“There are many paths to enlightenment. Be sure to take one with a heart.” Lao Tzu TThe Homeland Security Gulfstream had just passed through the St. Louis, Missouri air corridor when they received the change of destination. Marcus Wolfe had never been so relieved in his life. Letting Walker slip through his fi ngers, after he had personally guaranteed his delivery to the director, was a nightmare. His men immediately losing Sally Winters in the Salt Lake City airport was just more icing on the cake. Walker had made his handpicked team look like a bunch of amateurs. Someone was going to pay. Miami, home of the world headquarters of Walker Industries, made a lot of sense. While they had searched every corner of both Miami and Dade County, they had never found the hidden Hermes Project complex. It would probably turn out to be in the Everglades or a Walker-owned warehouse they had missed. They refueled in Knoxville and landed in Miami just past midnight. Wolfe called his eight-man team together. “I’ve had about enough of Michael Walker and his people. We’re going in hard and fast, and don’t feel any need to be gentle.” They all understood exactly what Special Agent-in-Charge Marcus Wolfe was saying, and nodded their agreement. What had happened in Salt Lake City reflected badly on them as well. Wolfe had been in constant contact with Washington, where Zhack and Sabrinsky had been able to track a video of Spence getting into a 212 Rod Pennington & Jeffery A. Martin cab. The oversized hat she was wearing concealed her face from all of the camera angles but made it easy to spot her in a crowd. According to the cab records, she had been taken to an address in an upper middle class neighborhood heavily populated with Cuban-Americans. The home was owned by a holding corporation that was so multilayered Zhack fi gured it had to be a safe house owned by Walker Industries. Plus, it was not far from Walker’s Miami Beach mansion. Miami, between the port, airport and other divisions, had a Homeland Security staff of over 1,400 local agents. This made it easy for Wolfe to have the address staked out until he could get a search warrant. Glimpses of a woman matching the general shape and size of Penelope Drayton Spence could be seen between the partially drawn curtains. Facial identification was impossible since the window shades were lowered so nothing above the shoulder was visible. One thing was certain. Th e hat the woman had been wearing in the airport was now sitting on a table on the covered front porch. That was enough for Wolfe. It took rolling a Federal Judge out of bed at 4 a.m., but just before sunrise they had the “no knock” warrant in their hands. Wolfe checked his watch again. “Where the hell are they?” “No idea, sir,” said a terrified young man in a Homeland Security windbreaker who had been sent over and ordered to watch the house. Normally, he spent the 11-7 shift checking cargo containers at the Port of Miami. His hands trembled as the gear was unloaded from the rear of the twin black Suburbans idling at the curb. “How many people are in the house?” “I’ve only seen two, sir.” “Did you see any weapons of any kind?” “Not that I’ve seen, sir.” “I’m not waiting for the damned SWAT Team,” Wolfe barked as he nodded to his men. At just a few minutes before 6 a.m., along with his best eight men, Wolfe was ready to take the house. Timing their entry perfectly, they used battering rams to knock in the front and back doors simultaneously. “Music to my ears,” Wolfe muttered to himself as he followed the first wave into the house. The assault team, armed with automatic weapons and bulletproof vests, swarmed into the home shouting and kicking doors open. The startled man in the master bedroom jumped up in boxer shorts and a t-shirt and demanded, “What’s going on?” 213 The Fourth Awakening He was roughly tackled by two of Wolfe’s men and planted face fi rst in the Oriental carpet, then handcuffed. “Do you have any idea who I am?” the man shouted. Wolfe didn’t know and didn’t much care. His interest was focused on the figure hiding under the sheet on the king-sized bed. Wolfe triumphantly pulled the bed linen back from the now hysterical woman. His shoulders sagged when, instead of Penelope Spence under the sheet he found an attractive dark-skinned woman in an oversized nightshirt who looked to be in her mid-forties. The prone