I
[ ONE ]
The Shack on 8th
712 Atlantic Avenue
Virginia Beach, Virginia
1145 29 March 2026
U.S. Army Colonel C.G. Castillo (retired) sat in the driver's seat of the rental Chevrolet Suburban-far more car than he really needed-and looked up through the open sunroof into the clear blue skies overhead. He had made good time on the drive down from Washington, D.C., and was enjoying a few moments of peace in the cool ocean breeze from the top floor of the parking garage.
In truth, he was just dragging his feet. He could have taken a nonstop flight from Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport and already been in Tampa, but instead he elected to make a detour. He had been putting this off for far too long already, and the four-hour drive was just the thing he needed to clear his mind before he said what he came to say.
If he even listens to me.
A flash of gray against the backdrop of blue caught his attention, and he shifted in his seat to sight in on a pair of Navy fighter jets racing low across the beach on their way to Naval Air Station Oceana, two miles away. Even with their throttles pulled back, Castillo still felt their exhaust notes resonating through the SUV and heard more than one car alarm triggered by the jet noise.
It's the sound of freedom, right?
He glanced at his watch, then opened the driver's door and dropped down onto the concrete. Had it been later in the afternoon in the summer, each spot would have probably already been claimed by beachgoers and barhoppers. But before noon on a Sunday in March? He had the place to himself.
Castillo walked to the waist-high wall and leaned over, looking down on the alley separating the garage from The Shack-"an oasis," as its website proclaimed, "smack-dab in the middle of the Virginia Beach oceanfront." Their menu boasted typical mid-Atlantic offerings of salmon, crab cakes, yellowfin tuna, and shrimp. But Castillo hadn't come for seafood or lawn games. He turned away from the wall and headed for the stairs.
His muscles and joints ached, as much from the havoc wreaked on his fifty-seven-year-old body by the four-hour car drive as from all the running and gunning he had done in the Sudan, trying to keep up with a man almost half his age. He had done it. But his body had paid the price.
Then again, Pick was far from an average thirty-year-old. The legacy Marine was a MARSOC Raider and next up to replace Castillo. But, as he had told Marty Fleiss the day before, the kid simply wasn't ready to be the Presidential Agent-yet.
Castillo reached the alley at street level and turned right, making for The Shack's main entrance on Atlantic Avenue. He was there to meet with another kid-one Castillo wasn't sure would even show-but just being there after decades of being absent had to count for something, right?
Out of habit, he pressed his arm against his side and felt for the comforting heft of his full-sized 1911 pistol concealed in a shoulder holster under his travel shirt-thankful that the state of Virginia recognized his Texas resident concealed carry license. But even if that weren't the case, Castillo still had a letter from the President of the United States in his back pocket attesting to the fact that he was "operating on a mission of vital national importance with grave consequences."
Not that he planned on needing it, but he was glad he had it.
I probably should've given the letter back to Marty.
Traffic was sparse on Atlantic Avenue when Castillo exited the alley, but he still caught himself scanning the cars and pedestrians as if he were on the streets of Baghdad or Khartoum. Not the military-heavy region of the Hampton Roads. But living on the front lines of America's war against terror for so long had left a bad taste in his mouth.
Castillo was still half a block from The Shack's main entrance when the well-honed hairs on the back of his neck bristled and brought him up short. Castillo's confident gait halted, and he squinted through rays of late-morning sunlight at two young men standing in an alcove across the street.
Who are these guys?
They had light skin and sandy hair, and appeared to be of Eurasian ethnicity. But that in itself didn't trigger any internal alarms. Still, something about them seemed off. He had almost dismissed it as overworked paranoia-a hangover from his past week spent in the Sudan-but then a gust of cool wind cut through his thin shirt, and his skin broke out in gooseflesh.
Jackets. Why are both men wearing jackets?
Late March wasn't overly warm in Virginia Beach, but it definitely wasn't cold enough to require heavy work coats that were bulging and appeared to be concealing several layers of clothing underneath. Castillo had long since learned to pay attention to the mundane and seemingly inconsequential details when something didn't smell right. And the two men across the street did not smell right to Castillo. Not right at all.
