Vengeance: A Derek Stillwater Novel (Derek Stillwater Thrillers Book 8) by Mark Terry Page A

haven’t proved it yet, but there have been a number of bombing attempts on the Baku-Tbilisi-Ceyhan and Druz oil pipelines in Azerbaijan. We think the Nazif Brigade may be involved. No proof, but we think so.”
    “That explains many things,” Chaayadev murmured.
    Derek shot him a questioning look. The Syrian expert said, “Many European and Middle Eastern countries have offered to pay the United States to intervene militarily in Syria. That’s somewhat unusual, but Syria not only has promising gas fields around Homs, but it’s an important energy transit route to Europe. There was talk of a gas pipeline through Syria that would run from Qatar to Turkey and the Mediterranean. From here, all over Europe.”
    “It always come back to oil,” Derek muttered.
    They talked a while longer, then Derek left, promising to return the next morning and produce an image of Sheikh Hussein Nazif. Meanwhile, he had a little boy to take to the zoo.

16
    Derek spent most of the flight back to the U.S. working on a report for Mandalevo. He slept for a while, but woke up gasping for air, heart racing, drenched in sweat. The flight attendant bent over him. “Sir, are you all right?”
    Clutching the armrest, he struggled to catch his breath. “Water,” he croaked.
    She returned quickly with a bottle of water. Twisting it open, he knocked back a swallow, closing his eyes and visualized performing a tai chi form. Over the years he had studied a lot of different martial arts and received his black belt in several of them. Tai chi wasn’t one of them, but he found the movements relaxing. Concentrating on the movements and focusing on the controlled breathing slowly brought his panic attack under control.
    “Fear of flying?” the flight attendant asked. She was a middle-aged blonde, probably in her fifties, and seemed concerned, but not necessarily worried.
    “Not exactly,” he said. “I’m fine. Sorry about that.”
    “If you need anything, let me know.”
    “Sure.”
    The heavy-set man sitting next to him slept through the entire thing.
    Derek reflected that his panic attacks were more frequent these days. He had been having them for years. The first one had occurred in Afghanistan more than twenty years ago. The typical triggers were starting an operation. Once he was in motion, he was usually fine. Sometimes he thought of them as stage fright. He freaked out, got it out of the way, then he was okay.
    But since Syria he had experienced some sort of attack almost every day.
    He drifted off again and woke up as they descending into Dulles.

    Home was a sixty-foot CrissCraft Constellation moored at Bayman’s Marina near Baltimore. As he was unlocking the door to the cabin, one of his neighbors, a woman with the unlikely name of Misty Rivers, popped up and waved hello. Misty was about sixty years old, looked in her forties, and when she wasn’t on her boat, spent her free time doing CrossFit competitions. She was a retired economist who’d done something esoteric for the Commerce Department and apparently used her education to invest wisely.
    “How are you, Misty?”
    “Good. Where were you this time?” She knew he worked sometimes for Homeland Security or for the State Department and that he traveled a lot. When she had questioned him about his job, he’d said he was a troubleshooter, which was, in fact, his job title at Homeland. He didn’t really have a job title at State because he was technically on loan to them, although he supposed troubleshooter was as good a title as any.
    “Turkey,” he said. “Then Russia to see Lev.”
    “How is he?”
    “Growing.”
    “You’ll have to come over soon and tell me all about it.”
    “I’d like that.”
    “Dinner tonight?”
    Derek hesitated. Misty was older than he was by quite a bit, although she was about the fittest, sexiest sixty-year-old woman he’d ever seen. He also knew that Misty was interested in getting him into the sack. “I just flew in from Moscow and I’m