Page 64 of The Lazarus Protocol

He didn’t answer that. Instead, he grabbed a Sig Sauer pistol and holstered it at the small of his back, flipping the tail of his shirt over it.

“When you were in the SEALs, did you ever think you’d be going on an op wearing cargo shorts?”

Noah figured that meant they were good. “We need answers. For all of it.”

“If your parents are involved somehow⁠—”

“If there’s a postcard, they are.”

“And if they set my cousin on that path…”

“Then it was a path that cost her life.” Noah set his forearms on his knees. “They’re going to have to answer for it, no matter what the circumstances are. They had to know how dangerous this could be, and yet they still sent her the card with those reference numbers on it. They knew what she’d be walking into.”

Marina brushed back a strand of hair, tucking it behind her ear. Blond rather than pink today because she’d washed the color out last night and let it dry wavy. It wouldn’t take much for her to look like a completely different person. “Do you think that because she’s my cousin, and I work with you…that’s why they chose her?”

Noah wondered if she would grieve for her cousin later, when she was alone, or if she simply processed loss differently. “If they did choose her because of our connection, they might’ve wanted us to put the pieces together. They may not have believed it might cost her life.”

“Then I guess that’s what we’re going to do—put the pieces together.”

“Starting with a clandestine op at an afternoon barbecue.” Noah nodded. “If you hear anything, I want an update.”

“Got it,” Marina called out. “Enjoy!”

Noah slid the van door open and climbed out with a grin on his face. He wandered down the sidewalk to the house. A wide road with mature trees shading the street and perfectly manicured lawns.

Set back from the street lined with cars, the circular drive had been turned into a parking lot for high-end vehicles—BMW, Mercedes, or Audi. He even spotted a Corvette and a Land Rover. Would’ve been a great spot to park his motorcycle if these were his people. But they weren’t.

His people wore dirty boots, work gloves, and carried a thermos of coffee out with them no matter what time of year it was. They weren’t CIA division chiefs, or even agents who ditched their twin sons and left to save the world. Who never came back and only communicated with people through vague messages and secret notes on postcards.

The home where Thomas Kraus lived with his second wife looked like an old white farmhouse, with bushes lining the front either side of the big dark wood door that were slightly overgrown. Giving it a wild appearance, like an English country cottage.

Inside the front door, kids ran down the hall, racing through the house. People had gathered in the living room and a sitting room. Music played throughout the house on what had to be a wired-in sound system with speakers in every room. Some ’70s rock song nearly everyone could sing.

Noah stepped out the back door and spotted Thomas at a table with several other older men, one of whom was the secretary of defense. A guy in a Hawaiian shirt manned the grill, built like a US Marine or Secret Service agent—probably on the White House detail. An above-ground pool was filled with kids splashing each other, and people hanging around watching.

“Were you invited?”

Noah glanced over his shoulder. Don’t like this guy. “I just need a moment with Thomas, that’s all.”

“Hmm.” The guy had a white shirt on over gray shorts and held his hands in front. One fist, the other hand holding his wrist.

“You the one collecting the cover charge for the party?”

The bouncer had a scar just above his ear, as if a bullet had skated into his hair at one point. His attention drifted to the side, then he said, “To talk to Thomas.”

Another man from the wings, dressed in black shorts and a white shirt, strode over and approached Thomas and his table of friends. To the right side of the yard, a bar had been set up under a gazebo, and the women seemed to be congregating there.

After the man bent and spoke to him for a second, Thomas got up, then motioned to the far side of him. Indicating for Noah to follow.

Behind him he heard, “Five minutes.”

Noah looked over his shoulder at the guy but didn’t respond. Not your call, bro. He followed Thomas toward a shed in the corner of the yard, tucked against the house. Facing the expanse where the grass tapered down a hill and the golf course behind his house began. A couple of women climbed into their golf cart and set off.

Thomas hit keys on a number pad at the shed door and let Noah inside. Tools lined one wall, and the center was taken up by a recliner. TV on a low sideboard. Minifridge. Air-conditioning unit. Not much room to turn around, but he could see the appeal.

“Cozy.”

“What do you want?” Thomas went to a toolbox and slid open a drawer, pulling out a bottle of whiskey and pouring two fingers into a mason jar.