As Nathan starts to investigate on his own time he becomes involved in the life of a young homeless woman, who is somehow connected with each of the supposed victims. But then his basketball skills and street smarts earn him a dangerous undercover assignment, stalking an elusive crime lord, the Titan. As he juggles the two cases and risks blowing his cover, unresolved memories from his own childhood surface, and the intertwining of lives takes on a surprising -- and deadly -- intricacy.

Jim Rees is a financial executive in New York City.

EXCERPT FROM JIM REES' SILENT ASSASSINS

CHAPTER THREE

Monday morning, when I arrived at the Bureau, Jerry was waiting. "Let's have a standing ovation for the guy who missed the big shot," he said, rising up from behind his desk to lead the other agents in mocking applause.

Miss Hall, a lifetime Bureau clerk who still kept a picture of legendary FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover on her desk over ten years after his death, rushed up and took hold of my hand. Having no children of her own, her matronly tendencies were expended on the young men who worked in the New York field office.

"Nathan, ignore them. Is your ankle okay?" she asked.

"I'm fine, Miss Hall."

"Let me help you to your desk," she offered, furiously patting my hand as she escorted me to my seat.

"There, all set. I'll get you some coffee."

The laughter boomed across the floor once Miss Hall exited into the hallway. Only one agent, Larry Rosen, seemed unamused by my predicament.

Jerry approached my desk. "How do you feel?"

"Fine. Thank you for embarrassing the shit out of me."

"No problem," he replied, giving me a playful pat on the back.

"How did your Saturday evening go?" I asked.

He stuck his finger into his throat. "It was brutal. I called you to tell you to beep me and say something was up, but you didn't answer the phone. My brother-in-law wouldn't shut up. When he went to the bathroom I called you, it was my only chance. The guy was chattering at me all night, talking about Wall Street, how the market's about to turn because the Republicans are back in office. He absolutely loves Reagan, supply-side economics and Laffer curves. He spent eight hours telling me I better get invested in stocks. We've got interest rates over 10 percent, oil up, gold gyrating every day, and I'm supposed to be in stocks? Do I look that stupid?" he finished, looking at me for some kind of answer.

"My money, what little there is, is in a CD at Manufacturers Hanover Trust. I don't own any gold, stock, or oil. What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know," he said, waving his hand in the air to dismiss my weak response. "I have no tolerance for an idiot talking about finance. The country will be in trouble if the masses ever start believing stockbrokers. Where were you, anyway?"

"I went out for a walk. My dad called and told me an old friend died."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that, Nathan," Jerry replied soberly.

"We were friends a long time ago."

"Close?"

"No, not really. I think the thing that makes it bad is the memories of when we were kids. He turned into a junkie. Putting the lid on the coffin only makes official what's already been the case for years."

Miss Hall returned and placed a cup of coffee on my desk. "Feel better, dear."

"Thank you, Miss Hall."

"You take better care of him," she instructed Jerry, waving her finger at him before scurrying back to her desk.

Jerry smiled. "I sure will."

"What's the matter with Rosen?" I asked, indicating our colleague who sat despondent at his desk.

"It was his twenty-fifth wedding anniversary yesterday."

"That sounds like a reason to be happy."

Jerry shook his head. "He didn't get the letter from the Director. He says it's a sign the Bureau is deteriorating when it fails to recognize major life events. It's not the same for the old-timers without Hoover -- the family feel fades more each year."

"It's a form letter. Hoover never signed it -- they stamped it somewhere in a back room. Who cares?"

Jerry wagged his finger at me. "For shame! Young upstarts like you are part of the problem. The Bureau was built on attention to detail. These little gestures are the foundation of the camaraderie we enjoy. It makes us feel special." He concluded his sermon with a sarcastic grin to drive his point home. He respected the Bureau and loved his work, but he thought some people took it a bit too far. It was a job, it wasn't his life.

"You're just a pleasure this morning. Maybe I'll have Miss Hall type up a letter and tell him it was put in my mailbox by mistake."

"It wouldn't matter. The letter has to be on the desk when you come in, otherwise you've been forgotten."

"What does it matter, so long as he gets it?"

Jerry put his face down next to mine. "Look at him." I turned my head away. "Come on, look. He's an old-timer. To the old guys it matters. Rosen is the prototype, he's the common guy that built this agency. Look at that twenty-year service key proudly framed on his desk. You and I paid for that key with our donations to the FBI Recreation Fund -- your two-dollar contribution hard at work. His life is the Bureau. Rosen probably doesn't even like his wife. You know the old-timers, think back to your buddy in Philadelphia."

"Simmons!" The shout came from across the room. Our supervisor, Patty Reston, stood, arms akimbo, awaiting Jerry's arrival in her office.

