Prologue, Quinault Indian Nation, Washington State, Pacific Coast, present day.

The pistol in Chris Walker's hand felt heavier than he remembered. The 1911 was as familiar to him as the tendons that moved his fingers, an extension of training and instinct.

But this evening the steel felt colder, the grip rougher.

Combat altered the senses, elevated them.

It sharpened sight, amplified sound, magnified scent, ancient survival mechanisms etched into the human genome.

But that was the kinetic kind.

In that type of fight, muscles moved before the mind caught up.

This was a different battle, one that required thought.

And with that thought came the weight.

Sitting on the rear built-in sofa of his customized 84 Volkswagen Westphalia Vanagan,

parked on a bluff in the rain overlooking the rough waters of the Pacific,

Walker pressed the cold steel of the 1911's barrel to his temple.

This was the edge of the abyss, and Walker's senses were in hyperdrive.

The round Navy Chelsea clock bolted above the bookshelf, ticked with surgical precision.

He had salvaged it during a wreck dive off Algeria with a few buddies from his first bolted above the bookshelf, ticked with surgical precision.

He had salvaged it during a wreck dive off Algeria with a few buddies from his first seal

platoon and had it restored by a Swiss watchmaker who had once repaired timepieces for

submariners.

Now it clacked like a metronome.

A steady drip from the cedar bough over the van's roof snapped like a snare drum.

Rain lashed the side windows in gusts, the hiss of symbols in a storm-borne symphony.

Beneath it all, the ocean's bass drum rolled, deep, patient, eternal. If he weren't about to end his life, Walker

...