See something, say something. That's what they always say, Charley.
Castillo gritted his teeth, looked both ways, then stepped out into the street while slipping his hand through the flap in his loose-fitting shirt, preparing to draw his pistol. Though he didn't relish the idea. No matter what kind of letter he carried in his pocket-or who it was from-it would take a lot more than that to keep him out of jail if bullets started flying and people got hurt. But he couldn't just sit on the sidelines and do nothing.
Recognizing he was succumbing to tunnel vision, Castillo forced himself to widen the aperture on his situational awareness. He scanned along the street in both directions, searching for a law enforcement presence or innocent bystanders who might be caught in a potential crossfire. Looking over his left shoulder-past the entrance to The Shack-he saw a trim, dark-haired young man being led by a large dog on its leash.
Castillo froze.
Max?
He recognized the rough-coated appearance of a Bouvier des Flandres but knew that the grayish-black dog couldn't have been his longtime companion. His Max-the dog that had stood by his side through the worst moments of his life-was buried in a serene patch of land on his family's ranch outside Uvalde, Texas. Not alive and well here in Virginia Beach.
That's not Max. But he sure looks like him.
He glanced up into the eyes of the young man holding Not-Max's leash and saw a flash of recognition there. Then the eyes quickly darkened with something else. Anger? Hurt? Betrayal?
Before Castillo could process the emotion, movement out of the corner of his eye drew his attention back to the pair of young men he had seen standing in the shadows of the beachfront hotel's entrance. All thoughts of a cold beer over lunch at The Shack were forgotten in a blink when they threw open their jackets and revealed M16 assault rifles slung tightly across tactical vests that were adorned with several spare magazines.
Oh, shit!
"Charley!" a man's voice cried out.
Castillo recognized it, but he was already yanking the pistol free from its shoulder holster and presenting it to the first target. There was no time to let disbelief stay his hand, and he pressed back on the trigger as the Novak front sight post settled on center mass.
The handgun barked, but he barely noticed the powerful .45 ACP recoil. He let the trigger reset as the sights settled, then pressed back again and sent another jacketed hollow-point into the gunman.
Even as his target fell backward, Castillo's heart sank when he realized that the sharp staccato of automatic gunfire raking the beachfront appeared to be coming from multiple directions. In the distance, he could hear shrill screams and shouts of alarm echoing over the deep thumping of blood pulsing in his brain. But he tuned it out while shifting his aim to the second gunman. Before his sights had settled, he pressed back on the trigger a third time, already knowing he had rushed his shot.
The man spun and leveled the rifle on Castillo just as he pressed back on the trigger again. But this time, his aim was true. The man's head snapped back and showered the air behind him in red.
Two tangos down.
As he had been trained, Castillo drew his pistol in close to his body and scanned left and right for additional threats. He knew more than one amped-up police officer had reholstered his service weapon too soon after engaging a threat and paid for the mistake with his life. Castillo wasn't about to do the same.
"Charley!" the man's voice cried out again.
Castillo hesitated. From over his shoulder, he heard the stomping of feet of somebody running toward him at full speed, and he spun to see the dog's owner with a stricken look on his face.
"Stay back, Randy! There might be-"
A searing pain slammed into his upper back and spun him around like a dervish, knocking him off balance. He gritted his teeth and pushed the pistol outward with one hand, straining to find the shooter before it was too late.
"Behind you!" Randy yelled.
Disoriented and confused, Castillo pivoted and saw two new shooters, similarly dressed, racing from the hotel. He whipped his pistol up in their direction and squeezed the trigger as fast as he could, hoping for just one of his rushed shots to find its mark. But the dark-clad men continued running at him, spitting fire from their rifles.
Again, something slammed into Castillo, and he staggered. He opened his mouth to shout another warning for Randy to run, but nothing came out. Fear gripped him when he realized he couldn't breathe, and he collapsed to his knees, struggling to keep his pistol pointed up at the shooters. The sound of gunfire was quickly drowned out by the rhythmic beating of his heart and the muffled shouts of men surrounding him.
