PROLOGUE
Martha’s Vineyard
Twenty-one years earlier
From the foot of the old pier, Connor Sparks watched his friends’ revelry farther down the beach. After tonight, would he ever feel like one of them again? In a few days, everything was going to change, and it killed him. Since his first year at Creighton Academy, way back in the seventh grade, he’d known his friends would be a part of every single day—usually a big part. Since they’d formed a friendship in prep school, the “Perfect Gentlemen,” so named by a sarcastic counselor, had been tight. That first Christmas, Dax had asked him what he was doing for the holidays. The conversation had ended with him accepting an invitation to spend two weeks with the Spencer family. In fact, he’d managed to worm his way into spending every summer break or holiday with one of their families for years. He wouldn’t be lucky enough to continue that tight-knit shit during college.
What the hell was he going to do now?
Connor looked out over the beach where his buddy Gabe Bond had started a massive bonfire. It crackled and the embers promised warmth. The moon hung low, and Connor could hear their laughter, practically smell the hot dogs they were roasting. That wouldn’t be the only thing smoking out there, but he rarely touched anything harder than a beer. He couldn’t. He was a scholarship kid, which meant he had to prove his worth every second of every day or he would be right back in the trailer park.
Now that they had graduated and prep school was in their rearview mirrors, Connor refused to go back to that sad-sack single-wide with the cracked linoleum and broken stairs. But he also wouldn’t be joining his buddies at Yale. Of course, they had no idea. All they knew was that he’d gotten his acceptance letter at the same time as the rest of them.
He alone had been forced to wait for more information to see if he could actually attend. Unfortunately, his financial aid letter had not been quite as cheerful. In fact, that letter had slapped him with the reminder that no matter who his friends were, he lived in a different world. He’d merely had a four-year reprieve from having to deal with that truth.
“Hey.” Dax Spencer clapped a hand on his shoulder. He dangled a six-pack from his other hand. “Why are you hanging alone up here? The party is on the beach, man. Well, unless you’re Roman, and then the party is in Gabe’s parents’ bedroom. I am not cleaning that up. What the hell is he thinking, taking twins in there?”
“Double the pleasure?” Connor quipped.
Roman had actually offered him one. A beautiful blonde from their sister prep school who would likely be headed straight to Yale and pledging a sorority closely tied to Skull and Bones. Hell. That wasn’t exactly accurate, was it? She would serve the men of Skull and Bones because they would run the world one day.
No one ran the world from community college, and they didn’t run it from where he was going, either.
There would never have been an invite to Skull and Bones in Connor’s future, even if he could have afforded the Yale tuition. Bonesmen came from the elite. No matter how closely he was associated to these men, Connor could never forget where he came from. Neither would anyone else.
Dax winced. “I’m a realist, man. I think it’s just double the trouble—even for a night. I’m with Scooter. I kind of wish Gabe hadn’t sent out that invite. It’s our first night of freedom. It would have been cool to spend it together. But hey, we’ve got all summer for that, I guess. One last blowout before the real fun starts.”
Like the rest of the group, Dax was headed to Yale, though after his four years, he intended to join the Navy as his father had, and his grandfather before him, and so on, dating back to when the U.S. Navy had first been formed. Gabe and his ancestors were the first family of aeronautics. The rest of the Perfect Gentlemen came from equally pedigreed backgrounds. Maddox Crawford’s family practically owned the Upper East Side of Manhattan. Roman Calder came from a long line of powerful D.C. lawyers. Zack, aka Scooter . . . well, he was being groomed to become president of the United States.
“Can’t wait.” Connor simply wasn’t ready to admit that he wouldn’t be staying here for the summer.
“Mad bought a brownstone off campus.”
“I thought we were supposed to move into fraternity houses.” It was tradition among this set. Each of their fathers had pledged influential frats.
“And live through all that hazing? Fuck that,” Dax said with a shake of his head. “I’m with Mad on this one. We’re our own frat, brother, and we take care of each other. Senior year at Yale, Skull and Bones will come for Zack. You know they will. And Roman’s dad is legacy. Mad just wants them to have a place where they’re not expected to be the next freaking saviors of the free world. He thinks it’s up to us to keep those two grounded. Everyone else in the world is going to want a piece of Zack, and because Roman is never going to leave his side, they’ll want a piece of him, too. So Mad wants to remind them who their real friends are.”
Connor looked out over the dark water shimmering under the moonlight, then at the beach. Mad danced around the bonfire with total abandon.
Puck. Ever since Connor had read Shakespeare, he’d thought of Mad as Puck—impish and chaotic, yet truthful when a person least expected it. That brownstone was Mad’s attempt to keep their little family together. They had four years before the world would separate and test them, each in their own way. Four last years to live together and influence one another. It was a good plan. Mad simply didn’t know all the facts, and Connor intended to keep it that way because his pride wouldn’t allow anything else.
“Your dad was in,” Connor pointed out. “You’re a legacy as much as Roman. You should be a Bonesman, too. It would help your Naval career. You want to make admiral, right?”
Dax shrugged. “Yeah, but who knows?”
