hers before making love with a passion and intensity that left them drained and breathless. They were free.

Reece and Raife had started construction on their archery–bookstore–coffee shop–whiskey bar concept in Whitefish. The owner of Glacier Archery had retired and sold it to the two former frogmen. The shop was now undergoing an extensive remodel along with the building to which it was attached. Glacier Archery was on one side, and Abelard’s Bookstore, Coffeehouse, and Whiskey Bar was on the other. The Hastings family was bankrolling the project, not because they expected or even cared about a return, but because Jonathan and Caroline wanted their boys close. Reece was family.

Katie did most of her writing on her laptop at the lake and would send her op-eds from a coffee shop in town that offered Wi-Fi. A studio in Whitefish made it possible to do her weekly news spots. Reece would check on progress with the renovation and pick up supplies while she worked. They had installed a fly rod holder to the Gobi rack on her 4Runner and on their way home would stop and hike to an alpine lake or stream. His cast was improving; she enjoyed watching him progress at something she had been doing since she could walk.

Katie heard the whine of the plane’s engine increase and watched as it surged forward. The white aircraft with green pinstriped markings gained speed as it moved across the lake into a light headwind, finally lifting off and arching toward the heavens.

Maybe the flying was a replacement for the mission? Could Reece survive without a mission?

And what of Reece’s concerns? Was he still worried that violence would find them? She knew better than to push. Reece would tell her in good time. And right now, it felt like they had all the time in the world. In the interim, she had a wedding to plan.

Katie was so lost in thought that she failed to hear the sound of the approaching vehicle.

Reece found it therapeutic and meditative up among the clouds with the familiar feel of the noise-canceling headset against his ears. Now, instead of muffling the deafening sounds of gunfire and explosions, they reduced the monotonous hum of the piston-driven engine to a more tolerable level. The peace would be broken only by the voice of his instructor or that of air traffic control at the airport in Kalispell if they were using the retractable tricycle landing gear to practice runway landings. Donning equipment like the headset in pursuit of a new goal, something challenging, felt right. He imagined a day when he would fly Katie and their kids from their lake house on the Hastingses’ property to former senator Tim Thornton’s hunting cabin in northern Idaho close to the Canadian border, or to one of the numerous secluded lakes in the high country. Anything farther than that and he would enlist the services of Elizabeth Riley.

Reece had never cared much for orders coming from the top. Those removed from the blood, dirt, and grime of the battlefield often had different priorities. The consequences of violating orders did not weigh on him in the slightest or cause even a moment’s hesitation. The decision to rescue Liz in Najaf had been a natural one. Reece had built trust with his men through his dedication to the profession of arms and his actions and decisions on the battlefield. Though his aggressive and creative mission planning and execution were dangerous to a constantly adapting enemy, his style and ideas often caused strain between him and those above him in the chain of command. “Making rank” and climbing to the next rung of the military advancement ladder never entered into his calculus. As Reece saw it, his job was to crush the enemy and bring his men home.

Reece also knew the importance of maintaining the moral high ground, something that was one of the few, and perhaps only, differentiators between U.S. forces and the enemy. That he had abandoned his principles when his troop and family had been murdered was not lost on him. The conspiracy permeated his own SEAL command and included a nexus of governmental, financial, and pharmaceutical entities, all their power allied against him. Reece had become the terrorist. He had become the insurgent. And he was good at it. Maybe even better than he was as a SEAL. It didn’t matter now. He was done. He had left that life behind. It was time to move on.

The urge to fly had taken even Reece by surprise. He had never been a huge fan of flying. That was until he began sifting through his father’s old documents; some had been left behind in boxes, and a few had been passed along by contacts at the CIA. Reece had been shocked to discover that Tom Reece had been a pilot. The files indicated that he had earned his private pilot license and instrument rating while at the Agency in preparation for an assignment in Central America.

Why had he never talked about it? Reece had no recollection of him ever mentioning it. Why had he never taken Reece or his mother flying? Reece imagined the three of them around a campfire on the shore of a remote lake grilling freshly caught trout over the coals, a plane like the one he was currently flying beached nearby. Had he told his wife? Had he ever taken her flying? Reece would never know. Another mystery left behind by Tom Reece.

And he thought of his father’s letter.

Use the time you have, James. When you put down the gun, walk away. Don’t live in the past. Love your wife. Raise your kids. And don’t look back. Treasure each moment, because once it’s gone, it’s gone forever.

