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Authors: Howard Gordon

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Gideon's War and Hard Target
Once the deck was clear, Kate and Gideon walked down to...

“Perfect,” he said, falling onto it wearily.

“You did it,” she said. “You came to get your brother, and you got him.”

“Yeah,” he said.

“You saved his life. You saved all of us.” She brushed some stray hair from his forehead. “I’ll be right back.” Then she went into the bathroom, stripped off her wet clothes, and returned to her cabin, wrapped in nothing but a towel.

But by the time she’d returned, Gideon’s eyes were closed.

Kate sat down next to him on the bed. For the first time since she’d met him, his face was completely peaceful. He didn’t stir.

“All right then,” she said. “I guess that’s how it is.”

She pulled the sheet over him—when his eyes suddenly opened.

“You need to sleep,” she said softly.

“I’ll sleep later,” he said, then kissed her as the wind outside began to howl, and the waves rolled powerfully beneath them.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Gideon's War and Hard Target
Writing this book has been an eye-opening education for me....

I am also indebted to the rest of the talented team at Touchstone, including Joy O’Meara, Michael Kwan, Mara Lurie, Kevin McCahill, and Shelly Perron, the tireless and exacting production group; and David Falk, Meredith Kernan, Marcia Burch, and Shida Carr, who’ve risen and continue to rise to the challenge of marketing and publicizing this book so people know it’s out there; and Cherlynne Li, who designed the terrific book jacket.

My colleagues on 24 have not only inspired me over these past nine years, they’ve been a second family. To have been one of so many ded ta D‡icated people—cast and crew, writers, directors, editors, and office staff— who all took so much pride in their work was truly a privilege.

My children, Micah, Arlo, and Capp, are the best reasons I’ve ever found for doing what I do, and I hope I have made them half as proud as they’ve made me.

Finally, I’d like to express my profound appreciation to Richard Abate, who dared me, then encouraged me to take on this challenge, and to Walter Sorrells, without whose generous help this book would never have been possible.

PRAISE FOR

HOWARD GORDON’S GIDEON’S WAR

“From racing through the jungles of Southeast Asia to outsmarting terrorists on a high-tech oil rig in a typhoon, Howard Gordon’s new international peacemaker Gideon Davis TAKES SAVING THE WORLD TO A NEW LEVEL. Move over, Jack Bauer—there’s a new sheriff in town.” —VINCE FLYNN

“Gideon’s War is not only a GIFT TO CONSPIRACY THEORISTS but also to anyone with pedal-to-the-metal taste.” —THE NEW YORK TIMES

“24 was a nonstop thrill ride, and Gordon effectively translates the frantic pace of the show to the printed page. Gideon is an INTRIGUING CHARACTER whom readers will want to see again; Gordon seems to have found himself a new gig.” —BOOKLIST

“This explosive debut novel . . . is AN ESSENTIAL READ for fans of political and action thrillers. Gordon does a superb job of drawing you in and making you care about the characters while forcing you to ask ‘What will happen next?’ at every turn.” —LIBRARY JOURNAL

“Howard Gordon, the man behind 24, makes the transition from screenwriter to novelist look easy with this AHEAD-OF-THE-CURVE THRILLER.” —ALEX BERENSON

“A RIP-ROARING THRILLER.” —KIEFER SUTHERLAND

FROM THE EXECUTIVE PRODUCER OF 24 AND CO-CREATOR OF HOMELAND, THE EXCITING FOLLOW-UP TO GIDEON’S WAR INVOLVES A HARROWING ATTEMPT TO STOP A HOMEGROWN TERRORIST PLOT TO DESTROY THE U.S. GOVERNMENT.

Gideon Davis has settled into the quiet life of an academic and is weeks away from being married when he discovers evidence of an impending terrorist attack on U.S. soil. He brings his suspicions to his ex-girlfriend, FBI Agent Nancy Clement, but her bosses are leery of Gideon’s source: a meth-head informant affiliated with a white supremacist group. Both Gideon and Nancy become increasingly convinced OT ÐÈÔthat a serious plot exists, but their informant is murdered before they can get more details from him. So Gideon enlists his brother, Tillman—newly sprung from prison through a presidential pardon—as an undercover operative to infiltrate a group of white supremacists who may be involved.

Eventually, Gideon and Tillman get on the trail of the real conspirators and uncover their audacious plan to eliminate the entire top tier of the U.S. government during a high-value, masscasualty attack. With only Nancy’s support, Gideon and Tillman go rogue to stop the powerful titan behind the conspiracy before the entire government is toppled.

With nonstop action and ticking time-bomb suspense, Hard Target will keep readers turning pages and their hearts pumping fast.

