Outsourced

The worrisome thing isn’t what Halliburton and other big contractors are supposedly doing behind the scenes. It’s what they’re doing in plain sight. National defense, the blood-and-iron burden of government, is increasingly becoming a province of the private sector.

– The New Yorker, January 12, 2004,

contributed by James Surowiecki

Chapter One

Camp Tornado Point, Anbar Province, Iraq Two months later

Her nose burned as she inhaled the dry air, heavy with diesel fumes that barely masked the stench of the burn pit and the overpowering fragrance of night-blooming jasmine. To Camille Black it was the sweet scent of life on the edge, the smell of money, the perfume of Iraq. She coughed dust and smiled as she circled her new mine-protected personnel carrier, a six-hundred-thousand-dollar Cougar, admiring it as if it were a Ferrari. In this part of Iraq, it was her Ferrari. Its V-shaped underbelly made it look more like a boxy boat than a small troop transport, but it could channel away blasts that would rip open an armored Humvee. As she watched several troops saying short prayers and kissing pictures of loved ones, she ran her hand along the vehicle’s side and sent off her own lonely prayer. She felt a blister in the desert-tan paint and she pretended to care.

Without warning, Drowning Pool’s “Bodies” blared over the Cougar’s sound system, heavy metal shifting the mood. All at once, the men put away their photos and got in each other’s faces, shouting the song’s angry words about letting bodies hit the floor. “Three! Four!” They counted with the lyrics, laughing and smiling, pumping themselves up for the night’s combat mission, a mission that she, too, was supposed to be part of, even though at the moment it didn’t feel that way to her. When the song was over, the operators slapped each other on the back in a bravado of brotherhood-a brotherhood that Camille had grown up with.

She admired the men. Some of the operators wore the short beards and moustaches favored by Force Zulu and Delta Force and others sported shaved heads typical of Navy SEALs. All but one had more wrinkles than their active-duty counterparts and they all had fatter paychecks, Black Management paychecks that she had signed. They were the rock stars of the Iraq War. And they were hers.

The men’s bodies moved with the heavy metal rhythm of combat as they groomed one another, inspecting each other’s equipment, cinching their buddies’ gear and slapping duct tape over loose straps. None of them seemed to notice as she walked into the shadows on the other side of the Cougar, smiling. There she quietly sang “Bodies” to herself as she felt for her extra magazines of ammo to make sure everything was there and accessible. She touched her USP Tactical pistol, then her knife to confirm positions and she tightened her webbing. After she checked her XM8 assault rifle, she was geared up, ready for action. And she was amped.

She circled back around the vehicle. By then the men had already crammed themselves and their war gear into the back of the Cougar, ready for a preemptive raid on what Black Management intelligence suspected was an insurgent safe house. As Camille approached the crew door, one by one each man stopped inspecting his weapon and stared.

But no one spoke to her.

She grabbed a rung and started to climb aboard. Her body armor and gear weighed her down, but she was determined to board without assistance-not that any was offered to her. It stung. All of her life she had trained with Special Forces operators and she knew what they thought about women accompanying them into combat. No matter how many times she had proven herself in battle, they never quite trusted her. She remained an interloper in their shadowy male world, the very one that she was raised to inhabit. She hoisted herself up, barely able to get her center of gravity far enough inside.

The men were tightly packed on benches along the side walls and they seemed to spread out a little more as she searched for space.

“Like it or not, boys, you need to make room for me.”

“Put yourself down right here, sweetie.” An operator grinned at her as he patted his thigh.

“You really want a lap dance from a woman with a Ka-Bar knife strapped to her ankle?” Camille smiled as she pointed to the Marine combat knife her father had given her for her sixteenth birthday. “I’m game if you are.”

He elbowed his buddy and they scooted aside. Camille Black took her place among the operators, pleased with herself.

In the twenty minutes since they’d left the base, no one had spoken to Camille. The Cougar’s air conditioning was fighting the summer heat, but it was a losing battle. The air was warm and stale and the ride hard. A man with a scar the entire length of his right forearm sat across from her, staring at her, calculating something. She looked him in the eyes and he wouldn’t look away or even blink.

His dark eyes looked intelligent, the wrinkles around them, experienced. He was bald and most of his face was clean-shaven, but taunting the Black Management dress code by several inches was a long narrow moustache and a thin veil of a beard that outlined his jawbone and came to a point well below his chin. As she studied him, she realized he could only be the operator known as GENGHIS.

GENGHIS studied her weapon. The lightweight assault rifle was a next generation kinetic energy system that the Army had hoped would replace the Vietnam-era M4 and M16 carbines until Pentagon politics killed the program. Camille loved its sleek design, molded polymer casing and clear plastic magazine. To her the XM8 seemed more like something used to blast space aliens rather than Iraqi insurgents. It had outperformed her expectations on the firing range and she couldn’t wait to field test it, but more importantly, it was cool, jock-cool and it made her feel that way, too.

GENGHIS cleared his throat. “That’s one sexy kit. Haven’t seen that before here in the sandbox.”

The men stopped talking among themselves and watched. Camille handed him the rifle. He weighed it in his right hand.

“Light enough for a girl, I see. So what’s a little lady doing all dolled up with an XM8?”

“Accessorizing.”

“I know who you are.” His teeth were stained from chewing tobacco. He tossed her the carbine. “There’s never been a finer warrior than your daddy. Everyone agrees the Malacca incident never would’ve happened if Charlie had still been with his team where he belonged. It was a helluva blow to the unit when your mommy died and he chose to leave the Corps to raise his little princess.”

“He raised a warrior, not a princess.”

“We’ll see, won’t we?” GENGHIS reached for an empty plastic water bottle and spat tobacco juice into it. Brown sludge oozed down the side of the container and she turned away.

A few kilometers ahead on the potholed highway through Ramadi, Hunter’s body moved with the beat of Metallica’s “One” blasting through the Ford Expedition. The country sucked. His employer sucked. The mission sucked. Expecting high-stakes action, Hunter had left his beloved Marine Corps and faked his death to join Force Zulu, the Pentagon’s new elite espionage and counterterrorism unit, but instead of daring raids with the latest high-tech equipment, he was sitting in an up-armored Ford Expedition, a spy undercover as a common mercenary working for Rubicon. He was one of the government’s most highly trained operators, now crammed into a SUV with a bunch of bomb guys on his way to do a job that a bunch of first-year grunts could’ve accomplished. He’d stepped on enough toes over the years that military politics had to catch up with him sooner or later and damn him to this crappy assignment, spying on a military contractor that might have gone bad. At least he was playing ball and he was jazzed, ready for the game. He scanned the road ahead of them and noticed a small shadow moving on the overpass.

“Change lanes!” Hunter said, as the Expedition sped underneath the overpass. Froneberger, the driver, hadn’t been in theater long enough to understand the danger above them. Hunter leaned over him, grabbed the wheel and turned it. Froneberger stomped the brakes and the SUV spun out of control. As they whirled around, the concrete retaining wall blurred in front of them, then a split second later the vehicle behind them streaked by. Hunter fought the driver’s foot for control of the brakes as he struggled to steer. His thoughts raced and the seconds stretched. Everything seemed to move in slow-mo, except him. This was his favorite part of combat-the feeling that he could step out of time and act faster than light.

On the other side of the overpass, the vehicle weaved like a drunk as it came out of the spin. Hunter thought he saw something dark falling from above, the grenade that he had anticipated. An orange flash and a starburst of sparks exploded in midair. His ears rang from the loud bang and the vehicle rocked from the concussion, but the armored door held.

“Get us outta here! Now Froneberger!” Hunter said. He slid back into his seat, grabbed his AK-102 and cracked the door open. He sprayed the overpass with bullets, even though he knew haji was probably plastered to the concrete, spending quality time with Allah. The gunfire would keep him pinned down while the two other trucks in the convoy passed underneath. Then Hunter shouted at the top of his lungs, “Allahu akbar! Allah is great!”

He loved playing with their minds.

Titcomb leaned forward from the backseat and said over the blaring heavy metal, “Don’t you want to go after him-teach him a permanent lesson?”

“Nah, we’ve got to make sure we’re first at the site. I’m determined to be there early. Black Management is muscling in on our turf and we need to kick ass and get out before they show. It wouldn’t be pretty to run into Black Management-trust me.” At least that was the party line at Rubicon, but Hunter didn’t believe it for a second and he knew it was more like the opposite. There were insurgent nests all over the country and he still hadn’t figured out why Rubicon kept assigning him to take down targets just ahead of Black Management teams. Stella’s shop did seem to have better local intelligence networks than Rubicon and had an edge at locating big arms caches, but he couldn’t come up with an explanation that made sense unless someone in charge of contracts at the Pentagon or CIA was watching and Rubicon was simply trying to make itself look good at Black Management’s expense. He would analyze it later. Right now he had a job to do.

