The President's Vampire by Christopher Farnsworth

was already closed and locked when Cade boarded. The shades of the windows were sealed shut. No one would see in, and more important to Cade, no light could enter.
    The standard seats had been removed and replaced with couches that could fold into beds. A fully stocked fridge and galley kitchen took up much of the forward space, and a door separated a bedroom and full bath with shower in the back.
    “Beats hell out of flying in the cargo hold, I bet,” Graves said, his coffee cup now exchanged for a full tumbler of Scotch.
    The luxury barely registered with Cade. What he really noticed was the scent, under the cleaning chemicals, of blood and bowels spilled on the deep-pile carpeting. Pain and desperation and fear, hidden but not gone.
    “It’s what I expected,” Cade said.
    He took his seat across the aisle. A few moments later, the jet rolled from the hangar and air traffic control cleared them a space in the line. The Gulfstream rose into the air like it was sliding on polished silver rails, and they were on their way across the Atlantic.
     
     
    BACK IN THE HANGAR, Zach looked at his new coworkers.
    Book glared. Candle did his best to imitate Book from behind his thick glasses.
    Bell broke the silence. “Is the dick-swinging over, or do you guys need to wrestle?”
    Zach couldn’t help it; he laughed.
    She offered her hand. “Look. We’re going to be working together. Let’s try to keep the casualties to a minimum.”
    Zach shook her hand. He tried not to notice the softness of her skin. “Fine by me,” he said.
    “Dickhead,” Book muttered, not quite under his breath.
    “Knock it off, Book,” Bell snapped at him. And Book, remarkably, cringed at her tone.
    “Sorry,” he said, both to her and to Zach.
    Zach realized she was the one in charge.
    “All right,” he said. “Where do we start?”
    “We’ve got an office rented,” she said. “Neutral ground. I didn’t think you’d want to invite us to your secret headquarters. We didn’t want you in ours, either.”
    Zach nodded. His attention was drawn by two big men entering the hangar from the outer door. Their heads were shaved so close that the stubble looked like the bluing on the barrel of a gun. They wore boxy suits that barely covered them and earpieces trailing down the back of their necks. Private security. The product that A/A specialized in. They looked as if they’d been pulled out of a life-sized blister pack of action figures.
    Bell followed his glance and saw them.
    “That’s Hewitt and Reynolds,” she said.
    The big men joined them. They towered over Zach.
    “They’ll be our shadows for as long as we’re on the job,” she explained. Book and Candle smirked as if she’d said something funny. Zach didn’t get it. “I doubt we’ll need them,” she continued, “but without Cade in town, I thought it might be safer.”
    Both Hewitt and Reynolds—he wasn’t sure which was which, and neither man looked about to introduce himself—stared down at Zach.
    Zach recognized the look immediately. They homed in on him. Bullies. And, contrary to the crap spouted by Zach’s parents and teachers, bullies in this weight class were not scared of anyone who would stand up to them. They didn’t pick on people who were smaller and weaker because they were cowards. They did it because they liked winning every fight.
    And despite their size, they didn’t seem all that healthy. Up close, Zach could see the acne dotting their faces, the greasy look of too little sleep and too few showers.
    They smiled at him. Zach made a mental note never to be caught alone with those two.
    Ever.

SIX

    I toiled wholeheartedly in the vineyards because it was fun, fun, fun. Where else could a red-blooded American boy lie, kill, cheat, rape and pillage with the blessings of the All-Highest?
     
    —CIA operative Colonel George H. White

CHANTILLY, VIRGINIA

    T he U.S government spends more than $50 billion annually on classified activities, ranging from secret