{"product_id":"w-e-b-griffin-direct-action-isbn-9798217046386","title":"W. E. B. Griffin Direct Action","description":"\u003cb\u003eWhen the original Presidential Agent is gunned down during a mass shooting, Pick McCoy swears a brutal revenge in this revival of W. E. B. Griffin's \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling series.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCharley Castillo, the original Presidential Agent is in Virginia Beach to visit his son when two gunmen appear. Charley is able to thwart a deadly mass shooting, but he is hit and badly injured. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMeanwhile Pick McCoy is at the Naval Academy catching up with some old friends. When the news of the attack reaches him, he senses that this is no random event. While Charley clings to life, Pick searches for the men responsible and in the process uncovers a deadly plot that threatens to strike deep at the heart of American democracy.\u003cb\u003eW. E. B. Griffin \u003c\/b\u003ewas the author of seven bestselling series: The Corps, Brotherhood of War, Badge of Honor, Men at War, Honor Bound, Presidential Agent, and Clandestine Operations. He passed away in February 2019\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eJack Stewart \u003c\/b\u003egrew up in Seattle, Washington and graduated from the U.S. Naval Academy before serving twenty-three years as a fighter pilot. During that time, he flew combat missions from three different aircraft carriers and deployed to Afghanistan as a member of an Air Force Tactical Air Control Party. His last deployment was with a joint special operations counter-terrorism task force in Africa. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJack is a graduate of the U.S. Navy Fighter Weapons School (TOPGUN) and holds a Master of Science in Global Leadership from the University of San Diego. He is an airline pilot and has appeared as a military and commercial aviation expert on international cable news. He lives in Dallas, Texas with his wife and three children.I\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e[ ONE ]\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Shack on 8th\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e712 Atlantic Avenue\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eVirginia Beach, Virginia\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e1145 29 March 2026\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eU.S. Army Colonel C.G. Castillo (retired) sat in the driver's seat of the rental Chevrolet Suburban-far more car than he really needed-and looked up through the open sunroof into the clear blue skies overhead. He had made good time on the drive down from Washington, D.C., and was enjoying a few moments of peace in the cool ocean breeze from the top floor of the parking garage.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn truth, he was just dragging his feet. He could have taken a nonstop flight from Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport and already been in Tampa, but instead he elected to make a detour. He had been putting this off for far too long already, and the four-hour drive was just the thing he needed to clear his mind before he said what he came to say.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf he even listens to me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA flash of gray against the backdrop of blue caught his attention, and he shifted in his seat to sight in on a pair of Navy fighter jets racing low across the beach on their way to Naval Air Station Oceana, two miles away. Even with their throttles pulled back, Castillo still felt their exhaust notes resonating through the SUV and heard more than one car alarm triggered by the jet noise.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt's the sound of freedom, right?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe glanced at his watch, then opened the driver's door and dropped down onto the concrete. Had it been later in the afternoon in the summer, each spot would have probably already been claimed by beachgoers and barhoppers. But before noon on a Sunday in March? He had the place to himself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCastillo walked to the waist-high wall and leaned over, looking down on the alley separating the garage from The Shack-\"an oasis,\" as its website proclaimed, \"smack-dab in the middle of the Virginia Beach oceanfront.\" Their menu boasted typical mid-Atlantic offerings of salmon, crab cakes, yellowfin tuna, and shrimp. But Castillo hadn't come for seafood or lawn games. He turned away from the wall and headed for the stairs.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis muscles and joints ached, as much from the havoc wreaked on his fifty-seven-year-old body by the four-hour car drive as from all the running and gunning he had done in the Sudan, trying to keep up with a man almost half his age. He had done it. But his body had paid the price.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen again, Pick was far from an average thirty-year-old. The legacy Marine was a MARSOC Raider and next up to replace Castillo. But, as he had told Marty Fleiss the day before, the kid simply wasn't ready to be the Presidential Agent-yet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCastillo reached the alley at street level and turned right, making for The Shack's main entrance on Atlantic Avenue. He was there to meet with another kid-one Castillo wasn't sure would even show-but just being there after decades of being absent had to count for something, right?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOut of habit, he pressed his arm against his side and felt for the comforting heft of his full-sized 1911 pistol concealed in a shoulder holster under his travel shirt-thankful that the state of Virginia recognized his Texas resident concealed carry license. But even if that weren't the case, Castillo still had a letter from the President of the United States in his back pocket attesting to the fact that he was \"operating on a mission of vital national importance with grave consequences.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNot that he planned on needing it, but he was glad he had it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI probably should've given the letter back to Marty.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTraffic was sparse on Atlantic Avenue when Castillo exited the alley, but he still caught himself scanning the cars and pedestrians as if he were on the streets of Baghdad or Khartoum. Not the military-heavy region of the Hampton Roads. But living on the front lines of America's war against terror for so long had left a bad taste in his mouth.