“They’re fuckers if they don’t let you in,” Connor insisted.
Dax was the best guy he’d ever met. Shit, he would miss Dax most of all. Like freaking Dorothy and the Scarecrow.
Connor frowned. Maybe he would get a little wasted tonight. He was sounding awfully maudlin.
“I’ll be honest. I don’t want in. I don’t want to rule the world. I just want my own command someday. And one really hot woman to settle down with. Roman’s insane. See you down there?” Dax was halfway down the steps, already moving away from Connor.
“Sure. I’ll be there in a bit.”
Unmoving, Connor watched Dax join the others.
Creighton Academy had been the best years of his fucking life. Likely, they always would be. But after tonight, it would be time to make his own way. He would claw out of poverty while he watched the rest of them soar into their wealth and power.
“You’re looking lonely there, son,” a deep voice to his left said.
Connor turned and spotted the man standing in shadow almost immediately. He was tall, his hair just starting to thin out on top while graying at his temples. He was lean, without the usual middle-aged paunch. He wore a three-piece suit and expensive loafers, which struck Connor as odd since they were at the beach. Even the businessmen who came out here changed before they left the city.
“What can I do for you, Officer? Or should I say Special Agent? The Bonds aren’t here. If you’re looking for them, you’ll have to go back to Manhattan. Only the son and his friends are here now.”
He quickly assessed his chances of walking into the house and finding Roman in any kind of position that wouldn’t make Connor want to go blind. The odds were ridiculously bad. He’d had a good twenty minutes, so his freak flag was probably flying high, but he was also known as the teenaged law god in their circle. He’d ruthlessly used school code against their administrators on more than one occasion. If the feds were here fo
r some reason, Roman would be the one to handle it.
The man chuckled and stepped into the light from the porch. “I’m not with the FBI, but I find it interesting that your mind went there. Any second guesses?”
If the man was carrying a gun, his tailor was impeccable because Connor couldn’t detect the line of the man’s holster under his clothes.
“FTC?” With really rich people, it was always a risk. The Federal Trade Commission watched over stock transactions, and he wouldn’t put it past them to come after any of his friends’ parents. “I would say IRS, but the shoes are too nice.”
He recognized the Ferragamos. They were the same style Dax wore when meeting his parents for brunch. Most IRS officials couldn’t afford thousand-dollar shoes. Mrs. Spencer had bought Connor a pair and some proper clothes when she realized all Connor had was his school uniform, some worn jeans, and a few T-shirts. After that first year, the woman had always invited him to shop for clothes with Dax. He’d felt bad about the expense until he realized how genuinely happy she was seeing to his well-being. He was going to miss her, too.
“Interesting observation for a boy whose mom was a trailer park whore.”
A chill went up Connor’s spine. “Or maybe you’re nothing but a sleazy reporter. I think I’ll call the cops and let them sort it out.”
The man put up a hand. “I’m sorry. That was harsh. And you won’t call the cops. That’s not incense I smell. I’m afraid I’ve spent so much time in the field, I’ve lost all conversational finesse. I’m not a reporter. But I’ll get to who I represent in a minute.”
“You’re here for me.” He quickly reassessed the situation. College recruiter? For lacrosse? Any university that wanted him for their team would have contacted him long ago. He’d attended Creighton on a lacrosse scholarship, but he hadn’t been good enough for the Yale team. “For the record, she wasn’t a whore. My mother never accepted money for spreading her legs. Get it right. She was our trailer park’s resident skank and full-time waitress at a greasy truck stop. What college do you work for?”
“I’m not with Yale and I suspect that would be a problem for you.”
He shrugged. “I’m keeping my options open.”
The man in the suit chuckled and leaned against the railing. “You’re going to play it that way, huh? I know about your issues. I know the scholarship Yale offered you isn’t enough. How much would you have to borrow?”
“Eighty grand.” More if he went to grad school. And the truth was he didn’t even know what he wanted to do.
“Ask Crawford out there for it. He won’t miss the money. He came into his trust this year, right? Five hundred million, if I recall. He would write you a check and never miss a penny.” The man was starting to sound a little like Mephistopheles, whispering his devil’s bargains.
Connor had already discarded the idea. He knew what he was going to do, what he had to do. “Why are you so interested? Because I suspect you’re not from a university. So what do you want?”
“Universities aren’t the only institutions who recruit young people such as yourself. I represent a group with a singular interest in finding the smartest young men and women, people who possess both brilliant minds and a certain flexibility in their moral character. I need a young man like you who loves his country enough to sacrifice for it.”
Since when did the military send out recruiters? “You’re too late. I’m scheduled to see a Navy recruiter on Monday. I’ll be at RTC in Great Lakes the week after that.”
He’d picked the Navy because Dax would be there in a couple of years. Yes, he would be enlisted and Dax would be on the officer track, but he felt better knowing they would be in it together in some small way.
The man sighed. “I’m well aware of your meeting. Might I say that would be a waste of your talents, Connor? And I also believe you’ll end up in the same place, just years later.”
“And what place would that be?”