Since his return from Cyprus, he and Raife had been spending more and more time with Raife’s father, Jonathan. The old Selous Scout was getting on in age and they all knew the rough living would eventually catch up with him. In one of their conversations, Reece had asked if he knew that Tom had his pilot’s license. Jonathan shook his head.

“Some men compartmentalize certain parts of their life for the benefit of their families,” he had said, the ghosts of Rhodesia still strong in his voice.

Reece knew, even better than Raife, what part of Jonathan’s life he had locked away. Caroline had once told him the story. A story of Sunday, September 3, 1978. The day Jonathan’s sister had died in a terrorist attack that had taken Air Rhodesia Flight 825 out of the sky. And she had told him of the events that followed. Caroline had confided in Reece and sworn him to secrecy, passing along a lesson of forgiveness.

“He may not have shared flying with you, lad, but that doesn’t mean you can’t share it with Katie and perhaps your kids one day, eh?” Jonathan had said, taking a drag on a freshly rolled cigarette. “Liz will get you settled. I’ve got an old Lake Buccaneer I think you might like. I’ve been storing her for years. It’s time she flew again.”

“What’s a Lake Buccaneer?” Reece had asked.

“It’s better if I show you.”

Jonathan had taken Reece to one of his hangars at Glacier Park International Airport and unveiled the unusual flying boat.

“I don’t fly much anymore. Years ago, Caroline told me to pick between the cigarettes and the flying, thinking I’d choose flying.”

“You sure showed her,” Reece joked.

“My flying days were behind me as it was,” he said. “Smarter to have Liz behind the controls.”

“What is this thing?”

“A Lake Buccaneer. Made by Lake Aircraft. I found her in 1985. The original owner made a rough water landing with the landing gear down and wanted nothing more to do with her. This one was built at their factory in Sanford, Maine, in ’76. It was $26,000 new back then. In ’85 I got a hell of a deal.”

“How did you find her?”

“I wound up in a hunting camp with Armand Rivard, a former Lake Amphibian dealer who had purchased the company a few years earlier. Made the deal over the campfire, fueled by a few too many whiskeys.”

Jonathan laughed at the memory.

“After the hunt, we linked up in Kissimmee, Florida, where he had moved the company headquarters. He wouldn’t let me have it until I went through his course. It’s been back to Florida a few times over the years. Flew her down in ’88 when they realized the alligator population was getting out of control. Caught a gator with Armand from her nose there,” Jonathan said, pointing to the front of the plane. “Damn dinosaur had a deer in its mouth. Gator got away but we ate venison that night. Anyway, this Buccaneer became my first plane in America.”

“I didn’t realize you learned to fly in Africa,” Reece said.

“Ah, in the Rhodesia of my youth one had to be skilled and resourceful out of necessity.”

Reece nodded.

“You like her?” the old man asked.

“Like her? I love her,” Reece said, running his hand along the wing.

“What do you say we give her a second life, eh?”

Reece had looked at the aging patriarch of the Hastings clan.

“I’ll ask Harry Shannon to make sure she’s air- and seaworthy, and then Liz can go to work.”

“What do you mean?” Reece asked.

“I mean, it’s time for you to fly. In fact, you are looking at your wedding present.”

“Reece. Reece.”

The familiar voice in his headset broke him from his memories.

“Yeah.”

“Thought I lost you, buddy,” Liz said.

“Just thinking,” Reece replied.

“Well, it’s time to think about this landing.”

“Got it.”

“Complete the turn. What are we looking for?”

Reece had banked the plane to the left with flaps down. He came out of the turn at 800 feet above the lake.

“Debris. Wires. Boats. Paddlers. Surface conditions. Depth. Area clear,” Reece said.

“Clear,” Liz confirmed. “What else are you looking for?”

“Enemy submarines?”

“How about wind direction?”

“Oh yeah, wind direction. Moving east to west across the lake. We will come in from the west, into the wind,” Reece said.

“Correct.”

Reece banked the plane again, the forest of northern Montana like a dense green carpet below.

“Stay on this base heading,” she advised. “What do we want to avoid?”

“A crash?” Reece responded.

“Be more specific.”

“We want to avoid a water loop,” he said.

“That’s right, no high-speed turns on landing. Before that, what’s the first thing we want to check?” she nudged.

Reece looked across the instrument panel, going over the procedures in his head.

“Landing gear,” he said. “Hydraulic pressure is up.”

He turned his head to visually confirm that the landing gear was up. “Visually confirmed.”

Liz double-checked her student.

