DARKEST BEFORE THE DAWN

Prologue

The D.C. streets were full of vacationing tourists and government employees just getting off of work, when the sleek silver sports car pulled up in front of an empty office building. Lee Stetson stepped out of the car and onto the pavement. He turned to his partner, before shutting the car door. “Call Billy. Get backup rolling.” Lee drew his gun, his eyes scanning the area carefully. Then he motioned to his associate to get out of the car, and head towards the front door.

“Scarecrow—on your right,” a voice warned him, but it was too late.

There was no mistaking the sound of rounds being fired off, closely followed by the smashing of glass, as bullets hit the car’s windshield. Lee turned back towards the street and scanned the buildings, looking for signs of the gunman. It was all happening so quickly that he didn’t have time to think, time to act, time to do anything.

He was still scanning the area when he heard his partner shout his codename again. On instinct he spun around yelling, “Get back inside the car!” Another loud crack tore through the air and Lee’s eyes went wide with shock as hot metal ripped through the flesh of his back. There was no time to reach out, stopping himself from falling. He collapsed, his head hitting the pavement and then his world went black.

Lee stood next to his wife, Amanda, at Arlington National Cemetery. In front of them was a flagged draped coffin. Amanda looked sad, and his heart ached for her. Her face tear streaked, as she held on tight to their six-month-old daughter. He turned to see his two stepsons standing with their grandmother between them, holding onto her. She too had been weeping openly. Billy, Francine and the Colonel were there also. Lee looked around trying to figure out whose funeral they were all attending. He reached out to take hold of his wife’s hand, to reassure her that everything was going to be all right, but grasped nothing. ‘What’s going on?’ he thought, looking around. He shook his head. No. No. He would not believe this was his funeral. The crack of seven rifles firing into the air broke him from his reverie. Then again he was a man on a mission. He stepped forward to look at the temporary nameplate on the stake, pushed into the soft ground. ‘Lee Stetson’ it read. He stepped back, and once more shook his head, as the seven rifles fired again and again. He shouted, “Nooooooo!”