Sabrina Logan’s rental home, four days later

Reena leaned back in her chair, steepled her fingers behind her head and closed her eyes on a tired sigh.

She had spent that first night after her rescue at the hospital. Her brother had bullied her, the doctor had ordered, the nurses had begged for mercy, and she had stayed for observation. Ligature bruises on her wrists and legs had been tended to, the large-egg-sized bump on the back of her neck had yielded under ice, her headache had subsided thanks to medication and a good, long sleep.

In the morning, back in her own home, she’d finally been able to check out Wo Fat’s computer, only to have to call a halt to her attempts thanks to the booby traps it was equipped with. She couldn’t poke around freely without possibly compromising the data. It was rigged to purge all files with merely one wrong step.

She needed help and she knew just who to call. Elton Cook, her former partner. She had been more than ready to board a plane and carry the previous cargo to Maryland, but he’d beat her to it, announcing his imminent departure for Hawaii. She guessed he had been unable to resist the temptation of working on such a heavily booby-trapped computer.

It had taken them three days, but with some precious help from one of Elton’s little gadgets, they’d made it. It had been long and arduous work, giving them plenty of time to talk about what had happened in their lives since their last lunch together, though they’d refrained from delving into their love-lives, though neither of them had one to speak of. And, of course, play Texas Hold’Em. It had been like old times.

And they’d cracked the protective encryption algorithms on Wo Fat’s computer. The government agencies could take lessons from the guy, but they’d made it. Along with Bernice’s help. Bernice being Elton’s precious little gadget that had worked her great magic in breaking the heaviest of encryptions without making a single wrong move. God bless modern technology. And computer geeks with enough time and funding on their hands to build such miracle-working toys.

Reena opened her eyes, rubbed them, straightened in her chair, and narrowed her gaze at the data on the screen in front of her.

There were detailed information on all Wo Fat’s operations—extortion, drug- and weapon-trafficking, murder for hire, espionage, trading in government secrets, infiltration of government agencies around the world, even industrial espionage. You name it, he had had his fingers in it.

But what interested her the most was a single file, buried deep in the bowels of the massive hard-drive. Numerically labeled. Nothing suspicious. If it weren’t for the double encryption hiding its contents from unauthorized eyes.

As soon as she’d seen the file, her spidey sense had tingled. And her gut had been right. That was the most important file of all. At least for her. And for a certain ex-Navy SEAL who’s been MIA for four days. No one knew where he was, except for the fact he’s requested a few days of personal time. No wonder. The USS Enterprise was once more docked in Pearl Harbor.

Reena firmly shut the lid on that thought. What he did in his down-time, and who he did it with, was not important. It was what was in that inconspicuously labeled file that was important. All the pertinent, and not so pertinent, information on John McGarrett, his investigation into the Yakuza and Hiro Noshimuri, Doris McGarrett’s murder, the investigation of Pat Jameson and her ties to the Yakuza, his son and his daughter, including Mary’s relationship with a certain Marcus Hawthorne.

The investigation into the Yakuza chapter in Hawaii, led by Hiro Noshimuri had started the downfall for John McGarrett and his family. He had gotten too close eighteen years ago, connecting the dots, the lines leading him into the heart of the police department, all the way to the top, even, so they’d decided to shut him up. His wife had gotten the brunt of their anger, driving her husband’s car that fateful day. To protect his children, John McGarrett had shipped Steve and Mary to the mainland, but the Yakuza had never let either of them out of their sight.

Five years ago, John McGarrett had once more become a big blip on the radar, when he’d joined forces with the late Governor Pat Jameson and the Yakuza chapter in the South Pacific in their quest of obtaining a classified government project. It had soon become apparent, John hadn’t been in for the money, but for the connections, his suspicions and doubts growing, until last year he’d finally had enough evidence to attempt and tie the governor and her special branch of ex-cops to the Yakuza.

The rest was history.

But something else stood out in the hefty file on the McGarrett family. A name that appeared in the latest additions, starting from five years ago, with the apparent enrollment of John McGarrett into the Yakuza. CSS Special Agent Sabrina Logan.

The developer of the program they’d coveted. And then girlfriend to Navy Lieutenant Commander Steven J. McGarrett. There was her entire history, from her first breath, the death of her mother, her stint in the system, her schooling, her employment history, her familial ties...The bastard had known everything from the very beginning.

But in the end he hadn’t gotten what he wanted. The program. Nor his revenge. She smiled grimly, cracked her knuckles, and started typing.




A few hours later, she had a report for the US Attorney’s office and IA, listing the data on Pat Jameson, her connection to the Yakuza, Hiro Noshimuri and his connection to the police department, Frank Delano and his motley crew of dirty cops, leaving out John McGarrett’s involvement. The man was dead, what was the point in poking around in the shady area of his less-than-legal investigations.

She pulled the file on Wo Fat’s extra-curricular activities around the globe. The information on cover organizations, the moles in government agencies, bank account numbers, and all other pertinent data needed to put an end to their dealings was sent to four different names in her contact list, four different countries, four different security agencies. She’d leave it to them to clean house.

Then she wrote a long-overdue email to the DHS director, grinned as she pressed the ‘Send’ button, booted down her computer, and grabbed the report she’d printed for the US Attorney. She had an appointment in her office early the next morning. Her work would be over and she could finally leave.

As she stood, a white envelope fell from her desk. She picked it up, running her thumb over the thick paper. Marcus had delivered it personally two days ago, while she, Elton, and Bernice had still been busy cracking Wo Fat’s encryption.

It looked like a wedding invitation, but in fact it was an invitation for a different kind of event. A party—Marc had called it a ball, a ball in this day and age!—his PR people kept insisting he should throw after being in office for more than three months without a single press-related event beside his inauguration press-conference.

Not that there would be many members of the press in attendance, he’d claimed. Just a few, selected ones. And all the people he wanted to invite. She was one of them.

She had refused, he’d cajoled, offering to be her date. She’d told him she had nothing appropriate to wear, he’d offered to buy her a gown. She’d refused again, and he’d refused to listen to reason. She’d called him an ass, he’d retaliated with calling her a stubborn, blind fool.

She’d booted him out of her house and they haven’t spoken since. She had no idea whether that was a good thing or not. So, just to be on the safe side, she’d tried to book a seat on a Friday evening flight. No luck. The earliest she could leave was on Saturday morning.

So be it.

She dropped the envelope in her waste paper basket, and turned off the light in her den. It was time to get back to her book.