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCastillo was still half a block from The Shack's main entrance when the well-honed hairs on the back of his neck bristled and brought him up short. Castillo's confident gait halted, and he squinted through rays of late-morning sunlight at two young men standing in an alcove across the street.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWho are these guys?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey had light skin and sandy hair, and appeared to be of Eurasian ethnicity. But that in itself didn't trigger any internal alarms. Still, something about them seemed off. He had almost dismissed it as overworked paranoia-a hangover from his past week spent in the Sudan-but then a gust of cool wind cut through his thin shirt, and his skin broke out in gooseflesh.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJackets. Why are both men wearing jackets?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLate March wasn't overly warm in Virginia Beach, but it definitely wasn't cold enough to require heavy work coats that were bulging and appeared to be concealing several layers of clothing underneath. Castillo had long since learned to pay attention to the mundane and seemingly inconsequential details when something didn't smell right. And the two men across the street did not smell right to Castillo. Not right at all.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSee something, say something. That's what they always say, Charley.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCastillo gritted his teeth, looked both ways, then stepped out into the street while slipping his hand through the flap in his loose-fitting shirt, preparing to draw his pistol. Though he didn't relish the idea. No matter what kind of letter he carried in his pocket-or who it was from-it would take a lot more than that to keep him out of jail if bullets started flying and people got hurt. But he couldn't just sit on the sidelines and do nothing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRecognizing he was succumbing to tunnel vision, Castillo forced himself to widen the aperture on his situational awareness. He scanned along the street in both directions, searching for a law enforcement presence or innocent bystanders who might be caught in a potential crossfire. Looking over his left shoulder-past the entrance to The Shack-he saw a trim, dark-haired young man being led by a large dog on its leash.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCastillo froze.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMax?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe recognized the rough-coated appearance of a Bouvier des Flandres but knew that the grayish-black dog couldn't have been his longtime companion. His Max-the dog that had stood by his side through the worst moments of his life-was buried in a serene patch of land on his family's ranch outside Uvalde, Texas. Not alive and well here in Virginia Beach.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat's not Max. But he sure looks like him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe glanced up into the eyes of the young man holding Not-Max's leash and saw a flash of recognition there. Then the eyes quickly darkened with something else. Anger? Hurt? Betrayal?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBefore Castillo could process the emotion, movement out of the corner of his eye drew his attention back to the pair of young men he had seen standing in the shadows of the beachfront hotel's entrance. All thoughts of a cold beer over lunch at The Shack were forgotten in a blink when they threw open their jackets and revealed M16 assault rifles slung tightly across tactical vests that were adorned with several spare magazines.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOh, shit!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Charley!\" a man's voice cried out.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCastillo recognized it, but he was already yanking the pistol free from its shoulder holster and presenting it to the first target. There was no time to let disbelief stay his hand, and he pressed back on the trigger as the Novak front sight post settled on center mass.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe handgun barked, but he barely noticed the powerful .45 ACP recoil. He let the trigger reset as the sights settled, then pressed back again and sent another jacketed hollow-point into the gunman.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEven as his target fell backward, Castillo's heart sank when he realized that the sharp staccato of automatic gunfire raking the beachfront appeared to be coming from multiple directions. In the distance, he could hear shrill screams and shouts of alarm echoing over the deep thumping of blood pulsing in his brain. But he tuned it out while shifting his aim to the second gunman. Before his sights had settled, he pressed back on the trigger a third time, already knowing he had rushed his shot.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe man spun and leveled the rifle on Castillo just as he pressed back on the trigger again. But this time, his aim was true. The man's head snapped back and showered the air behind him in red.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTwo tangos down.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs he had been trained, Castillo drew his pistol in close to his body and scanned left and right for additional threats. He knew more than one amped-up police officer had reholstered his service weapon too soon after engaging a threat and paid for the mistake with his life. Castillo wasn't about to do the same.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Charley!\" the man's voice cried out again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCastillo hesitated. From over his shoulder, he heard the stomping of feet of somebody running toward him at full speed, and he spun to see the dog's owner with a stricken look on his face.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Stay back, Randy! There might be-\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA searing pain slammed into his upper back and spun him around like a dervish, knocking him off balance. He gritted his teeth and pushed the pistol outward with one hand, straining to find the shooter before it was too late.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Behind you!\" Randy yelled.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDisoriented and confused, Castillo pivoted and saw two new shooters, similarly dressed, racing from the hotel. He whipped his pistol up in their direction and squeezed the trigger as fast as he could, hoping for just one of his rushed shots to find its mark. But the dark-clad men continued running at him, spitting fire from their rifles.