Hunter stopped the convoy one click from the target. He shined an invisible infrared commander’s laser pointer onto a satellite image and read it using his night vision goggles. The insurgent compound had one small building inside and it was ringed by a concrete wall with a single iron gate. In the mission briefing, the project manager had claimed that intel indicated that they should expect only light resistance. Without an advance recon team on the deck, Hunter felt blind, but Rubicon had refused to issue him one, claiming their forces were stretched too thin. He knew of a half-dozen qualified operators who were back at the base on “rack ops,” snoozing away, so he suspected there were some things Rubicon’s management preferred that no one observe. Maybe he would finally get the dirt on them so he could finish the suck mission and get back to the real action with his fellow Bushmen at Force Zulu. He had little respect for the overpaid contract soldiers who had left their country’s service to become corporate warriors, contracted to anyone with the money for a private army. He couldn’t wait to get away from them and back with his own kind. Why Stella would become one of them, he had a hard time accepting, even though he understood that, as a woman, she could never see any real action any other way.

He punched a couple of buttons on his handheld GPS to confirm that they had reached the target. The last thing he wanted to do was take down some goat herder’s mud shanty by mistake like another Rubicon team had done a few nights ago. The backlit LCD screen glowed and he squinted as his eyes adjusted to the brightness.

“Get the headlights off and pull over.” Hunter turned off the music, then spoke into his headset, relaying to the other vehicles orders to go black out. He looked in the rearview mirror at his men. Given a choice, he would have hired only one or two of them. The best operators gravitated toward the quality shops like Triple Canopy, Black Management and Blackwater. Rubicon snarfed up the table scraps without even bothering to do background checks. More than once he had heard troops bragging of the criminal records that they had left behind, including a South African who boasted that he was a bona fide war criminal.

“You know the game plan,” Hunter said to the seven men in the SUV. “I want to breech the compound from two points. Froneberger, Titcomb, you’re placing charges on the gate. Cronan and Reeves, think you can arrange for a nice big hole in the back wall? Shooters, take your heavy gun, climb up that dune and keep an eye on them.” The two would stay at the rally point and provide cover with the PKM machine gun in case they were pursued by tangos.

“Got it, boss,” Froneberger said. The others nodded.

“Let’s do it,” Hunter said as he opened the door. His body ached as he got out of the vehicle, pulling down the bottom of his flack jacket that had ridden up on him during the trip. The ceramic plate inserts made it hot and heavy, but comfort was not something he worried about in combat situations. He leaned against the SUV and popped a couple of Motrin-grunt candy. Since he’d been back in Iraq, it seemed he’d relied on that stuff even more than caffeine to keep him going.

He took his night vision goggles from his belt webbing. The Marine Corps always got the rest of the military’s hand-me-downs and when even they were phasing out the PVS-7 NVGs Rubicon was issuing them. Cheap Russian weapons, old military surplus gear and rejects from the other players-Rubicon must have been raking in the dough because they sure weren’t spending much of it on the frontline troops.

He placed the awkward night vision goggles onto his head and suddenly the dark veil of night was lifted to reveal a blurry green world. His peripheral vision blocked out, he felt like he was looking through toilet paper tubes.

Everything appeared in order-no signs of tangos. So far the terrorists seemed to be bedded down for the night. He watched his explosives team work its way toward the target, dashing between spindly trees and scrub as they tried to conceal themselves. They were sailors and even though the Navy EOD school did turn out the best trained bomb guys, they seemed to skip over lessons in stealth. Only one of them really seemed to know what he was doing. Hunter laughed to himself as three of them ran straight toward their target, not bothering to approach on the oblique.

Squid. No wonder the Marines always had the urge to beat them up-it was for their own good-survival training.

He took the night vision goggles off and rubbed his eyes. At first he wasn’t sure, then he distinctly heard a truck engine coming from behind them. It sounded like the low growl of a tractor-trailer rig shifting gears. He hoped for a truckload of insurgents since he could easily ambush them and take them out, but his gut told him he wouldn’t be that lucky. His greatest nightmare was Stella-the legendary Camille Black-riding along with her troops, nailing him as his Rubicon team poached Black Management’s mission. Even though he had spent the past year on assignment infiltrating Rubicon, blowing his cover with them was the least he would have to worry about if she were along for the ride. He had stood her up a couple of weeks ago out of concern that Rubicon was becoming suspicious of him and the rendezvous might blow his cover. He knew she would still be fuming over it. The Marines might have coined the phrase No better friend-No worse enemy, but Stella was the one who really brought that to life.

The Black Management Cougar stopped behind the convoy. Camille was sure it was from Rubicon. For some bizarre reason, they had beaten Black Management to over a dozen job sites in just the past month. There were plenty of tango nests to go around and she couldn’t imagine why they were doing it except to set her up at a time when both Black Management and Rubicon Solutions were trying to woo the CIA for another major no-bid contract. She waded through her troops, handed GENGHIS her XM8 and jumped out of the back. The extra pounds from her gear made her land hard and she felt the impact in her knees and hips. She really dreaded turning thirty.

A week earlier in a Herndon, Virginia boardroom, Rubicon executives in their thousand-dollar suits had denied ever muscling in on jobs assigned to Black Management, pointing out that there was ample work to spread among all of the private military corporations. That was true-and that was what made Rubicon’s behavior all the more puzzling unless they were just trying to pull down her pants at a time she needed to look good. Then she had vowed that if she could ever prove Rubicon was poaching her sites, there would be war between the two private armies. Now she had caught them in flagrante delicto and she stomped across their first battlefield, ready to engage the enemy.

The Rubicon mission commander left the lead SUV and hurried toward her. She noted a familiar smooth gait, but couldn’t see his face well enough to recognize him. Still, there was something about him-he walked like Hunter, she realized. She told herself it couldn’t be him because his chest stuck out more than usual, but she knew ceramic plates in body armor could account for that. What the hell was he doing there, leading the Rubicon raiding party?

“Rubicon’s not getting away with this anymore. I don’t know what the hell you’re up to, but stand down and get the fuck out of my way.”

The commander now jogged toward her.

It couldn’t be him, but it was. “You? I can’t believe this.”

“Quiet,” Hunter said in a low voice. “We’re in black out.”

“Noise discipline because of a flat tire? Right. Don’t worry. We’re upwind of the target,” she said, lowering her voice just in case.

“We’re transferring an HVT and one of our vehicles got a flat. This really isn’t what it seems.”

“Nothing with you is what it seems. You say you love me; we’re getting married-then you stage your death. You say you love me; we’ll meet in Dubai and you’ll make things right-then you stood me up last weekend. And now-now you’re working for the enemy, raiding my assignments, trying to ruin my company. I suppose you still love me?” Camille pulled her USP Tactical sidearm from its holster and pointed it at him. He had hurt her enough.

“Not now,” Hunter said.

“And you’re playing contract soldier now? I thought you despised us mercs. Guess you’ll go to any lengths to screw me over, won’t you?”

“Trust me. More than anything on this earth, I love you, Stella.”

“And I love you, too.” She squeezed the trigger and it felt good. Real good.

Hunter fell backwards and hit the ground. His troops piled out of the trucks, training their weapons on Camille. She holstered her gun, then held her clenched fist in the air, signaling her forces not to move.

He keyed his mike and spoke as he pushed himself up from the desert floor. “Stand down. Situation is under control. Repeat. Stand down. Situation is under control.”

“The situation is not under control,” Camille said.

“You bitch. It could’ve pierced the Kevlar if I didn’t have the SAPI plates in. Did you ever think that it might’ve ricocheted off the plates and blown my fucking chin off?”

“Don’t be such a girl. Besides, your chest looks like Mighty Mouse-I knew you were wearing them. Next time you can count on it that I won’t be shooting at your ceramic plates.”

“You blew my opsec.”

“What operational security? I thought you said you were just changing a flat?”

“Stella,” he whispered. “You have to trust me. It’s not what it looks like. I am on your side. Please don’t blow my cover. Make it look like this is only a turf war. Act like you don’t know me.”

“I don’t know you.” Camille shook her head. She was glad tears evaporated almost instantly in the arid desert.

A rapid pop of automatic gunfire erupted from the direction of the insurgents’ compound.

“You have men down there?” Camille never let personal issues compromise her professionalism. When the shooting started, the private militaries were all on the same side.

Hunter nodded as he ordered his shooters on the dune to give them cover fire. The medium machine gun roared.

“You’re rolling with me,” Camille shouted. “I don’t want you out of my sight. Radio your troops to fall in behind us.” She turned and sprinted toward the Cougar. When she reached the back of the vehicle, three hands reached out to help her up.

GENGHIS handed Camille her carbine as she pushed her way to the front of the vehicle. She spoke to the shift leader, a bullet-headed ex-cop. “NOONER, inform Ops at Camp Raven that LIGHTNING SIX is now assuming command. Then move us into the tango compound.” Camille looked back at Hunter and decided not to blow his cover. “Rubicon, order your troops to rescue your men, then assume positions outside the walls to provide backup. We’ll call for them if needed.” Camille pointed to the concrete wall encircling the compound. Green tracers came from all over the compound, crisscrossing as they fired at imaginary targets. “We’re crashing their party. NOONER, take us in right there-about five meters to the right of the gate.”

“I’m not sure what the vehicle can do-I don’t know it well enough yet,” NOONER said.

“It’s got a Caterpillar 330 horsepower engine and Iraqis don’t use rebar in their concrete. Do the math. As soon as we’re in, I want a man at each firing port and one at each roof hatch. We’re going to tour the compound and light it up before dismounting. Brace yourselves. Now!”

