Over four years later —

Rusty Mullins handed his parking credentials and Prime Protection photo ID to the uniformed security guard at the entrance of the JW Marriott's parking garage. The officer studied Mullins' photograph like he was looking for a message spelled out in grains of dust. Then he held it close to the flesh and blood original.

"You going blind, Jake?" Mullins asked.

"Nah. I've got perfect vision. That's why I can't believe it's you. You've gotten so damned old."

Mullins laughed and snatched back his creds. Jake Murphy was a retired Capitol Hill cop and the two men had frequently crossed paths during Mullins' Secret Service stint with the presidential detail.

"You're one to talk," Mullins said. "My hair might be gray but at least it's still stuck on my head."

The bald guard tapped his temple. "It's what's on the inside that counts."

"Oh, you can count now?" Mullins drove on before his friend could have the last word.

He found the spaces that the hotel had reserved for his team and parked beside a black Chevy Tahoe. Although Mullins was an hour early, his boss had still beaten him to the assignment.

Before getting out of the Prius, he checked his surroundings, then slid his Glock out of its holster, chambered a round, and returned it under his left arm. He flipped his windshield visor down and angled its courtesy mirror until he could see his face. No food on his chin, nothing stuck between his teeth. He eyed his hair. It was definitely grayer. Approaching fifty, Mullins conceded that soon only old photographs would be proof his head had once been rusty red.

He tilted the mirror to the knot in his navy blue tie. He tightened and centered it, always the last thing he did before "showtime," as he liked to call it. Not showtime for him, but for the person whose life would be in his hands.

He stepped out of the car and buttoned his suit coat to ensure the shoulder holster wouldn't be seen. As he pushed through the revolving door, he reviewed the key details from the briefing the day before.

Prime Protection had been contracted to provide personal security for participants in a two-day symposium at the JW Marriott on Pennsylvania Avenue. Sponsored in cooperation with Georgetown University, the University of Maryland, and Johns Hopkins University, the event featured scientists and researchers from around the world who worked in the fields of computer engineering, neuroscience, and bio-technology. Mullins didn't understand the content, just that the three speakers tonight were tops in their respective fields. Someone on the organizing committee felt the three were more than preeminent scientists. They were potential targets.

In addition to standard hotel security, each speaker would be accompanied by an armed bodyguard while moving through the public areas of the hotel. Registration had been required to attend the evening's banquet in the Grand Ballroom, a more than 36,000-square-foot space capable of feting over 1,100 guests. The three scientists would then appear on a panel discussing how their areas of research were merging. Mullins would be with a Dr. Oskar Brecht from Germany.

Mullins had scanned his bio and knew Brecht held an endowed chair at the Interdisciplinary Center for Scientific Computing at the Ruprecht-Karls University of Heidelberg. The confidential background dossier included the note that Oskar Brecht had an eye for the fräuleins. Just what Mullins didn't need — to be a former Secret Service agent caught up in an international call-girl scandal. He would make sure Herr Brecht remained protected from all dangers, lethal and lustful.

Mullins identified himself at the registration desk and picked up a card key to the suite Prime Protection was using for onsite operations. He rode to the twelfth floor, nodded to the guard positioned adjacent to the elevator doors, and flashed his ID. "All quiet?"

"Yes, sir. The German arrived about thirty minutes ago."

"With a new lady friend?"

The guard smiled. "No. Just his security escort from the airport. He's your package now."

"And the others?"

"Sitting tight." The guard checked his watch. "They expect to be contacted at six-thirty to go down for cocktails. That's in ninety minutes."

"How about 1247?"

"Your man's been there since four."

"Thanks. I'll check in and then move around a bit. The rest of the team should be here by six if not before."

Suite 1247 was located in the middle of the hall, equidistant to the rooms of the three scientists. Mullins rapped twice on the door.

"If you've got a key, use it," came the reply.

Mullins placed the black passkey against the lock pad and the bolt clicked open.

Ted Lewison lounged on a small sofa, his stocking feet resting on a glass-top coffee table, his dark suit coat and empty shoulder holster draped over the back of a chair. A Colt M1911 semi-automatic lay on the cushion beside him. The pistol was a holdover preference from Lewison's days as an MP.

The six-foot-three president of Prime Protection dropped his feet to the floor, sat erect, and placed a half-empty glass of Perrier beside the bottle on the table.

He gestured to an adjacent chair. "Sit down. There have been some changes."

"Aren't there always?" Mullins sat.

"You want something from the minibar?"

"No. Bring me up to speed. Then I want to do my own walkthrough."

Lewison nodded. He expected nothing less of his top employee.

Ted Lewison valued professionalism and hard work. He'd escaped the poverty of his neighborhood in Baltimore by joining the U.S. Army straight out of high school. He'd done his twenty, mostly as an MP and later as a chief warrant officer. He'd founded Prime Protection, hired ex-military, and nurtured his fledgling company into the top personal security firm in D.C. But along the way, he'd come to realize the Secret Service instilled traits beyond the normal skill sets of law enforcement. Rusty Mullins always had a plan and several backup options. That's why nothing seemed to rattle the man. And Mullins could read a face like no one else Lewison had ever met. When you had only seconds to identify a potential assailant, that gift meant the difference between life and death.

They worked together so well that Lewison didn't think of Mullins as an employee. More like a brother from another mother, and he knew he was damned fortunate that Mullins had returned to work after his leave of absence, a leave of absence following Mullins' rogue operation that prevented a terrorist assault on the Federal Reserve and garnered a personal commendation from the President of the United States. Lewison knew Mullins could work anywhere he wanted, and he intended to make sure that place continued to be his company.

"All right, Grandpa," Lewison said. "First, you're not on Brecht."

Mullins cocked his head, weighing the meaning of the "Grandpa" remark. "What? The guy thinks I'm too old to keep up with him?"

"No. Your talents are needed for Lisa Li."

Mullins couldn't mask his surprise. "Why? I thought Nicole was on her. Am I supposed to clear the restroom if she wants to pee?"

"How old's your grandson now?"

"Three."

"Then it might be a stretch for you."

Mullins stared at his boss. He didn't know what was going on with the strange assortment of unrelated questions other than Lewison was amusing himself. He refused to give the man the...