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAgain, something slammed into Castillo, and he staggered. He opened his mouth to shout another warning for Randy to run, but nothing came out. Fear gripped him when he realized he couldn't breathe, and he collapsed to his knees, struggling to keep his pistol pointed up at the shooters. The sound of gunfire was quickly drowned out by the rhythmic beating of his heart and the muffled shouts of men surrounding him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCastillo toppled forward to the ground and rolled onto his side, looking down the street in disbelief as dozens of dark-clad shooters fired indiscriminately into crowded stores and restaurants. But his vision blurred and his horrific view of what was sure to become a mass casualty event began to dim. He tried lifting his custom 1911 to stay in the fight, but his strength was gone. He was done.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHow many died here today?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis eyes closed as the sounds of gunfire and screams faded into silence.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIs this how I'm to be reunited with my Svetlana?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e[ TWO ]\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eScott Natatorium\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eU.S. Naval Academy\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnnapolis, Maryland\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e1230 29 March 2026\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUnited States Marine Captain P.K. McCoy Jr. stood tall with his back to the room, a sly grin hidden underneath his bushy auburn beard. It had been almost ten years since he'd stood there with his classmates-almost in the exact same spot in the coach's office-and added his own bobblehead to the coach's obscenely large and unusual collection. He reached up and flicked miniature Second Lieutenant McCoy's white dress cap and chuckled when his head began to bob.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Pick!\" a voice called out.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe spun and saw Coach Luis Nicolao, a member of the class of 1992, walking into the room with his ruddy complexion and trademark smile plastered on his face.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Hey, coach.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLuis gestured to a pair of chairs arranged in front of his large oak desk. \"Have a seat.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBefore miniature Pick's head had stopped bobbing, the real Pick took his seat across from the all-time leading scorer in Academy history and relaxed in the large armchair. \"I hope I'm not interrupting anything-\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Not at all. We're just getting back from spring break and are putting on a clinic this weekend. You know things aren't very busy around here this time of year. Just gearing up for graduation and the next recruiting season.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePick remembered.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"But I assume you didn't come here just to catch up on the state of Navy water polo.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Actually, I did.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLuis cocked his head and studied his former protégé. \"Uh-huh.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePick laughed. \"Seriously. I was just in the area and thought I'd stop by. Haven't had much time to visit my alma mater since graduating.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe coach ran a hand along his smoothly shaved face and gestured at Pick's exact opposite. \"Well, based on your grooming standards, I'm guessing you've either moved on from the Marine Corps or are in some secret squirrel outfit doing high-speed shit.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePick laughed. \"Something like that.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Seriously, what are you doing now? Married? Kids?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe knew most of his classmates had already settled down and married their ring dance dates or local girls they had met in Pensacola, San Diego, Norfolk, or wherever else the Navy and Marine Corps had sent them after graduation. But he didn't take offense to the question. He knew the coach viewed his former players like family. \"Well . . .\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLuis leaned back in his seat with a sigh. \"That long of a story, huh?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"No, not really. Officially, I'm still in the Marine Corps and based down at Camp Lejeune in North Carolina.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Officially?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePick nodded. \"Officially.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"And unofficially?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePick stroked his beard. \"Now, that story's a little bit longer and not one I think I'm able to get into.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Secret squirrel shit,\" Luis repeated. \"I knew it.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI doubt you'd believe me if I told you.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere was no way he could tell his former coach that he had been yanked from his Raider team in Iraq and brought back to the United States to meet with President Natalie Cohen. No way he could even begin to explain how he had been brought in under the tutelage of a former Army aviator and Green Beret-a West Pointer with a Distinguished Flying Cross, no less. And absolutely no way he could divulge to Luis that he had been on the ground in the Sudan the week before, rescuing Secretary of State Frank Malone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"It doesn't matter,\" Pick said. \"I'm thinking about transferring back to my old unit anyway.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Which is?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"MARSOC. Second Marine Raider Battalion.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLuis craned his neck to look over his shoulder as Moose, his fluffy and charismatic cream-colored Aussiedoodle, plodded into the room and sauntered up to Pick. The coach's dog was a fixture on the pool deck and as much a part of the Navy water polo team as any of the players were. Pick reached down and scratched behind Moose's ears.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Why am I not surprised you became a Raider?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePick saw the humor in his coach's eyes. \"Because you know my family?\"","brand":"G.P. 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