Camille plopped to the floor and bear hugged the nearest legs. The Cougar’s engine revved, then she heard a loud crash, then felt a jolt like a plane hitting sudden turbulence. The ride immediately smoothed out.

The troops opened the roof hatches and hot air rushed inside. She shoved in her earplugs as she scrambled to the nearest firing port. She turned the steel plug counterclockwise, then let it fall onto the seat. Bullets plinked against the fortified walls, then seconds later the sharp echo of her troops’ automatic gunfire drowned everything out.

She shoved the XM8 through the firing port and looked outside through its night vision scope. A dozen insurgents scattered across the courtyard like ants swarming around a disturbed nest. They sprayed the Cougar with their AKs, but they might as well have been using squirt guns. The rounds didn’t penetrate.

She aimed the XM8. A trickle of sweat rolled between her breasts and she itched underneath the bulky body armor. She slowly squeezed the trigger, then stopped before firing. She didn’t feel even the slightest tinge of fear that she, the predator, could become prey and without that sense of danger, she didn’t want to do it, not from the comfort of her air-conditioned Cougar. But she knew she couldn’t risk her men sensing even a hint of compassion because it would be all over for her-even if she did pay them eight hundred bucks a day.

With only a few seconds delay, she targeted and fired, retargeted and fired, dropping one bad guy at a time. It was almost fun. Hell, it was fun. And the world was a better place without them, she told herself as she dropped out the empty mag and snapped in a full one. Just then something caught her eye. An insurgent dropped onto one knee and pointed a long tube toward them.

She shoved the XM8’s barrel back through the port, acquired the target and fired. The shooter crumpled to the ground just as his weapon spat out a trail of flames and a small orange fireball.

“RPG!”

As she listened to the whistle of the incoming rocket-propelled grenade, she fired off a stray prayer to whatever god was listening and targeted rounds at the first tangos she could find. A clap of thunder rocked the vehicle. She steeled herself for a flash of heat, then searing pain.

She waited.

Nothing.

The tango must have aimed the RPG at Cougar’s belly since that was usually the most vulnerable point on a vehicle. The over-priced jitney actually lived up to Force Protection, Incorporated’s sales promises and deflected the explosion.

She searched for additional targets, but didn’t locate any. Bodies lay strewn across the courtyard and the house seemed lifeless, as if all the insurgents had dashed outside for action at the first sign of an assault. She lowered her weapon, careful to keep the hot muzzle from touching her leg, then shouted to NOONER. “Give me your best man to clear rooms. Use the others to secure the perimeter. I don’t want anyone coming in and joining us.”

“GENGHIS, you’re with us,” NOONER said, then gave orders to the others.

Camille pointed at Hunter. “You’re going in with me. I’m going to find out what Rubicon is always trying to beat us to. We’ll go in with a three-man stack. I’ll take point.”

“Three-man stack or three-man lift?” Hunter said as he got in position to quickly exit the vehicle.

The men laughed.

“Don’t you fuck with me.”

“Understood. Three-man stack, except I’ll be the number one man.”

“You think point’s too dangerous for a woman?”

“I’d rather have a chick’s gun pushing up against my backside than some ugly dude’s.” Hunter smiled, but this time the men seemed to know better than to even snicker.

“Okay,” Camille said and continued, “but only because I know better than to trust you behind my back.”

GENGHIS flashed a signal and they all burst from the Cougar, their weapons sweeping the compound.

At the entrance to the mud-brick structure, NOONER got into the breech position to kick the door down while the others formed a stack. Camille pushed up against Hunter’s back as tightly as she could. Her body armor disguised the feel of his body pressing against hers, but she caught a whiff of his earthy scent and bit her lip to distract herself.

GENGHIS stacked himself against her back and squeezed her thigh just below her ass, signaling he was ready. She did the same to Hunter, much lower down his leg than she normally would.

Hunter struggled to focus on the task at hand, but with Stella plastered against his backside, it wasn’t easy. Since he’d officially died two years ago, he’d dreamed of her spooning against him again every day. One wild fantasy even had them doing it, both jocked up in full combat gear, but not even in his worst nightmares was Stella sandwiched between him and another guy like they were at the moment. He already hated himself for what he had put her through and now she was more furious with him than ever. He would never forgive himself if he lost her.

He was afraid he already had.

Hunter felt Stella grab his leg and he flashed NOONER a hand signal. NOONER kicked in the door and they flooded inside. Hunter hugged the wall as best he could given the clutter and worked his way to the right corner of the room, sweeping his section. He knew that, only a second behind him, GENGHIS would buttonhole the door and neutralize any muj hiding behind it. As he moved to the back corner of the room, he saw a figure raise a weapon. He fired a burst, dropping the tango and continued on to his position in the corner.

Camille rounded the doorway and moved to the left. She pointed the XM8 toward the far left corner and fanned it toward the right corner.

“Surrender. Friend. Surrender.” A man moved near the center of the room, shouting in heavily accented English and waving his empty hands in the air.

She targeted, but saw no weapon and didn’t fire. Trusting that GENGHIS and NOONER were in place behind her, she rushed toward the insurgent. “Tango down! Moving!”

She smacked her boot against his ankle and swung the butt of her weapon into his back. He tumbled down face first. She pushed her boot into his back and pointed her weapon at him.

“Allahu akbar. Allahu akbar,” he said over and over. “Allah is great.”

Although Hunter already knew it was lifeless, he kicked the body of the insurgent he’d shot just to be sure before he worked his way over to Stella. A jumble of tables, chairs and assorted junk blocked his way. He bulldozed a trail.

He patted down the prisoner and found a small sidearm and took it. The man continued to pray loudly, moving his head with the beat of his words. “Is kut!” Hunter shouted to shut him up as he pulled out a zip-tie. He was tightening it around the tango’s wrists when Stella shined an infrared light into the man’s face.

Hunter froze.

He was trained not to forget faces and this one had been etched into his mind-in Afghanistan where the man had been posing as a Taliban. At the time Hunter had understood from some of the other operators that the guy was some kind of an undercover operative.

Hunter wasn’t sure who he worked for, but Hunter guessed the Other Government Agency-the CIA. He wasn’t going to blow the spook’s cover, not even with Stella, so he barked orders at him in Arabic and pulled him to his feet. The sound of gunfire in the courtyard had now slowed to only an occasional shot. In less than fifteen seconds after exiting the Cougar, the action was over.

Camille searched the room, moving quickly. GENGHIS walked behind her and muttered under his breath, just loud enough for her to hear. “Should’ve neutralized him. You’re going to get someone killed someday.”

She ignored him, turned the XM8 around and smashed its butt into a mirror. It shattered with a high-pitched ring and the shards fell. A stash of computer disks and papers were in a cavity in the wall behind it. She pulled them out and stuffed them into her cargo pockets. An oriental carpet hung on the wall and a kilim and pillows covered a sofa. She threw the pillows onto the floor and ripped away the tapestry, revealing a long wooden crate. The lid was not nailed shut, so she picked it up and moved it aside. Inside was a three-inch diameter tube, about a meter and a half long with Russian markings. Camille immediately recognized the SA-7, an old Soviet missile that could shoot down a low flying aircraft. Packed around it were slabs of plastic explosives and various types of detonators. She picked up several and looked them over. They had Chinese and Russian markings.

Quality.

Camille yelled at Hunter, who was hurrying outside with the prisoner. “Someone here’s planning a big party, but then I guess you were already invited. So this crap is the big trophy Rubicon was trying to snatch away from me?” Camille motioned toward the crate. “What the hell does Rubicon want with a cache of Russian weapons?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hunter said as he stood at the side of the doorway with the prisoner.

“You’ve crossed about every line I have. Now get the hell out of here and take your men with you. I don’t ever want to see you again unless you’re in my crosshairs.” Now she wished she had chosen a shotgun over the XM8; she wanted to pump it for the sound effect.

Chapter Two

[S]ome critics say…that the US government employs private security workers to skirt restrictions by Congress on what US troops can do on the ground, as well as on troop numbers.

– The Christian Science Monitor, April 2, 2004, as reported by Ann Scott Tyson

Camp Tornado Point, Anbar Province

3:00 A.M., Two hours later

At a bend in the Euphrates River, a hodgepodge of hastily constructed plywood structures, prefabricated metal buildings and one of Saddam’s bombed-out palaces housed most of the private military corporations and the command center of the Marines in that area of operation. Skirting political pressure not to deploy more troops to Iraq, the Pentagon had quietly increased the number of boots on the ground with soldiers from private military corporations. Other companies were there, claiming to work for the State Department, even though everyone knew there were no diplomats in Anbar. Like their Marine colleagues, most of the contract soldiers in the camp were now returning from their nightly PT, cleaning and stowing their war gear for the next day. Hunter had already taken off his gear and only carried a knife, his sidearm and a couple of extra mags. He walked across the compound toward Rubicon’s local corporate offices. He knew he should be thinking about why some corporate executive would want to meet with him in the middle of the night, but he couldn’t get the confrontation with Stella out of his head.

