“Anastasia, he’s my Commander in Chief. I’ve sworn an oath to follow him. It’s my duty to uphold that oath, and I like to think I’m a man of my word. Maybe that’s one reason I don’t make many promises.”

Hunt found the Chief to be the sort of leader every soldier yearns to follow: demanding as well as rewarding. There was no denying that the man could be a challenge to deal with—he made no bones about that—but it was an incredible opportunity, one of the most memorable of Hunt’s career.

At my request, the police in Palm Beach have agreed to put off announcing any details about the crime, including the name of the deceased, until tomorrow. But when they do, I can assure you, gentlemen, it will hit the fan.”

But behind all the glitz and glamour, Dick’s sole goal was a simple one: to drive up Centaur’s share price. Jack Dick was not just fixated on his company’s stock. It was his all-consuming passion. Winning was sweet, watching others lose even sweeter, but beating the Street was the ultimate prize.

The intriguing aspect to their introduction was that it hadn’t taken place in England or, for that matter, in the States. The best description of the setting was that it was a no-man’s-land, one found on the far side of the world at the front lines of the War on Terror. Each had been asked to risk his life, and both had done so without a second thought. Despite their many differences—age, rank, upbringing—they were kindred spirits, and the bond that they forged was grappled with hoops of steel. Since their great adventure, however, neither had seen nor spoken to the other till that summer day in Surrey.

“There’s not a man on a horse who can stop my brother. Nor a woman who loves life who can refuse him.”

In a world where news was not made but exploited, there was no telling what kind of media tsunami Ned could create with this story. And right now it was his and his alone.

“I never drink on the job. My work won’t allow it,” the detective said. “I always drink on the job. My work requires it,” the journalist replied.

Hunt paused. Lupe never referred to SOB as Selden. No one in polo ever referred to SOB as Selden. Not even SOB. Something was in the offing. A moment later, a chill began to inch its way up his spine.

“Will someone remind me what weekends are for?” “Those are the two days of the week when you can work from home without interruption,” a colleague responded.

Much like playing polo, committing the perfect crime was a seamless combination of impulse and instinct. Unfortunately, there had been a loose end.

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