FBI Special Agent Associate Jace Quinn crept through the dewy grass, breath steady, senses on high alert. His night-vision goggles depicted the green form of Case Agent Mark Hennessey leading the team toward a shingle-covered duplex some twenty yards to the right. The swish of FBI windbreakers, creak of leather holsters, and an allergic-sounding sniff from someone bringing up the rear broke the predawn stillness.

At the end of the thick boxwood hedge, Hennessey dropped to a crouch, and Jace and the six other multi-agency personnel swiftly followed.

“You two,” the case agent murmured, pointing to Gibbs and Fontana, “go ’round back. Wait for the all-clear.” They eased away.

Jace press-checked his Glock 26 for the umpteenth time. He was so damn ready for this takedown. The intensive four-month investigation, mired in dead ends and mounting frustration, had finally yielded a suspect: Thomas Bradley. This morning’s arrest warrant would hopefully uncover evidence that Bradley was the mastermind behind the Mosque Mohammed bombings that had killed two hundred and forty-five Muslims last June. The success of this dedicated task force was about to explode across international headlines. Today was for the history books.

“On my signal.” Hennessey’s harsh whisper floated back to the team. As one, they resumed their stooped positions and threaded their way to the edge of the quaint, whitewashed porch. “Go, go, go!”

Hennessey dove to the left of the door, Jace plastered himself opposite, and the four men barreled forward with the battering ram. The boom of impact and the door slamming into the foyer wall exploded the morning silence. Hennessey lunged inside, tossing a couple of flash-bang grenades, and Jace hurtled into the first room on the right. A dining room. “Clear!”

Bootsteps thundered upstairs. Another door was breached, presumably by Rogers and Gonzales, who were assigned the basement. Calls of “clear” echoed rapidly as rooms were systematically secured.

Jace sidestepped into the hall. An overpowering stench cut through the sulfur smoke, one he instantly recognized from his SEAL days. A decaying body. He breathed through his mouth as he cleared the rest of the ground floor—a rote procedure now. No one was here. No one could live with this overwhelming stink. He met Hennessey in the kitchen, who nodded toward the back door. Jace let in Gibbs and Fontana.

“Basement’s secured,” Gonzales yelled from below. “Looks like he was busy making pipe bombs.”

“Upstairs is clear,” Peters called in a strangled voice. “Body in the master.”

The four men in the kitchen traded despondent looks as they lowered their weapons. “Let’s go,” Hennessey muttered, and led the way upward. The stench grew with each step, burning Jace’s eyes, and he spastically swallowed sour saliva. He had to avoid the gruesome sight at all costs. No one but his SEAL Team Three partner, Dirk, had discovered his weenie secret. And Dirk had died in the May blast that started this horrific chain of bombings.