His chest ached a little from where she had shot him. The last thing he wanted was physical pain and a telltale bruise to remind him of the pain of losing her. He was afraid things had gone too far this time-that she’d never forgive him even if he could explain that, technically, he hadn’t really betrayed her. His gut told him that they’d hit the point where sorting out facts didn’t matter.

But it did matter to him. Hunter Stone was the kind of guy who still believed in right and wrong, even if Stella didn’t.

He yawned and hoped the meeting would be short because he still had to finish his report about the evening’s raid before hitting the rack.

A civilian Hunter had never seen there before showed him into the office and introduced himself as Kyle. He was the type not seen very often in Iraq-slight build, meticulously groomed and with a certain metrosexual air about him that told Hunter he would never be seen wearing khaki, let alone carrying a gun. But Hunter knew better than to believe the image Kyle projected. He was probably a hardened operative who could kill someone with a Twinkie.

“You mind telling me what this is all about?” Hunter said as he crossed his arms.

“Wait here and Mr. Ashland will join us in a moment.”

“Who’s Ashland?”

“Someone at a higher pay grade than you.”

Mr. Ashland backed into the room, still talking to someone in the hallway. He wore tan Royal Robbins 5.11s that gave no indication of his rank, but made it easy to blend in with fifty thousand other contractors in Iraq. Ashland closed the door and turned around and Hunter knew why he was being called to the meeting-or at least what had prompted it. The short beard and moustache were gone, but his dark curly hair was still there. Hunter couldn’t mistake the aquiline nose, deep-set brown eyes and short chin. He’d seen them only hours ago, back when the man was repeating platitudes about Allah’s greatness on the floor of the insurgents’ safe house.

Ashland was the tango Stella had captured, the one Hunter had recognized as Taliban in Afghanistan, and now the guy was posing as a Rubicon executive. The spook sure got around.

Ashland sailed a photo across the cheap wooden desk.

“You know this man?”

Hunter picked up it up and glanced at it a little longer than he needed to in order to buy some time to strategize his answer. Hunter held Ashland’s gaze and he was sure he knew Hunter had recognized him, so he assumed whatever game he was playing was for Kyle’s benefit. He decided to play along-for now. “The dude looks kinda familiar, but I’m not sure I can place him. Close cropped hair, 5.11s and everyone here starts to look alike.”

Ashland tossed him another picture. It was grainy and very dark, but showed Hunter at a loading dock, removing a crate from the back of a Ford Expedition.

“The good-looking guy is me. The other one is the dude from the first picture.” Hunter smiled, but Ashland didn’t respond.

“What are you doing in the photo?”

“My job. I’m transferring an arms cache we seized from insurgents to the EOD guys at ZapataEngineering. We do it every time we find weapons during a snatch and grab or a take down. We’ve been finding a lot of those lately-the intel seems to be getting better.”

“What happens next?”

“I come back inside the wire, go to my hootch and jack off.”

Ashland glared at Hunter, but without the intensity Hunter expected from someone really trying to learn about the photos. Hunter had been through brutal interrogations both in SERE training and in the field where he had been captured and held by the North Koreans and by Saddam. This was no interrogation. Ashland’s thoughts were elsewhere. Whatever was going on right now was a formality. Hunter shoved the photos toward Ashland.

“What happens to the explosives once you hand them over to Zapata?” Ashland said.

“I’m guessing the EOD guys blow them up-they live for that. That’s been the SOP with seized weapons since day one.” Hunter knew this wasn’t true. His investigation had found that Rubicon was keeping the caches and shipping the weapons out of the country, but he hadn’t yet learned the destination.

“Do you know of any cases in which seized weapons weren’t destroyed?”

“Not any big stuff.”

“So you are aware of some arms caches being diverted away from the disposal units?”

“Not on my watch.”

“But you do know of some seized arms that were not destroyed?”

“Come on, every guy who’s ever served here in Babylon has some kind of a trophy.”

“Do you have a trophy?”

“This is all the trophy I need from this hellhole-a scar I’ll never heal from.” Hunter rolled up his left sleeve. A heart tattoo on his bulging bicep was ripped in two by pink scar tissue. The letter J was mostly intact, but the remaining tattooed letters had been stretched, cut away or were so poorly seamed that they were illegible. “Tattered heart says it all.”

“Who did you turn the arms caches over to?”

“I told you. ZapataEngineering.” Hunter pointed to the top picture. “You even have a picture of me doing it. So what’s the problem?”

“Zapata has no record of receipt.”

“That’s bullshit. The guy signed for them every time, plus he always gave us a Zapata bill of lading.”

“You mean these.” Kyle pulled a stack of documents from his attaché case and waved them at Hunter.

Hunter reached out for the papers and quickly glanced through them. “Yeah, these are the ones. And that’s my signature on the bottom of each of them. Proof they got them.”

“Zapata confirmed that these aren’t their documents and the man in the photo has never worked for them.”

“Then who the hell was I handing the arms caches over to?”

“You tell us.”

“Zapata.”

“Do you have any idea how much those arms are worth?”

“I’m a shooter, not a businessman.”

“Can you explain this?”

Ashland’s aide handed Hunter a statement from a savings account at Bank of America.

“Let me see that. I don’t bank there.” Hunter studied the statements. The cover name, fake social security number and the faux Mrs. were the ones that Force Zulu had created for him as part of the cover identity used to infiltrate Rubicon, but they had not gone this far.

“This is your account-Greg Bolton and Julia Lewis-Bolton with your social security number-and it has some big deposits every month. Twenty-six thousand, thirty-two thousand. There’s even one for over forty-k. They start a few weeks after you became deputy project manager at Rubicon and got command of your own team.”

“Where’s the money coming from?” Hunter said, still holding the statements.

“All of the deposits are from a business registered in the Bahamas that’s tied to an Islamic charity. And guess who that charity happens to be charitable to-al-Zahrani and his al Qaeda faction.”

“This is total bullshit. Someone’s trying to set me up and you know it.” Hunter took a deep breath and wondered if his cover had been blown, if they knew the Pentagon had infiltrated their operation and if the accusation of theft and arms trafficking were Rubicon’s attempt at getting him out of the picture without tipping their hand, but that still didn’t explain what Ashland was doing in the insurgent safe house or what he was doing working for Rubicon, for that matter. Hunter suddenly considered that maybe Ashland was doing both Rubicon and the Agency. Ever since Rumsfeld created Force Zulu, a cold war had been raging between the two clandestine services. It wouldn’t be the first time that the CIA had sent someone to spy on a Zulu operator to make sure that the Pentagon didn’t beat them to any significant intel prize. “Sir, I need to talk to you privately about something.”

“Anything you have to say you can say in front of my aide, Mr. Kyle.”

“Not this.”

“I said anything.”

“Suit yourself.” It was time to go on the offensive. “What were you doing dressed up as a muj in the insurgent’s compound tonight?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ashland said with a smile. “You must have mistaken me for someone else.”

“Right. Add a scruffy beard, ratty moustache and some smelly rags and everyone here starts to look alike. And the same goes for Afghanistan where I saw you last. You were dressed up like one of the Taliban goat fuckers.”

“You’re in serious trouble.”

“Why is a Rubicon exec hanging out with tangos? And not with just any tangos, but some with a lot of serious toys.” Hunter glanced at Kyle’s face. He displayed no signs of astonishment, so whatever his boss had been up to in the safe house, he was also involved.

“Ridiculous accusations will get you nowhere.”

“So did you really go private with Rubicon or are you still spying for the Agency?” Hunter said as he stood to leave, inching his hand toward his SIG Sauer.

“I think this conversation is over.” Ashland stood as well. “Mr. Kyle will escort you to our detention facility and see that you’re on the next transfer shuttle to our Abu Ghraib facility.”

Hunter drew his pistol just as Ashland and Kyle reached for theirs. Kyle blocked the door.

“I have another matter I need to attend to,” Ashland said as he moved toward the door. “Mr. Kyle will see you to the facility. I’m sure we can clear this misunderstanding up in the morning.” Ashland forced a crooked smile and made brief eye contact with Hunter as he left the room.

Hunter recognized the icy gaze of a man who had just ordered an execution.

Kyle pointed a HK.45 at Hunter. It looked ridiculously oversized in Kyle’s petite hand.

“I’m not going to cause you any trouble,” Hunter said, pretending to slowly lower his weapon. His training as a spook told him it was best to let Rubicon play things out-at least until they were outside of the building in the darkness-but, more than anything, Hunter was a warrior and this part of him wanted to fight his way out.

Suddenly, the door burst open. Kyle shifted his aim toward the intruder.

Stella stomped into the room, glaring at Kyle. She had removed her Kevlar vest and the bulky ceramic plates. Her sidearm was still holstered to her leg, her knife strapped to her ankle. Her brunette hair was pulled back into a pony tail and her Under Armour T-shirt clung to her, accentuating her curves. She glanced at Hunter without acknowledging him.

She kept moving toward Kyle, who still pointed the gun at her. “What the hell does Rubicon think it’s doing stealing my jobs? And put that gun away now,” Stella said in a commanding voice a drill sergeant would envy.

“I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure, madame.” Kyle lowered his aim, but kept the weapon pointed at her hip.