“Alternator switch on,” Reece said, deep in concentration as he went through his checklist. “Fuel boost pump on. Hydraulic pump on. Wheels up. Flaps down. Water rudder up. Trim set. Propeller set. Mixture set.”

“Good,” Liz said. “Now, remember to control the rate of descent. Small throttle adjustments.”

“Small throttle adjustments,” Reece repeated.

“Speed?” Liz asked.

“Between eighty and eighty-five miles per hour,” Reece responded, remembering that speed in a Lake Amphibian was relayed in miles rather than knots.

“And?” she coaxed.

“And...”

“What else?”

Reece’s eyes scanned the instrument panel as the plane continued to descend.

“You told me it was something you did constantly on mission.”

“Oh yeah—an out. If we need to abort or touch and go, egress will be to the south to avoid the mountains.”

As a leader, Reece had constantly played the “what if” game on patrol, anticipating his actions and calls if his SEAL element were hit at that precise moment. Flying was no different. Well, it was different in that no one was shooting at them.

“Reducing power to eighteen inches MP,” Reece said, referring to the manifold pressure gauge, which indicated the engine’s current operating power.

“Good. You’ve got this, Reece.”

“Nose down. Reducing power to twelve inches MP. Wings level.”

“Great work. Don’t rush it. This plane knows what to do. Hold attitude and wait.”

As Reece continued to descend, he briefly turned his attention to the house and dock, expecting to see Katie watching his first water landing. He didn’t expect to see another figure standing next to her.

Reece shifted focus from the water, his mind switching gears.

“Reece!” Liz said, the urgency apparent in her tone.

Instead of looking at his instructor, Reece turned to the rifle in the back seat.

“Reece, your rate of descent is too fast. Reece!”

Katie, I’ve got to protect Katie.

“Reece, slow your rate of descent!” Liz ordered.

But Reece wasn’t there.

“Take it,” he said, looking back out the window at the two people on the dock and reaching into the back seat for his rifle.

“I’ve got the controls,” Liz said.

“You’ve got it,” Reece whispered as he edged back on the charging handle to confirm that there was a round in the chamber. He had remembered the procedure for triple confirmation of positive control when turning over control of an aircraft but forgot the visual check to ensure the person next to him was actually flying the plane.

“It’s my airplane,” Liz said, completing the third step in the process and expertly bringing the amphibious aircraft into a picture-perfect water landing.

Ever the professional, Liz slowly put the throttle into idle while easing forward on the yoke, relaxing back pressure, and bringing the plane off step.

“Well, that was fucking western,” Liz said, turning to face her student. “What the hell happened?”

“Just get me to the dock,” Reece said, looking down at the rifle. Thinking better of it, he set it back on the seat behind him. His hand then went to the grip of the Grayguns Bruiser SIG Sauer P210 in the leather Alessi holster behind his right hip.

“Reece, what are you doing?”

“Just be ready,” Reece said, his eyes scanning the shoreline.

Liz maneuvered the plane toward the dock, approaching from the west to ensure that the wind was directly on the nose. She shut the engine down and told Reece to put out bumpers.

Reece pushed the left gullwing door open and unfastened his seat belt.

He recognized the man standing with Katie.

It was a man from the CIA.

A man Reece knew well.

Reece stood, stepped onto the nose of what was now essentially a boat, and then leapt to the dock, a line attached to a cleat on the nose of the plane in his hand.

“Make yourself useful, Vic,” Reece said, handing him the line and fastening a separate line to the left wing float. He then secured it to another cleat on the dock.

“It’s good to see you too, Reece,” Vic said, pulling the line taut and kneeling to connect it to a cleat at his feet.

Victor Rodriguez was the director of the Agency’s Special Activities Center and was responsible for the darkest of CIA operations around the globe. He stood back up and nodded at Liz, who now leaned against the open cockpit.

“Ms. Riley,” he said.

“Mr. Rodriguez,” she acknowledged.

“You are a hard man to get ahold of,” Vic said, directing his attention back to Reece.

“That’s obviously by design,” Reece responded, his eyes piercing past the Agency man to the hillside behind the house, noting that Raife and Jonathan Hastings stood watch on the back deck.

“I didn’t give them much warning,” Vic said. “I’m alone.”

“Maybe call next time,” Reece offered.

“It would help if you got a phone.”

“What do you want, Vic?” Reece asked, putting his arm protectively around Katie.

“We need to talk.”

“About what?”

“We need to talk about Alice.”