HOWARD GORDON

is an Emmy and Golden Globe award–winning writer and producer who has worked in Hollywood for more than twenty-five years. Most recently, he co-created the Showtime series Homeland and is also the showrunner of the NBC series Awake. He was also the executive producer and showrunner of the hit television show 24. Prior to his involvement with 24, Gordon was a writer and executive producer for The X-Files. He lives with his family in Pacific Palisades, California.

Visit his website at

www.HowardMGordon.com.

MEET THE AUTHORS, WATCH VIDEOS AND MORE AT

SimonandSchuster.com

· THE SOURCE FOR READING GROUPS ·

JACKET DESIGN BY ERVIN SERRANO

JACKET PHOTOGRAPH © ALAMY

COPYRIGHT © 2012 SIMON & SCHUSTER

ALSO BY HOWARD GORDON

Gideon’s War

Touchstone

A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

www.SimonandSchuster.com

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2012 by Teakwood Lane Productions, Inc.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Touchstone Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

1 d‡=“0em”>

First Touchstone hardcover edition January 2012

TOUCHSTONE and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event, contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is available.

ISBN 978-1-4391-7582-8 (print)

ISBN 978-1-4391-7606-1 (ebook)

For my parents, Bob and Sylvia

A top FBI counterterrorism official says the bureau’s “biggest concern” is “the individual who has done the training, has the capability but is disenchanted with the [right-wing extremist] group’s action—or in many cases, inaction—and decides he’s going to act alone.” A high-ranking Department of Homeland Security official added that “it’s almost impossible to find that needle in the haystack,” even if the FBI has an informant in the group.

—Time magazine, October 11, 2010

Contents

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Gideon's War and Hard Target
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Gideon's War and Hard Target
After completing Gideon’s War, I was humbled. Trying to...

What started as a crash course in the publishing business has turned into a real education because of Richard Abate; I owe so much to you. To Rick Rosen, a super agent, but an even better friend, thank you for your wisdom and for believing in me. Since these books are about brothers, I am especially lucky to count among my best friends my own brothers, Lawrence and Richard.

To my assistant, my right hand, and my friend, Jose Cabrera, thank you for getting me through each day. To Carlos Bernard, thank you for giving a voice to Gideon and Tillman, and the entire cast of characters who populate these books.

To the entire team at Touchstone, thank you for your patience and professionalism. David Falk has been a master strategist in helping these books find an audience, and Stacy Creamer has been my greatest champion. Her enthusiasm is infectious and inspiring, eclipsed only by her intelligence and good taste.

Finally, I am grateful to the many authors whose work has not only provided me with hours of enjoyment, but has also inspired me to join their ranks. Among these, I owe special thanks to m">ntainWalter Sorrells and Cameron Stracher. Without their generosity and talent, this book would still be an unfinished file on my laptop.

PROLOGUE

POCATELLO, IDAHO

Amalie Kimbo had learned long ago to keep her mouth shut.

At first, she couldn’t restrain herself from telling the other children about the helpful spirits and treacherous demons whose presence only she could sense. But her mother had warned her that unless she wanted to be taken for a witch and sent away, she should swallow her thoughts. So when she arrived in the place called Idaho, she shared none of her dark premonitions with the other women. They were here to work, to earn more money in a few months than they could earn in a lifetime. But the moment Amalie stepped onto the frozen ground, she realized that coming here had been a terrible mistake.

She was born in the western Congo, in the city of Kama, and for the last five of her twenty-one years she had worked for Monsieur Nzute in the cassava factory, processing the potatolike roots into meal. The job itself was not so bad, although Mr. Nzute drank too much and would often beat her and the other girls. Or worse. Christiane Shango was Amalie’s best friend, and the youngest and prettiest girl in the factory. Mr. Nzute gave her more trouble than the others. One night Christiane had crawled into Amalie’s bed, her body trembling uncontrollably beneath her torn dress, a smear of blood crusted on the soft inner part of her thigh. Christiane would not say what had happened—not that first time or any of the times afterward—but Amalie did not need to be told. She understood.

So when the American who called himself Monsieur Collier offered Christiane work in his cassava factory in the United States, she had begged Amalie to come with her. A slight man who spoke with a soft voice, Monsieur Collier had said he would feed and house them, and pay them each $3,000 US for three months of work. Which meant Amalie and Christiane could return home with enough money to buy a house and start their own business, perhaps a small shop that sold cloth or pots and pans. Then Christiane would be able to pass Monsieur Nzute in the street and show him with her eyes just what she thought of him.

The work in Idaho turned out to be almost exactly the same as it had been in Kama. Amalie operated a machine that stripped the dark skin from the white, grainy flesh of the cassava. Cassavas were root vegetables that were ground into a meal that was used to make bread or cakes, although they could also be cooked and eaten like potatoes. The meal could also be processed into tapioca, the small beads that were mixed with milk and made into pudding.