“Lower your weapon.”

Stella still ignored Hunter as she focused on Kyle. Hunter took it as a hopeful sign that she didn’t feel the need to protect her flank from him, then he realized how desperate his thoughts were.

As she held Kyle’s gaze, she took a deliberate step toward him and he inched closer to the plywood wall. Hunter knew better than to interfere. He would much rather be facing Kyle’s pistol than Stella’s temper. For a moment, he pitied Kyle. He knew the fool believed he had the advantage because she hadn’t drawn a weapon. The poor bastard didn’t understand that he was facing the force majeure that was Stella.

“Rubicon is not going to fuck with me anymore. Put it down now,” Stella said, pushing into his personal space. Kyle stared at Stella’s perky breasts as she backed him against the wall. Now he was having second thoughts about trading places with Kyle.

“Don’t come any closer.”

“You afraid of an unarmed girl? Oh, I get it. You don’t like girls.” Stella turned her upper body as if moving away, then without warning she pivoted, clearing herself from the line of fire. In a single flow of movement, she put her hand on the gun, twisted his wrist backwards, then used her other hand to shove his wrist into further pain until he let go. She snatched the weapon and sprang backwards like a cat.

Hunter fought back a grin. Watching Stella in action was like watching a prima ballerina; no matter how highly choreographed, her movements flowed so naturally. Although she appeared delicate, she was steel.

Stella was a weapon.

Stella was hot.

He only wished he were watching her in a girl fight.

“I take it that you’re Camille Black,” Kyle said, rubbing his wrist.

“And I take it that you’re the Rubicon exec around here.” She inspected the impounded HK.45, pulling out the magazine to check if it was loaded, then shoved it back into the gun. “I know that Rubicon is racing me to job sites to seize huge weapons caches. And I suspect you’re selling them right back to the insurgents.”

“You can’t prove anything.”

“I’m not a cop-I don’t give a damn about proving anything. I’m a businesswoman-all I care about is making money and eliminating the enemy, preferably both at the same time. And as I see it right now, Rubicon is the enemy.”

She tossed Hunter the.45 and slammed the door behind her as she left.

Stella, you tease. Hunter laughed to himself as he caught the gun with his left hand. He stuck it away and kept his own weapon aimed at Kyle’s chest.

“Face down, on the floor, asshole. Make any sound and I’ll pop and run.” He reached into his own cargo pockets. He still had zip-ties from earlier in the evening. He fastened Kyle’s arms and legs together, then patted him down, but found no other weapons. “Why are you trying to frame me?”

“You know you don’t have time to get me to talk. Ashland will be back here any moment.”

“You’re lying,” Hunter said.

“Does it matter? You can’t afford that risk.”

Hunter opened a drawer, found duct tape and slapped a piece over Kyle’s mouth. To make absolutely sure he wouldn’t be yelling for help, he wound several layers of tape around Kyle’s head.

He turned out the lights and paused for a victory moment in the doorway. “Oh, I almost forgot. Tell the boss I quit.”

Chapter Three

Before the 1990s privatization push, private firms had periodically been used in lieu of US forces to run covert military policies outside the view of Congress and the public. Examples range from Air America, the CIA’s secret air arm in Vietnam, to the use of Southern Air Transport to run guns to Nicaragua in the Iran/contra scandal. What we are seeing now in Iraq is the overt use of private companies side by side with US forces.

– The Nation, May 20, 2004, as reported by William D. Hartung

Camp Tornado Point, Anbar Province

Hunter left the building and stepped into the darkness. Dashing from one shadow to another, he crept along any structure that could conceal his profile. A ditch bag prepared with survival essentials was in his hootch where he had also concealed identity documents behind a picture of a woman who was supposed to be Greg Bolton’s mother. He would grab them, then wake his men with the news of an escaped prisoner roaming the compound so that the ensuing chaos would give him the opportunity he needed to slip away. Standing at the side of a building, he waited for a security guard to turn his head before moving to the next structure.

He wanted to sprint directly to his trailer, but instead forced himself to take a darker, more circuitous path. He skirted the edges of a wide swath of light and squatted down behind a Humvee to look around and see if anyone had noticed him. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw movement. His hand on the sidearm, he froze, staring into the darkness. After a few minutes, he decided he was imagining things and crawled through the Black Management motor pool, behind a half dozen Humvees and Lincoln Navigators. He stopped and jerked around to listen. An alley cat scurried between the cars. His caution was making him lose too much time. Just then he heard something hit against a Humvee behind him. Reaching for his knife, he turned his head just as a hand slammed into his jaw. Pain shot through his mouth like a lightning bolt branching out across the sky and he tasted metal.

He grasped his knife and turned to strike at his opponent, but the figure jumped backwards out of his reach.

“You son of a bitch,” Stella said. Her voice was forceful-and loud.

“Stella?” He felt blood pooling in his mouth and spat.

“So Rubicon is resorting to slashing my tires now. And guess who volunteered for the duty. I should’ve known.”

“Shhh. Not now. It’s not what it seems. And you knocked out my tooth.” Hunter put away his knife as he ran his tongue along his teeth. He stopped when he found a hole.

“I’ve heard that one too many times. I even believed you once.”

“I’m telling the truth. Want to feel the hole?”

“I believe the tooth part. I’m sorry. I really am. Is the tooth still in your mouth?”

“You have to believe all of it. I love you.” He pressed his tongue hard into the tooth socket to try to stop the bleeding. It distorted his speech. “I spat it out. I’d never do anything to hurt you. Rubicon is trying to kill me.” He bent over to search the ground for his tooth before he lost track of the general area where it must have fallen. As he patted the ground, a burst of bullets ricocheted off the armored Lincoln Navigator behind his head.

Camille dropped to the ground. Her left hand hit something moist and hard. She fingered it and recognized the shape. “Oh, gross. Found your tooth.” She pressed it into his hand, then drew her USP Tactical pistol, searched for the shooters and then fired at the same time as Hunter. They crawled behind another vehicle. Her NVGs were back in the Black Management office along with her Kevlar vest. “Rubicon’s out of control.”

“They’re not after you. They want me.”

“You? You’re one of their grunts.”

“I work for the Pentagon.”

“Then I was right the first time. Now I’d say your cover’s blown, secret agent man.” Camille laughed as she reached up to the door handle of a Navigator. It was locked. Another burst of gunfire pinged against the trucks. She returned fire.

“I’ve got to get out of here.”

“I have a platoon of Special Forces types itching to go head to head with Rubicon. We need to get to them.”

“Rubicon’s got people on the inside-”

Rounds hit the ground between them, sparking as they skipped on the asphalt. Camille said, “To be clear, I’m only helping you because I feel bad about ruining your beautiful smile. I’m not sure I believe you and I still want to kill you.”

“Will you take a rain check?”

Camille pulled herself along the ground until the SUV was between them and the gunmen’s last position. She scraped her forearm on the rough asphalt and it stung. “It’s too damn dark.” She tried another door. It was also locked. She whispered to Hunter. “I’ve got it. Go to the next Navigator and when I signal, bounce it as much as you can and set off the car alarm. Rubicon uses the old PVS-7 NVGs, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“They take forever to resample the image and refocus. The flashing headlights will flare them out. They’ll be blind. Plus, my men might sleep right through gunfire, but not car alarms coming from our own motor pool.”

Hunter scooted on his belly to the next Lincoln, clutching his tooth in his left fist. If there were any chance of saving it, he knew he had to keep it moist. As he fired toward the shooters, he kept his mouth closed and sucked as if he were getting ready to swallow a pill without water. Once a small pool of saliva collected, he popped the tooth into his mouth and tasted blood and dirt. He spat, but he could still feel the grit. His tongue moved the tooth to the side of his mouth and he tried to ignore it.

He emptied Kyle’s.45 and tossed it away because he knew he would never find any more ammo that caliber. Ready to rock the vehicle to set off the alarm at Stella’s signal, he grasped the SUV’s door handle and tried pushing up on it, just in case it wasn’t locked. It opened. Relieved that the automatic cabin lights had been disabled, he crawled into the backseat and then climbed to the front. He felt under the dashboard, but it was enclosed. He ran his hands over it until he found the release and pulled it off.

“Now!” Stella yelled and a few seconds later one of the Navigators started honking and flashing its lights.

Hunter couldn’t set off the alarm from the driver’s seat, so he did what he could to mimic one. He flipped on the lights, switched them to bright and punched the horn, then he returned his focus to the tangle of exposed wires. When the other vehicle’s headlights flashed on, he could see the wires, but by the time he focused, it was dark again. After the next cycle, he closed his eyes and tried to recall the snapshot he had just seen. He reached for the two wires he thought were red and touched them together. They arced and the engine turned over.

Placing his knife behind the steering wheel between it and the column, he jammed the blade down and tried to turn the wheel. It didn’t move. Careful to keep his body out of the way of the airbag in case it deployed from the force, he shoved the knife down harder until he felt it knock the locking pin away from the wheel. He turned the switch to put the truck into four wheel drive, jerked down the gear shift and stomped the gas, then drove directly toward the white muzzle bursts.