“Oh, I would rather you used that brain of yours to tell me.”
What could he be talking about? Almost none of the big law enforcement agencies recruited directly out of high school. College was another matter.
He hadn’t had any run-ins with the law, hadn’t gotten caught doing anything he shouldn’t. The only thing he’d ever done that might attract the attention of law enforcement was to send in his assessment that the terrorist groups Jamaat al-Fuqra, Gama’a al-Islamiya, Hamas, Islamic Jihad, and the National Islamic Front had put aside their differences and were working together to find a soft target in the U.S. He’d gotten involved in a group that tracked conspiracy theories. When he’d joined, they’d been all about the Kennedy assassination and alien cover-ups, but he’d whipped them into shape. They were smart and had simply needed a proper outlet. They’d combed papers and talked to people and come up with a conspiracy of their own.
He’d sent his predictions to the CIA but never heard back. Three weeks later, the World Trade Center had been attacked, killing six and injuring a thousand after a truck bomb had been detonated under the North Tower.
“So Langley finally read my report and figured out I was right?”
A smile split the man’s face. “Oh, I read your report—after the attack, of course. You were right. What kind of high school kid follows terrorist groups?”
A perverse one. He knew a bunch of kids who were fascinated by serial killers. He’d always wanted to know what made a man do something crazy like strap on a bomb and walk into a crowded plaza. “It’s a hobby.”
“I’m afraid when we received your report, someone tossed it aside in the ‘kook’ pile. After we pulled it out and dissected it, your conclusions were so spot-on that a faction within my group assumed you were involved in the attack, even though we’d already prosecuted four of the perpetrators and were pursuing two others. They wanted to question you, but I got one of my tingles.”
“Sounds like you need a shot of penicillin, buddy.” Connor didn’t like the feeling he was getting. Why would the CIA come out here? Why not give him a call? Why wait over a year to question him?
The man chuckled again. “I’m talking about instincts not STDs, but I enjoy your sarcasm. The Navy won’t. I’ve been studying you and I’ve decided you have exactly what it takes to be an operative.”
“So you’re not here to accuse me of working with terrorist groups? Because I’m not. I follow them. I believe they’re beginning to get sophisticated. There’s this new thing. The Internet. I know DARPA has had it for years.”
“Yes, you know that because you managed to hack into the system. You’re the reason they’re developing security to protect themselves. By next year, the Internet will be fully commercialized, and we need a new wave of operatives. You understand that communications is changing. The way we listen is changing, and analysis just got interesting. So you can join up and do the Navy thing for a couple of years, or you can let me pay your way to Yale. You’ll get a degree in communications with a minor in world politics.”
“Ivory-tower professors know nothing about real world politics,” Connor said with a huff, but his brain was working overtime.
“No, they do not, son. But a degree from such an esteemed establishment looks good on paper and will help you rise through the ranks.” He smiled. “You’re going to be a spectacular find. What do you say? While you’re getting the degree I mentioned, you’ll also begin a physical training program that will teach you everything you need to know to survive in the field. In exchange, you’ll receive tuition and books, along with room and board. If you live up to your end of the bargain and join the Agency, you’ll receive some information your mother has withheld that might lead to a turn in your financial fortunes.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Secrets, son. Information is power. Power can be turned into money. If you say yes, I can promise you you’ll never worry about money again. And it will be so much fun helping you get your hands on it. You’ll find I never do merely one job when I can
do two.”
The door opened, and Roman strode out wearing his swimsuit and a dress shirt he hadn’t bothered to button up. He had a girl on either arm and a bottle of tequila dangling from his left hand. “You seen Scooter? I have to make sure he doesn’t spend the entire night studying. We just graduated, damn it. Why does he have to go to freaking summer school?” He straightened up when he saw the man standing there. “Hello, sir. I was just taking this bottle out of the house so none of our underage guests can find it and drink it.”
“Sure you are, Calder. Just make sure no one takes pictures, and don’t talk where someone can record it. And make damn sure Zack Hayes doesn’t inhale.” He turned back to Connor. “Are you in?”
He didn’t get time to decide? What was he thinking? He didn’t need time to decide. He loved Dax, but fuck the Navy. He could be a CIA agent. He could have everything he wanted. “I’m in.”
“I’ll contact you.” The mysterious man in the suit started to walk off, then turned, shaking his head. “And don’t ever tell the story of how you boys came to call Hayes Scooter. It could really hurt the kid’s chances when the presidential elections roll around. By the way, a patrol car was on its way out here to investigate the party, but I think you’ll find the locals will leave you alone for the summer. Consider it my graduation present to you, Connor.”
The agent walked back into the shadows as though he belonged there. Connor realized that he’d never gotten the man’s name.
“Who the hell was that?” Roman asked. “That dude was creepy.”
“I’m pretty sure he was my version of a fairy godmother.”
Roman shook his head. “You’re in a fucked-up fairy tale, brother.” He grinned. “But we’re going to Yale. We’re going to take over the world, aren’t we?”
For the first time since he’d gotten his financial aid offer, Connor smiled. “Yes, we are.”