Amalie’s job required speed and a special skill. The skinner worked by feeding the cassava roots through two large rasps that tore the skin from the meat. Sometimes the cassavas jammed the machine and you had to reach in without letting your arm get sucked into the rasp plates. That was a mistake you only made once. The rasps would either tear off your arm, or flay the skin and muscle down to the bone.

So far Amalie had been careful. And lucky. She even began to wonder if maybe her premonition had been wrong, an echo of a harder time in a harder place. But then one morning in the middle of their third month in Idaho, Christiane collapsed—her lips bubbling with foam, her eyes rolling back in her head—and Amalith D‡e knew right away that the evil spirits had finally revealed themselves.

Amalie’s arms were still slick with cassava juice as she cradled Christiane’s head. Guilt rose up within her like a tide; she should have warned Christiane.

Estelle Olagun shook her head and said, “Konzo.”

The other women crowded around them, nodding and clucking their tongues. Konzo was the disease that came during the droughts, when people had little to drink, and little to eat besides cassavas. Some people said there was something in the cassavas that poisoned you, but Amalie knew that Konzo, like all diseases, was only one of the many ways demons worked their evil on people.

“Monsieur Collier will have medicine,” Estelle said. “I will call him.”

“No,” Amalie said. “I will help her. Help me carry Christiane back to her bunk.”

“Help her how? Do you have medicines like Monsieur Collier?”

“I can help her fight the evil spirits.”

“Evil spirits, evil spirits, you with your evil spirits,” Estelle said, scowling. “You’ll go to hell, talking like that.” Estelle had joined a holy roller church a few years ago and was always talking about people going to hell.

“I know what I know,” Amalie said. “Let me try before you call him.”

Ignoring Amalie, Estelle picked up the phone. Because she was the oldest among them, Estelle had assumed a kind of maternal authority over the other women, and Amalie could find no ally in her appeal.

After a few minutes Monsieur Collier appeared, stamping his feet and brushing snow from his coat. “Qu’est-ce qui s’est passé?” he said in his oddly accented French. The women stepped aside like a parting curtain, revealing the prone Christiane, her small breasts rising and falling with each shallow breath.

Collier pressed his palm against the young girl’s forehead, which was beaded with perspiration. “Konzo,” he said sympathetically.

“But you can help her, yes?” Estelle was kneading her hands like unbaked loaves.

Monsieur Collier looked at Estelle. He seemed to be making up his mind about something before he finally nodded. “She’ll be fine. But I’ll need to take her to the hospital.”

“No!” The word leapt from Amalie’s mouth before she could stop it.

“What is wrong with you, girl?” Estelle snapped her fingers at one of the other women. “Help me get her up.”

Amalie followed helplessly as two of the other women lifted Christiane and carried her out into the cold. Around them the trees creaked and groaned, their branches weighted with snow. Somewhere in the forest a limb splintered loudly, and fell to the ground.

Monsieur Collier opened the door to his pickup truck. Monsieur Nzute would never have opened a door for a woman—certainly not for one of his workers. But Amalie knew that Monsieur Collier’s gesture of concern was empty. Behind his polite mask lurked thforÑ€†e Mbwiri, a demon who possesses people and causes them to thrash around and spew foam. Sometimes the Mbwiri even forced its host to eat human flesh and perform shameful sexual acts.

Amalie felt the warmth of the truck as the women slid Christiane inside. Monsieur Collier buckled the safety belt around Christiane, taking just a little too long in straightening her clothes as they bunched around the belt. The sight of his revolting pale skin against Christiane’s lovely dark flesh made her shiver. Please, God, tell me what to do, she prayed. But God sent no answer.

“Go back to work,” Monsieur Collier said over his shoulder, his thin lips exposing a set of small, crooked teeth.

The other women started back to the factory as he drove off, but Amalie stood in the cold, watching the truck disappear, certain that she would never again see her friend Christiane. Only the leafless trees understood the truth of what was happening, their tiny green needles hissing in the wind like a thousand snakes.

Dale Wilmot still could not find the right words. Although he’d written dozens of speeches, business plans, and corporate mission statements over the years, nothing had ever been as hard for him to write as this. It was a letter to his son. Part of Wilmot’s indecision came from knowing his words would eventually find a much wider audience than Evan. They would be disseminated by the media, scrutinized by law enforcement agencies, and ultimately, judged by history. Was it arrogance to compare this document to the Declaration of Independence or the Gettysburg Address? After all, it was more than just one man’s attempt to explain himself to his son; it was a call to action intended to wake the American people from the stupor of complacency that had enslaved them for so many years. And for that, he was willing to give up everything, including his own life.