“Damn him,” Camille whispered to herself as she watched Hunter plow her Navigator through trash barrels, spare tires and anything else in his path as he tried to run down the shooters. She could never rely on him to cooperate with her. He was a team player with everyone else, but not with her.

Five of her men ran toward her from two different directions, their assault rifles pointing at her while two others remained with their backs to the nearest building, ready to eliminate any threats to their comrades. Stella threw her arms up and stood motionless, waiting until they were close enough to positively identify her.

Brakes screeched and she watched Hunter backing up into gunfire, redirecting the shooters away from her. The son of a bitch was on her side, at least. He just wasn’t on her team.

Hunter saw motion in the rearview mirror. Stomping the brakes and turning the wheel at high speed, he threw the SUV into a U-turn worthy of the Bat-mobile and backed the armored vehicle into the gunfire. He couldn’t see much, but kept steering the vehicle toward the muzzle flashes.

Several armed men ran toward Stella. He made a hard right and gunned it, barreling toward them. They didn’t fire on him, so he flashed on the lights for quick identification. At the last second, he recognized them as Stella’s troops and veered sharply left, then swerved right, weaving in between them at fifty miles an hour.

Hunter really wanted to take Stella up on the offer to help him, but he knew from his time at Rubicon that they had a man on the inside at Black Management, feeding them information about upcoming jobs. The mole was probably no threat to Stella, but he couldn’t trust her outfit to keep him safe.

Her men were protecting her and she didn’t need him, not that she ever needed him. And with her holding off Rubicon’s men, he was now free to head for the main gate. Any moment they would put the compound in lock-down and he would be trapped.

Camille heard the Navigator’s engine roar as Hunter peeled off toward the compound’s main gate, running away from her as fast as he could. Her chest tightened with each breath, but she was too angry to notice the hurt. He had used her for the last time.

GENGHIS jogged up to her. “Orders, ma’am?”

“Two Rubicon gunners were firing at me. Get them-alive, if you can.”

“What about the SUV?”

Camille shook her head. As much as she wanted to, it wasn’t right to send her troops to carry out her personal business. Hunter was her problem, one that she had to resolve herself. “Everyone knows Navigators are Black Management. He’ll dump it as fast as he can. Give him two hours, then go search Ramadi for the vehicle. I want it back before the Iraqis find it and decide to detail it.”

Chapter Four

The Pentagon, expanding into the CIA’s historic bailiwick, has created a new espionage arm and is reinterpreting U.S. law to give Defense Secretary Donald H. Rumsfeld broad authority over clandestine operations abroad.

The previously undisclosed organization, called the Strategic Support Branch, arose from Rumsfeld’s written order to end his “near total dependence on [the] CIA” for what is known as human intelligence.

– The Washington Post, January 23, 2005, as reported by Barton Gellman

Camp Tornado Point, Anbar Province

The stench of smoldering garbage and medical waste kept all but the rats and strays away from the burn pit. The dump was the best site for a private nighttime rendezvous on a base where there was very little privacy. Larry Ashland closed his cell phone and lurked in the shadows, wondering whatever had happened to the glamour of his profession. The collapse of the Berlin Wall had not been kind to spies.

Ashland clutched a thick brown flip chart his assistant Kyle had prepared months ago at his request when he had first suspected Force Zulu had a man on the inside at Rubicon. Greg Bolton, whoever he really was, was a risk that Ashland had anticipated. A single spy was not going to be allowed to destroy his progress, even if by accident. For two years Ashland had been working his way into a highly secretive project codenamed SHANGRI-LA and thus far knew only peripheral details, none of which added up. CIA funds were being dumped into Rubicon to run it, but he still couldn’t tell if the money was because it was a covert Agency project or because another rogue CIA case officer was setting up lucrative retirement plans with corporate America.

As Ashland worked his way deeper into SHANGRI-LA, he had studied Rubicon personnel files of its top operators in Iraq, searching for anyone who could blow his cover. He recognized the photo of a man whom he had first encountered in Afghanistan, an operator who had then been working with Force Zulu, the Pentagon’s new espionage and counterterrorism unit, the vanguard of the Pentagon’s push into the CIA’s realm. The man’s Rubicon personnel file had told a very different story, one that Ashland had no doubt had been professionally crafted by Force Zulu to cover for one of its spies.

A BMW SUV drove toward him with its lights off. It stopped and Ashland jumped inside.

“Jesus, that stinks. Shut the door fast,” Joe Chronister said as he held his hand over the dome light.

“Sorry to get you up at this hour, but we’ve got a situation.”

“It better be worth it. Security firm supervisors and oil company execs don’t generally meet in the middle of the night even if they do have the same parent company. Covers are wearing thin, even for around here.”

“Rubicon busted a small-time crook tonight. One of our team leaders got greedy and went into business for himself.”

“With the tangos?”

“Yeah and worse. With al-Zahrani’s faction.” Ashland handed Chronister a dossier.

“Crap. All it takes is one little guy to fuck up and someone thinks they’ve got something and they start pulling at threads. I assume you’ve taken care of him.”

Ashland took a deep breath and slowly exhaled before speaking. He was counting on the pause to add drama. He had to burn the Force Zulu operator so badly that not even his own guys would believe him, let alone help him. Even if Rubicon managed to eliminate the man tonight, Ashland had to make sure that Force Zulu would not come around to investigate the death of their man. They had to believe their own man had gone bad. Joe Chronister had the connections, credibility and creativity to make sure that happened. He’d see to it that every government and private operator on the planet believed the Force Zulu spy was radioactive.

Ashland cleared his throat. “We could use some help. He took out Kyle, my best man. We’re after him right now, but he’s good.”

“The way I see it, it’s a Rubicon personnel problem. Jesus, this smell is too much. The hospital must’ve tossed a bunch of body parts in there tonight.” Chronister turned up the air conditioner. Gunfire popped in the distance, but they ignored the typical sound of Iraqi nightlife.

“You’ve got to help us make sure he’s neutralized,” Ashland said. “Pull the right thread and you can unravel a whole sweater.”

“The Agency can’t be part of a manhunt. Too public. Eliminate him yourself. Jesus, you’ve got more hunters on the payroll here than we do. Tell the guy’s family he died killing terrorists and let them collect the death benefits. No one will think twice about it, let alone call for an investigation. The family will probably be happy not to have to deal with Rambo coming home and fighting the war at the local 7-Eleven. The guys who succeed over here make lousy civilians and families know that.”

Chronister wasn’t cooperating and Ashland had worked with him long enough to know that he was losing patience and any moment would cut off the conversation. He didn’t like giving away any more secrets than he had to, but he realized it would take the CIA’s fear of the Pentagon to get Chronister on board with his plan. He still hadn’t figured out the guy. Ashland knew that Chronister was CIA, but the deeper he got into the SHANGRI-LA project, the more he suspected that the Agency knew nothing about SHANGRI-LA, that Chronister had gone rogue and was using CIA resources to help the secret Rubicon project. The more he thought about it, the more Chronister disgusted him. But at the moment he needed Chronister and his contacts. Ashland took a deep breath and said, “There’s a little more to it. Bolton-or whoever he is-works for Force Zulu. They’ve infiltrated Rubicon.”

“Fuck. We take out their spook, we’re painting a bull’s-eye on ourselves.” Chronister folded a Kleenex, held it up to his nose and breathed through it. “You know I actually typed up a resignation letter the day I heard the president authorized Cambone and that born-again whack-job Boykin to round up a bunch of soldiers and start playing I Spy. I predicted this was going to happen-us tripping all over each other. You know the Pentagon’s real goal is to shut us down and corner the market on intel. Those fuckers spying on us is just another goddamn brick in the wall.”

“If they learn that one of their Bushmen has started playing ball with the tangos, they might take care of him for us.”

“Not without asking a lot of questions. And I have a lot I’d like answered-like how deep has Zulu penetrated Rubicon.” Chronister shined a penlight on the file and thumbed through it.

“You have to burn him with Zulu. Make them doubt everything he says.”

“Let me keep this.” Chronister tapped his fingers on the file. “I can fuck him up with Zulu.” A picture fell out of the file and fluttered to the car floor. Chronister picked it up. “Hey, I know this motherfucker. He was engaged to someone I used to work with. You know, I might be able to help you out with a silent solution after all. You ever meet Camille Black? She’s a real ball buster, in the best kind of way.”

Chapter Five

“Anbar is controlled by terrorist groups,” said Sheik Yaseen Gaood,[Iraqi] deputy minister of the Interior overseeing the western provinces. “The Anbar government has no authority. The ministries of Interior and Defense have no influence there.”

– The Los Angeles Times, June 11, 2006, as reported by Megan K. Stack and Louise Roug

Anbar Province

As Hunter drove out of the gates of the camp and into Anbar province, he gritted his teeth and immediately felt pain. His tongue checked on the tooth, still tucked into the side of his mouth. He had to get it back in the socket soon.

Like he had earlier in the night on the way to the raid, he turned right toward Ramadi. His unit had worked out an emergency exit plan for him-the only problem was he had to get to the insurgent stronghold, Ramadi. The escape plan had been set up before the insurgents had returned there yet again and no one in the Pentagon had ever gotten around to modifying it. He knew an American armed only with a SIG Sauer and a little over thirty rounds wouldn’t make it far on the dusty roads of Anbar province. A goat in an Afghan mujahedin camp had a better chance of dying a virgin.

