Red Cell Seven

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“Hello, Captain.”

The door clicked shut behind Roger Carlson. Shut by the same Secret Service agent who’d been shadowing him ever since he’d stepped onto White House grounds two hours ago.

Now that the agent was finally gone, a palpable wave of relief surged through Carlson. He had an intense aversion to being stalked. It was like claustrophobia in that it pushed him inexorably toward a state of extreme stress and a potentially violent reaction. He’d always been able to control the condition, though barely at times. And no military psychologist had ever diagnosed it despite the battery of skull-tests he was required to undergo once a year due to his highly classified missions.

Carlson was a Marine, but his orders weren’t the normal “take the beach” type. He was an assassin, and he’d murdered four senior Soviet officials at close range in the last two years. He had all four of their cheap neckties hidden in a desk drawer at his small house in Alexandria. Trophies were important to him.

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