Jerry glanced down at his watch. "I gotta go see Patty. I'll be back in twenty. You think about Philly -- Rosen's a carbon copy of your friend."

Philadelphia was my first FBI assignment upon graduation from Quantico. I still remember the exhilaration I felt that first day. The only person more excited was my father. In the 1970's, he'd watched The FBI television series religiously every week. He was mesmerized by the glamorous, Hollywood-enhanced adventures of Inspector Erskine. Thanks to the series and my own grandfather's stories about how the Bureau had descended on Louisiana in the 1920's to restore order to a state being terrorized by the Ku Klux Klan, I don't think there was an institution my father held in higher regard.

In my grandfather's day, the FBI was simply the Bureau of Investigation, a young branch of the government with an ill-defined organization, lacking coordination, in search of leadership. Sixty years later, J. Edgar Hoover's child was the most powerful law enforcement agency in the land, and Nathan Johnson -- the grandson of a man who once had agents come extinguish a burning cross on his front lawn -- was a part of it. Ironically, my partner in Philly, Gilbert Nye Brewer, was a southern boy whose grandfather may very well have put that cross on my Pop-Pop's lawn.

Gilbert was the quintessential agent, bred in a small Arkansas town. The product of middle-class parents, he had received a solid education, spent two years in local law enforcement and landed in the Bureau during one of its expansion phases. When I met him, he lived in the suburb of Bala Cynwyd with his wife and two children. Gil was extremely civic-minded, and most of our conversations centered on the Kiwanis Club or Little League baseball. In his eyes, he lived the perfect life.

The only thing Gilbert seemed unhappy about in life was his partner. He was curt in response to my questions, rarely asked my opinion, and gave me the distinct feeling that I was a constant burden. I found his attitude discouraging, but remembered the last lecture I had attended at Quantico. The speaker advised my class not to be overly eager with the veterans, just to be patient. Gilbert had twelve years experience on the front lines, and in deference to his seniority I kept my mouth shut. My sole intention was to learn as much as I could from him and move on.

Three weeks into our partnership, Gilbert received a tip that one of the Bureau's most wanted criminals was hiding at an apartment in North Philadelphia. Although skeptical of his source, Gilbert knew we should check it out. At 10:00 am we arrived at the back of the building. Though Gilbert was dubious, as we started up the stairs of the building, my pulse quickened and a tightening apprehension built in my chest. I consciously forced myself to take deep breaths.

"Relax," Gilbert commanded.

When we reached the door to the apartment Gilbert stood on the side with the knob and motioned me to stand opposite him. As he reached to turn the knob, another door down the hall flew open and shots filled the corridor. Gilbert's body lurched forward, blood gushing from his right shoulder. The fugitive turned and ran toward the stairs.

"Go after him!" Gilbert screamed, his good arm reaching for his radio.

I looked down at Gilbert. "What about --"

"Go!" he ordered.

I started after Gilbert's assailant. I held my gun so tightly that my pulse throbbed in my palm. When I reached the bottom of the stairs, twenty yards separated me from the shooter. I raced after him, closing the distance to fifteen yards when the fugitive veered into an alley. I turned the corner and was greeted by a bullet that danced angrily at my feet. I took cover behind a dumpster.

For several minutes there was silence. I struggled to calm my shaking hands. I carefully checked my gun to make sure all the chambers were loaded. I tried to remember how many shots the assailant had fired in the hallway -- three, possibly four. I needed to provoke gunfire. I grabbed a trash bag that sat by my knee and flipped it out from behind the dumpster. As soon as it left my hand the bag exploded, sending its contents back toward me in a violent spray. My clothes were covered with garbage discarded from a restaurant during the past week. The putrid stench of rotting food made me gag. I wiped my mouth, steadied myself with a breath, and tried to push the smell aside.

After several minutes, I gingerly peered from behind the dumpster. The fugitive stood at end of the alley. He was looking up at the chain link fence, gauging his chances at freedom. In a quick burst he leaped from the ground and started to climb, gun in hand. With a loud crash the gun retraced the twenty feet the man had gained. He looked down at his weapon, then continued up. I approached cautiously, realizing the barbed wire atop the fence was an ally. Once he was slashed, all hope of escape evaporated. He looked down over his shoulder directly into my 9-millimeter pistol.

"Start down, slowly."

I kept my pistol focused on him until he disengaged himself and came to the ground.

"Lie down on the ground, hands on your back."

I snapped the handcuffs into place and lifted the fugitive to his feet. It was my first arrest and my last day with Gilbert. The injury he'd sustained in the shooting limited the mobility of his right arm and ended his term of active duty. Just like that, Gilbert's career in the field was over.

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