man on the floor growled again. “I’m the mayor of Miami, get your hands off me!” Special Agent Marcus Wolfe’s blood ran cold. “Get those cuff s off of him. Mr. Mayor, we are so sorry….” Rubbing his wrists, the barrel-chested man in his late fi fties, his eyes flashing with anger, said, “Not nearly as sorry as you’re going to be.” “Then who is this?” One of Wolfe’s men asked without lowering his weapon. “That’s my wife, you idiot.” One of Wolfe’s team, who had been in a diff erent part of the house, pulled his boss out of the room. “Sir, we’ve got a situation.” He nodded toward the front yard which was lit up like a football stadium and was already filling up with camera crews and reporters. “It looks like someone tipped them off .” “Walker set us up.” Wolfe mentally processed his options and none of them were good. “Get everyone out of here as quickly as possible. No one comments to the press.” Wolfe grabbed the local agent in the Homeland Security windbreaker, “Go out there and tell the press you have no comment.” “Sir, I make $10.58 an hour, I didn’t…” “Just say no comment, and I’ll get you a press liaison officer as soon as I can.” Wolfe shielded his eyes from the glare of the camera lights as he tried to return to his vehicle. He had to run a gauntlet of reporters and shouted questions. “Are you Special Agent Marcus Wolfe?” “Unbelievable. They know my name,” Wolfe thought to himself, as he muscled his way through the crowd of reporters. Overhead he heard the 214 Rod Pennington & Jeffery A. Martin whump, whump, whump of a helicopter. On the side was written “Channel 4 is Always On.” It was the CBS affiliate’s news chopper. Great. “Who is the Mayor with?” “Is it true the Mayor is in there with a woman who isn’t his wife?” “Why is Homeland Security involved?” “Was the woman sent by al-Qaeda?” “Is there more than one woman?” “Is the Mayor under arrest?” “What is he being charged with?” “Are drugs involved?” “Will there be Federal charges brought against the mayor?” Special Agent Wolfe jumped in a black Suburban and disappeared into the night. Across the street, unnoticed in the growing crowd, a woman in a charcoal skirt and Manolo Blahnik shoes flipped open her cell phone and dialed a number. “Th e fish took the bait.” In less than 10 minutes, CNN, MSNBC, and Fox News had all broken into their regularly scheduled coverage with the story of Homeland Security breaking down the door of the Mayor of the City of Miami. The Mayor’s wife, Michelle, who was the daughter of one of Miami’s richest real estate developers, was reported to be in shock and admitted to Jackson Memorial Hospital for observation. Th e Mayor, who was in the midst of a tougher than expected primary challenge, had been one of Homeland Security’s harshest critics for their recent budget cut involving the Port of Miami. This was the kind of sensational story the cable news channels would run 24/7 for days. At that exact moment, the fax machine in the office of the Director of Homeland Security’s Department of Emerging Technology came to life. Director Shepherd: I can make a phone call that will save your career, but you must agree completely to all of the items below. These terms are non-negotiable. For the next 24 hours the only member of the media you or any member of your organization will speak to is Penelope Drayton Spence or her designee. You will not attempt to make Robert Smith the scapegoat. You will move to completely declassify the Hermes Project. 215 The Fourth Awakening You will restore the good names of all members of the Hermes Project. Michael Walker Director Shepherd, who, as usual, had arrived precisely at 6:00 a.m., smiled. How did Walker get the number to his private fax line? Th e damned leak again, no doubt. Shepherd reread the fax and smiled. Th e arrogant bastard, he thought to himself, who the hell does he think he is? Did he think his little ragtag group of misfits and oddballs were a personal threat to him? Shepherd’s office door opened and one of his flustered assistants stuck her head in the office. “Sir, you need to turn on the television.” “Which channel?” “It doesn’t matter.” Director Shepherd picked up the remote control from his credenza and turned on the TV in one of his bookcases. On CNN a reporter was standing in front of a house in Miami. The volume was off but across the bottom of the screen was a he............