He sighed and turned away from the blank computer screen. On the nearest wall of his mahogany-paneled study hung photographs of himself shaking hands with presidents and prime ministers, playing golf with quarterbacks and corporate titans. The photographs showed a man of great confidence. Beneath the thick head of hair and above the square jaw, his quick grin told you this was someone who not only moved comfortably among the rich and powerful, but who could just as easily ride a horse, rewire a breaker box, and shoot a Winchester rifle. Over the years he had amassed a small fortune through timber interests, heating and air-conditioning, and trucking. He was a big man, with big hands, and the impression he left was of a man used to giving orders.

But Dale Wilmot no longer recognized the man in the photographs. The fire of optimism that once animated his eyes had dimmed over time, until it had finally been extinguished, replaced by a cold, singular determination. He had become a stranger to himself. And the photographs that once inspired feelings of patriotism now mocked him, staring down at him as a reminder never again to trust the hollow words of other men.

Anger had always fueled Wilmot, whether on the gridiron or in the boardroom. And so it was with this. Into the rich soil of his anger, the seeds of a plan had been sewn twenty-one months ago, when Evan, his first and only child, had returned from war.

He remembered walking down the echoing corridors of Walter Reed, past a room where young men with wrecked bodies sat like zombies before a droning television. He remembered being met by Major General William D. Bradshaw, who solemnly ushered him into his office. When you were Dale Wilmot beÑ€†, news of any kind—good or bad—was always delivered by the most important man in the building. But Wilmot preempted the general before he could get out a word. “Where’s my son?”

Bradshaw put on a face intended to express regret and said, “Mr. Wilmot, we’ve made tremendous strides in our ability to treat our wounded warriors and help them transition—”

“Take me to my son. And don’t make me ask you again.”

Wilmot’s hands balled into fists at his side. They reminded Bradshaw of sledgehammers. “This way, sir,” Bradshaw said, leading him from his office down a short hallway to the elevator bay. They rode down together in silence to a subterranean floor, where they followed a sign directing them to the burn unit.

The shrunken grotesque patient Wilmot saw sleeping inside the transparent oxygen tent bore no resemblance to his son. His thicket of short sandy hair was gone, replaced by a motley skullcap of scar tissue. His once-handsome features were denuded, as if his lips and his nose had been melted into blunt shapes. The bandaged remains of his legs terminated just below his knees, and his right arm extended only as far as his elbow. His left arm remained intact, although a patchwork of frag wounds and burns were visible through the clear antibacterial bandage.

A ringing phone pulled Wilmot from his memory. The sharp smell of hospital disinfectant and urine lingered in his nostrils as he put down his pen and picked up the receiver.

“What is it?” Wilmot said.

Collier’s soft voice answered. “We’ve got a problem, sir.”

A few minutes later Wilmot pulled up to his horse barn in his Jeep Wrangler, parking beside Collier’s F-150. After Evan enlisted in the army, Wilmot had sold all the horses, and now the barn and the adjacent hayloft stood empty.

Wilmot entered the frigid barn. The stalls had been swept clean, but inside one of them Collier was standing over one of the young women he had brought over from Africa. She was lying on a thin, rust-stained mattress atop an army cot. Her eyes were large but rheumy, and now rolled toward Wilmot, silently appealing to him for help. He found himself distracted by her beauty until Collier spoke. “Konzo,” he said.

When he first presented the plan, Collier had warned Wilmot that this might happen. He’d explained that in the Congolese factories, the hydrogen cyanide contained in the cassavas presented a workplace hazard even more dangerous than the machinery itself. Collier had said they could avoid toxic exposure among the women by limiting and rotating their shifts, but he’d clearly miscalculated. Wilmot tried keeping the irritation from his voice. “Will she die?”

Collier nodded. “Paralysis usually sets in after the initial seizures, resulting in respiratory failure.” Collier hesitated a moment before he continued. “But, sir, we can’t risk taking her to a doctor.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Of course Wilmot knew they couldn’t bring the girl to a hospital or even bring a doctor to her. Because she had cyanide poisoning the doctor would be compelled by law to report the case to some public health service, not to mention the immigration authorities. Their only choice was whether to let her die a painful protracted deat hÑ€†th or to end her suffering themselves.

“I’ll handle it,” Collier said.

Wilmot heard in Collier’s voice more than a simple willingness to carry out this unpleasant but necessary act; he was eager to do it. Collier had grown up on Wilmot’s ranch, where his mother worked as a housekeeper. When he was in his early teens, a stable hand found a dog in the woods that had been dismembered and disemboweled. Six months later, a fawn was discovered hanging from a tree, suspended by a grappling hook. Even back then, Wilmot had suspected Collier of committing those atrocities. Now, the predatory darkness in the young man’s eyes only confirmed Wilmot’s earlier suspicions.

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