Castillo toppled forward to the ground and rolled onto his side, looking down the street in disbelief as dozens of dark-clad shooters fired indiscriminately into crowded stores and restaurants. But his vision blurred and his horrific view of what was sure to become a mass casualty event began to dim. He tried lifting his custom 1911 to stay in the fight, but his strength was gone. He was done.
How many died here today?
His eyes closed as the sounds of gunfire and screams faded into silence.
Is this how I'm to be reunited with my Svetlana?
[ TWO ]
Scott Natatorium
U.S. Naval Academy
Annapolis, Maryland
1230 29 March 2026
United States Marine Captain P.K. McCoy Jr. stood tall with his back to the room, a sly grin hidden underneath his bushy auburn beard. It had been almost ten years since he'd stood there with his classmates-almost in the exact same spot in the coach's office-and added his own bobblehead to the coach's obscenely large and unusual collection. He reached up and flicked miniature Second Lieutenant McCoy's white dress cap and chuckled when his head began to bob.
"Pick!" a voice called out.
He spun and saw Coach Luis Nicolao, a member of the class of 1992, walking into the room with his ruddy complexion and trademark smile plastered on his face.
"Hey, coach."
Luis gestured to a pair of chairs arranged in front of his large oak desk. "Have a seat."
Before miniature Pick's head had stopped bobbing, the real Pick took his seat across from the all-time leading scorer in Academy history and relaxed in the large armchair. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything-"
"Not at all. We're just getting back from spring break and are putting on a clinic this weekend. You know things aren't very busy around here this time of year. Just gearing up for graduation and the next recruiting season."
Pick remembered.
"But I assume you didn't come here just to catch up on the state of Navy water polo."
"Actually, I did."
Luis cocked his head and studied his former protégé. "Uh-huh."
Pick laughed. "Seriously. I was just in the area and thought I'd stop by. Haven't had much time to visit my alma mater since graduating."
The coach ran a hand along his smoothly shaved face and gestured at Pick's exact opposite. "Well, based on your grooming standards, I'm guessing you've either moved on from the Marine Corps or are in some secret squirrel outfit doing high-speed shit."
Pick laughed. "Something like that."
"Seriously, what are you doing now? Married? Kids?"
He knew most of his classmates had already settled down and married their ring dance dates or local girls they had met in Pensacola, San Diego, Norfolk, or wherever else the Navy and Marine Corps had sent them after graduation. But he didn't take offense to the question. He knew the coach viewed his former players like family. "Well . . ."
Luis leaned back in his seat with a sigh. "That long of a story, huh?"
"No, not really. Officially, I'm still in the Marine Corps and based down at Camp Lejeune in North Carolina."
"Officially?"
Pick nodded. "Officially."
"And unofficially?"
Pick stroked his beard. "Now, that story's a little bit longer and not one I think I'm able to get into."
"Secret squirrel shit," Luis repeated. "I knew it."
I doubt you'd believe me if I told you.
There was no way he could tell his former coach that he had been yanked from his Raider team in Iraq and brought back to the United States to meet with President Natalie Cohen. No way he could even begin to explain how he had been brought in under the tutelage of a former Army aviator and Green Beret-a West Pointer with a Distinguished Flying Cross, no less. And absolutely no way he could divulge to Luis that he had been on the ground in the Sudan the week before, rescuing Secretary of State Frank Malone.
"It doesn't matter," Pick said. "I'm thinking about transferring back to my old unit anyway."
"Which is?"
"MARSOC. Second Marine Raider Battalion."
Luis craned his neck to look over his shoulder as Moose, his fluffy and charismatic cream-colored Aussiedoodle, plodded into the room and sauntered up to Pick. The coach's dog was a fixture on the pool deck and as much a part of the Navy water polo team as any of the players were. Pick reached down and scratched behind Moose's ears.
"Why am I not surprised you became a Raider?"
Pick saw the humor in his coach's eyes. "Because you know my family?"
Copyright © 2025 by Jack Stewart. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