He had to go local.

The guys at Rubicon were constantly leaving things in their trucks but a quick scan of the back of the Navigator confirmed what he already knew-Camille Black ran a tight ship. A break-down kit was in the back along with ammo cans he’d check out when he got a chance, even though he was sure it would be 5.56 rounds for assault rifles, not 9mm for his sidearm. What he wouldn’t have given for a stray rifle or even a different vehicle, one outfitted for a trunk monkey-a machine gunner with a mounted weapon designed to punch out the back window with the first round and surprise the road hazard with the following ones.

With one hand on the wheel, he reached under the driver’s seat, hoping something useful had escaped inspection, but he found nothing. Leaning over to the passenger seat, he patted the floorboard and his hand bumped up against something, but it rolled away. A water bottle. Hopefully it had a few swallows left in it. The tooth was driving him crazy and he had to do something about it. Already on the edge of Ramadi, he pulled over to the side of the road, unbuckled his seatbelt and reached for the water bottle. It was half full.

He turned the overhead light on and opened the door. He poured some water into his hand, he spat his tooth into the palm, then swirled it in the water. Although he had stitched up comrades more than once and had even carved a bullet from his own thigh, teeth were different. He’d rather face a horde of tangos than a dentist. It was all he could do to force himself to look at it. At least it seemed to be free from dirt.

Careful not to touch the roots, he picked it up and turned it around as he tried to figure out which way it went in. The water rolled out of his hand onto the ground. He leaned back into the truck to look into the rearview mirror to find the hole. Checking one more time to make sure the tooth was turned the right way, he took a deep breath and shoved it into the socket. Pain zinged his mouth. After another measured breath, he bit down firmly, pushing the tooth farther down. He jumped from the jolt.

He swirled warm water in his mouth. As he leaned out the door to spit, a knife thrust toward him. He jerked out of the way and yanked the door shut to the sound of bone being crushed. A man screamed and the knife fell to the ground. Unsure if the carjacker had buddies with him, Hunter threw the SUV into gear, grabbed the arm and held onto it. This was the break he needed and he wasn’t about to let go.

The man howled as he was dragged alongside the Navigator. Hunter glanced into the mirror and even though he saw no accomplices, he still wanted to get a little distance from the carjacking site, just in case. The man was going for a short ride. Hunter sank his fingers into the guy’s hairy forearm, digging his fingernails into the skin, but he couldn’t get a good grip. The arm slipped away. He hit the brakes, came to a stop, then sprang from the vehicle.

The young man lay unconscious in the dirt, his arm twisted into an unnatural position. Hunter yanked off the assailant’s headband, headscarf and beanie and dropped them onto the hood of the SUV. He wrestled with the body for its clothing, a dishdashah, the traditional white man-dress worn throughout the Arabian Peninsula. He worked the skirt above the man’s hips, exposing his genitals. Keeping with local customs, the carjacker wore no underwear. Hunter averted his eyes.

“This is why guys in Detroit never go out carjacking free-balling under a dress. It’s not only the cold,” Hunter said as pulled the dishdashah over the man’s head. He wadded it up and grabbed the headdress. He smiled when he found a small wad of cash. It wasn’t much, but would be enough to get him by for awhile before he could sell the gold chain necklace that he always wore for such emergencies. He jumped into the Navigator to drive back to where the guy had lost his slippers.

The dirt streaked across the front of the white cotton garment would draw some attention, but even so, the man-dress would help him blend in a lot better than his 5.11 pants and Under Armour T-shirt. Back on the tango turn-pike to Ramadi, he yanked off his shirt and undershirt, then pulled the dress over his head and down to his waist. The Velcro crackled as he pulled the sheath off his leg and lay his knife on the seat beside him. Steering with his knee, he unzipped his pants and pulled them down to his ankles where they got stuck around his combat boots. Peeking up over the dashboard just enough to see the road ahead, he untied his boots and took off his pants. For a few moments he debated with himself whether he really needed to lose his jockeys, but knew he had to do everything he could to blend in. His knife could have been a spoil of war, he told himself as he strapped it back onto his bare leg, but as much as it pained him, he would have to leave the firearm in the SUV. He had no way of concealing it and passing as an Iraqi was a far more powerful defense than a single bullet.

Deciding to forego the beanie, Hunter folded the black and white checkered cloth in two and draped it over his head. The black cord of the headband smelled like a goat. He doubled it around the top of his head to hold the headdress in place, then pulled down the sun visor to check himself out in the vanity mirror. The cruel Iraqi sun had given him a deep tan that was darker than many of the locals. His beard could have been a little longer and rattier, but he could pass. Score one for the loose Rubicon dress code that had no restrictions on hair length or facial hair.

The first rays of sunlight streaked orange across the sky and soon calls to prayer would echo in the streets. He could already smell smoke from firewood and diesel fumes from generators. The Iraqis didn’t let much of the day get away from them, he’d give them credit for that. He spotted a dark alley with an assortment of cars where he could change and trade in Stella’s SUV for something less conspicuous. He looked in the rearview mirror as he started to turn.

Two Ford Expeditions sped toward him.

Rubicon.

Chapter Six

At the Pentagon, which has encouraged the outsourcing of security work, there are widespread misgivings about the use of hired guns. A Pentagon official says the outsourcing of security work means the government no longer has any real control over the training and capabilities of thousands of U.S. and foreign contractors who are packing weapons every bit as powerful as those belonging to the average G.I. “…they are not on the U.S. payroll. And so they are not our responsibility.”

– Time Magazine, April 12, 2004, as reported by Michael Duffy

Camp Tornado Point, Anbar Province

The first rays of the morning sun were turning the sky orange and a distant wail of a muezzin called the faithful to prayer as Camille marched into Saddam’s former palace. It had been a day since she’d slept and nearly as long since she’d eaten. Her body was achy and her emotions were whitewater, churning with eddies and undertows with no clear main channel. She and Hunter played rough together and delighted in pushing one another to the edge in their own war games, but the heat of their battles usually resolved in wild passion. During their last vacation they had spent days tracking one another throughout Panama and it ended in a sugar cane field where she surprised him and overpowered him, though she was sure he would claim that he was the one who had prevailed. They had made love there for hours, the sharp blades of the cane slicing their skin. This morning had the appearance of another game, but his mood had not been playful. Their sparring suddenly felt strangely real. She grabbed a handful of M &Ms from her pocket and popped them into her mouth. The M &Ms had saved her life more than once, keeping her blood sugar hyped when her body was ready to tank. She chewed fast and swallowed before entering the headquarters of the base commander, USMC Colonel Michael Lukson. Camp Tornado Point was still officially a Marine base and the contractors were guests even though they outnumbered the Marines twenty to one. An aide showed her inside the colonel’s makeshift office, one of Saddam’s former bedrooms.

Camille tried to play cool, but the cavernous room screamed for attention.

It was a bold play of volume and void that had all the class and splendor of an Atlantic City casino. The original furnishings had long ago been stripped away, but gold-plated gargoyles perched atop green malachite pillars protected the granite walls and marble floors. A recessed archway and blue lapis columns framed a life-sized mural of Scud missiles with flames shooting behind them. At least the Iraqi flags on the missiles had been chipped away. Saddam’s military murals competed with fantasy scenes of iridescent dragons menacing chesty blondes that would have been better suited to black velvet than a palace wall. A beam of light shined onto the floor. She looked up, following it to its source. A mortar had knocked a hole in a ceiling dome and it had missed a stylized Saddam leading troops into Jerusalem by only a few inches. She shuddered when she realized she was standing in the middle of Saddam’s wet dream.

The base commander had set up his office in a corner of the grand room. File cabinets and scavenged office fixtures surrounded a simple wooden desk half covered by an old computer monitor. A wall map of the al-Anbar Area of Operation was tacked over the groin of one of Saddam’s nymphs. The colonel sat at his desk, across from a man Camille hadn’t seen or spoken to since the outbreak of the second Gulf War when she had quit the CIA. Joe Chronister was the reason she had joined the Agency and he was also the reason that she left it to start Black Management.

Colonel Lukson stared at her, his thick arms crossed. As was custom when in combat, his short sleeves were down, not rolled up in a cuff. One forearm was tattooed with the Marine Corps’ globe and anchor with the words Semper Fidelis above it; the other arm had the image of an alligator on tracs.

Camille stood perfectly erect beside an empty chair. “Colonel Lukson, sir, I’m Camille Black, president and CEO of Black Management.”

“I know who you are.”

The large empty room behind her made her uneasy, but she continued to stand in silence, waiting for the colonel. She averted her eyes. The military controlled the bases in Iraq and the private military companies were guests on their turf. Camille’s troops at Tornado Point did covert work for the CIA and some secret military units-almost all of it outside the purview of the base commander. It was no secret that Colonel Lukson and other field officers did not like their new roles as landlords for higher paid civilian mercenaries and would relish the eviction of one of them.

After a long minute, Lukson spoke. “Anything you want to tell me, Black?”

“Sir, I was fired on tonight by Rubicon troops.”

