Whoever controls the flow of the money supply, irrespective of whether it is fiat or gold currency, is the one to fear.

The Feds gold-backed currency’s imminent launch triggers more than ruthless protests when Frank Littleton finds an ominous note in his coat pocket. The cryptic message is a warning someone plans to assassinate him. He slips away from his security team to contact the one person he can trust, the head of the FBI Tracker Unit.

For Scott Fleming, the clandestine meeting in the middle of the night leaves him holding a political time bomb. How does he keep the Federal Reserve Chairman, the 2nd most powerful man in the government, from getting killed?

When another bizarre message, along with a baffling set of bank reports is sent to the Tracker office, the urgency to find answers intensifies.

Written in a code used by Navajo Code Talkers in World War II, is the message a communique from the dead? Who sent it? Why are the bank reports important?

A new Tracker agent and financial crimes expert joins forces with an undercover Interpol agent to infiltrate the inner sanctum of the Federal Reserve. The case turns deadly when the agents become the target for an assassin’s bullet.

Stalked by a killer, can they survive to stop the assassination and prevent a global financial cataclysm?

Sampler: Operation Navajo

From across the room, Senator Charles Halston, III, watched. He’d noted Daykin’s arrival with a woman in tow. Dressed in typical Bureau attire, he guessed she was probably an agent. Despite an unrelieved black pantsuit, low heeled shoes, and hair pulled into a bun, she was a damn good-looking woman. Tall, with curves the suit couldn’t hide, she strode across the room as if she owned it. Who was she? Why was she with Whitaker and Littleton?

After an impatient glance at his watch, he idly kept his eye on the group as he sipped his martini. When a man dropped into the chair across from him, he grumbled, “Why the hell can’t you ever be on time? You know I hate to be kept waiting.”

Remy Chabot stared at him. His cold gaze sent a tingle of uneasiness rippling down Halston’s back. With a mocking tone, he said, “I don’t operate by your schedule. I’m here. What do you want?”

The Senator’s eyes flicked in warning as a waiter approached. His voice louder, he said, “I’m glad you were able to make it on such short notice. I want to discuss those new projections with you.”

“Are you ready to order, Senator?”

He replied, “My usual, Sanders.”

When the waiter turned to him, Chabot said, “Just coffee. I won’t be here long.”

“As you wish,” the elderly man said, before walking away.

Shifting his attention back to Halston, the impassive look on his face hid the contempt he felt for the man. Wealthy and overindulged all his life, Charles Halston believed he was entitled to whatever he wanted. His present position as a Senator added to his sense of entitlement, and now, he had a different target in sight.

Halston’s gaze skimmed the room. Assured no one was within hearing, he laid his arm on the table, leaning forward. “I want an update.”

“This isn’t the place to discuss it.”

“No, it’s perfect. Who would suspect this is anything other than an innocent business lunch?” He raised his martini glass to acknowledge a wave from a man seated several tables away. “After all, one of my campaign pledges was honesty with transparency.” He looked at Chabot and laughed as if to emphasize the unimportance of their discussion. “By now, you should have had confirmation.”

“A slight delay. I don’t, however, anticipate it will affect your deadline.”

Halston’s only reaction was a slight narrowing of his eyes. “What delay?”

At the approach of the waiter, Chabot leaned back. A plate with grilled shrimp and vegetables along with a cup and coffee decanter was set on the table. After acknowledging Halston’s request for another martini, the waiter turned to Chabot. “May I pour for you?”

With a wave of his hand, he said, “No, I’ll do it.”

The Senator cut the tail from a shrimp, then shoved the rest in his mouth.

After filling his cup, Chabot took a sip of the rich brew as he stared at Halston. The man’s portly figure and a faint trail of broken blood vessels across his cheeks bespoke of his indulgence for food and alcohol.

Setting the cup down, Chabot said, “It’s under control. Nothing for you to worry about.”

Halston waved his fork. He refused to be intimidated. After all, he was the power in this arrangement. “Oh, but you see. I do worry. I don’t like being kept in the dark.”

“There’s no cause for alarm. Even if I told you, you can’t do anything about it.”

Chewing on a mouthful of food, Halston shot him a look of irritation.

Ignoring him, Chabot shifted to study the individuals seated at the other tables. When his gaze swept a table in the corner of the room, a spark of interest glinted.

Noticing the direction of Chabot’s stare, Halston said, “Interesting meeting. Do you know the woman?”

“Never met her,” he answered. As if aware of his scrutiny, her head turned. For an instant, their eyes met before she looked away. In the brief contact, his casual curiosity shifted to an acute desire to learn her identity.

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