Man in the Middle

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To my wife, Amelia, and my four sons Brett, Scott, Tim, and Colby.

I love you with all my being, and thank you for the lessons you teach me each and every day about humility and humanity.

PROLOGUE

BLOOD-RED STRIPES RIBBED THE HORIZON WHILE AN OCEAN BREEZE, WED to the scent of salt and seaweed, rustled past. Later that day—perhaps unaware of the morning’s tragedy—children would splash in the La Jolla Cove, playing Marco-Polo through peeking eyes. It was a setting that made San Diego’s North Coast so unique, validating citizens’ claims that this was “America’s finest city.”

Nicholas Zerets, however, cared nothing for clear skies, May sunshine, or the citizenry as he moved with effortless strides down this gold-plated stretch of real estate. Past a steak restaurant, a valet booth in front of an eight hundred-dollar a night hotel, and a newly built bank building boasting a hundred billion in assets, his heels click-clacked as if a ticking clock. When a San Diego City police car turned a corner and headed in his direction, he leaned back on his heels and slowed to a stop. He withdrew a tin box from a hip pocket, opened it with one hand, and removed a dark papered Djarum. He set the Turkish cigarette on its slow burn and watched.

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