“And that’s why you decided to play cowboys and indians on my ranch? You might not take orders from me, but I sure as hell can kick your sweet ass off my base.”

“Sir, I had to defend myself, sir,” Camille said like an enlisted Marine. She flashed back to her childhood when she had to stand before her father and answer for her mistakes in the same way. At the time it had felt severe, but now, it seemed more like good training. She had a lucrative contract to protect and couldn’t risk any missteps with her Marine host. It was time to use the word “sir” more than she had in the past year.

“And you had to defend yourself from Mr. Kyle as well?”

“Who’s Mr. Kyle, sir?”

The CIA case officer Chronister interrupted. “I believe you encountered the gentleman tonight in the Rubicon offices.”

Camille continued to stand erect in front of the colonel and ignored Chronister. “Sir, Mr. Kyle threatened me at gunpoint. I had to disarm him, sir.”

“By tying him up and breaking his fucking neck?” Chronister said with a laugh. “Camille, I always loved that matter-of-factness about you. You really should’ve been a Marine.”

Fuck you, Joe. She continued to stare straight ahead at the colonel. She wasn’t going to fall for his bait-not this time. She wondered why Hunter had done it. He was one of the most deadly men she knew, but also one of the most moral. He wouldn’t kill without reason.

“Black, answer the question. Did you tie Kyle up and break his neck?” Lukson said.

“No, sir. He was alive, sir, when I left, sir.”

“Did you threaten Mr. Kyle?” Lukson leaned back in his chair causing a caster to fall out. He grabbed the desk to catch his balance.

Chronister laughed. Camille remained stoic, silently thanking her father, who would’ve beaten her senseless if that had happened to him when dressing her down and she had so much as cracked a smile. She was exhausted and trying hard not to tremble before the Marine. “May I help you, sir?”

“Goddamn piece of Iraqi shit.” Lukson got down on the floor and shoved the caster back into the base of the wooden chair. “I’m still waiting on your answer, Black. Did you threaten Kyle?”

“Sir, no, sir.”

“Come on, Camille. Did you not tell him…” Chronister pulled a pair of reading glasses from his pocket and put them on. He unfolded a piece of paper and read from it. “‘All I care about is eliminating the enemy…and as I see it right now, Rubicon is the enemy?’”

Camille stared straight ahead.

“Answer him, Black.”

“Sir, those are my words, sir. Sir, the only way he could know that is if the Agency is bugging Rubicon offices.”

“What’s it to ya if we listen in on your competitors? What were you doing there?” Chronister gnawed on the end of his reading glasses.

“Black!”

“Sir, Rubicon has been muscling in on Black Management assignments. I suspect, sir, that they’re trying to beat us to big arms caches. I also suspect, sir, that’s why the Agency is keeping an eye on them,” she said stiffly, as if she were at a legal deposition.

“Cut the cloak-and-dagger bull-crap. I don’t have much use for spies and I don’t like mercenaries, but one thing I really hate is a traitor. Fuckers should be shot on sight,” Colonel Lukson said to her as he leaned forward. “The OGA has evidence that a few individuals in Rubicon have been in contact with al-Zahrani’s people. Kyle got too close and they popped him. We’re missing the big guy in this picture and I want to know who he is. We might not see eye-to-eye about spies and mercs, but I think we’re all working from the same field manual when it comes to traitors. You seem like a nice, well-mannered girl. Now do the right thing, sweetheart, and tell us the truth about last night.”

“Sir, I am telling the truth, sir. The only thing I have to add, sir, is that after I left Kyle’s office, some Rubicon troops fired on me and tried to kill me. Maybe they got to Kyle first.”

“Was Mr. Kyle alone when you left the office?” Chronister said.

Camille hesitated.

“Was he alone?” The colonel said, his voice rising with irritation.

Even to cover for Hunter, for some reason she couldn’t bring herself to lie to the Marine’s face. Camille turned toward Chronister as she spoke. “Yes. Kyle was alone.”

Chapter Seven

A sprawling agricultural and smuggling hub on the banks of the Euphrates, Ramadi has long been one of the U.S. military’s stickiest problems. The largest city in Sunni-dominated Al Anbar province, Ramadi has degenerated into a haven for insurgents. Even now, when U.S. forces are working to scale back their presence throughout Iraq, daily combat continues to roil the city.

– The Los Angeles Times, June 11, 2006, as reported by Megan K. Stack and Louise Roug

Ramadi, Anbar Province

Every time Hunter entered Ramadi, he felt like a black man in the Deep South during Jim Crow; there were no friendly faces, only hateful stares and the lynch mob was never far away. The people of Ramadi carried their disdain for the Americans as civic pride. Hunter had been shot at on at least three occasions by the American-trained municipal police force and he couldn’t begin to count the number of times civilians had lit him up. He had personally helped rid the city of scores of insurgents, one bullet at a time, but even after years of campaigns, the main roads were more hazardous than ever for Americans.

Hunter was counting on it.

He took a left into a neighborhood where he had once gone door-to-door trick-or-treating and found enough candy to keep the bomb disposal guys happy for a week. It had taken his Marine unit four days to clear a particularly nasty five square block area and about the same amount of time for the insurgents to return once the Marines had pulled back from the area. The neighborhood had been a real fixer-upper even by Iraqi standards and that was before the Marines had trashed the place searching for insurgent nests. While some parts of Ramadi had pallets of bricks on the sidewalks and residents busy repairing the crumbling walls, mortar holes and twisted metal gates, in this part of town the new occupants hadn’t bothered to cover broken windows. Whoever was living here now was not putting down roots.

The two Rubicon SUVs followed him down the narrow street. His own men were now chasing him. It was time to see if they had learned anything from him. He doubted it.

Time to party in haji-land.

He honked the horn, rolled down his bullet-resistant window and stuck his head outside. The black checkered cloth of his headdress flapped in the wind as he yelled in Arabic, “Help! Americans!”

The language he had once delighted in learning back when he was part of the Marine security detachment at the Cairo embassy now made him cringe. He hated the sound of his voice speaking Arabic; the language of poets and scholars had been reduced to his language of combat. He honked again and repeated himself as he drove circling the block.

Halfway into the second circle, he heard the rapid pop of an AK, then several long bursts of gunfire. He hit the brakes and the Navigator skidded to a halt sideways in the middle of the street, blocking traffic. Hunter jumped from the Navigator shouting, “Allahu akbar.”

The flip-flops were at least two sizes too big, but his toes gripped them as tightly as they could as he ran through the back alleys in search of Khalid the tailor.

He could hear the bullets pelting his pursuers’ armored vehicles and hoped for their sake they had been smart enough to immediately call for reinforcements-it would be their only chance.

Chapter Eight

Private military firms are business providers of professional services intricately linked to warfare. That is, they are corporate bodies that specialise in the sale of military skills. They do everything, from leasing out commando teams and offering the strategic advice of ex-generals to running the outsourced supply chains for the US and now British armies. Such firms represent the evolution, globalisation, and corporatisation of the age-old mercenary trade.

– London News Review, March 19, 2004, as contributed by Peter W. Singer

Camp Tornado Point, Anbar Province

Camille stood in Saddam’s former bedroom before the Marine base commander, ignoring CIA case officer Chronister and staring at a point just behind the colonel at one of Saddam’s murals depicting a serpent constricting around a pin-up girl. Camille was thinking about how much she hated herself for once again protecting Hunter. Using the sidearm she had left him with would’ve been loud and Hunter was the quiet type. She had little doubt he had broken Kyle’s neck shortly before he surprised her in her motor pool. She wasn’t about to take the rap for him, but then again she also had no desire to help Chronister nail him. She may have wanted to hurt Hunter for how he had repeatedly betrayed her, but she was loyal in the face of an outside threat and Chronister had long ago proven himself to be just that.

“Colonel Lukson, may I borrow your office for a few moments?” Chronister said as he shooed away a fly. “I need to discuss some things with Ms. Black in private. I might be able to clear this up so you don’t have to hand the investigation over to the Army’s Criminal Investigation Division.”

“After how they screwed us at Haditha, I’m happy to keep those CID turds from nosing around my base.” Lukson nodded once, stood and walked away.

Camille and the CIA case officer listened to the squeak of his footsteps across the marble floor. As soon as Lukson had left the room, Camille sat down.

“Really, Camille. I didn’t expect you to protect Hunter Stone.”

“You’re a piece of shit, Joe.”

“You just made yourself a murder suspect. We now have reason to detain you. And detention in Iraq can last a very long time.”

“Fuck you. You’re desperate. You can kill anyone you want in this Allah-forsaken country and, unless you’re a grunt fragging an officer, no one gives a damn.” She reached into a cargo pocket of her 5.11s, pulled out a half-pound bag of peanut M &Ms and threw a handful into her mouth.

“But you handed me a little more leverage to persuade you to come back to work for me,” Chronister said as a pigeon flew near them. Both turned their heads and watched as it landed on a headless statue covered in bird droppings. Chronister continued, “And yeah, I’m getting desperate. As soon as I get some loose ends of a project squared away, I finally get to retire.”

“Work for you again? Go to hell.”

“You’ve done well for yourself since leaving the Agency. You’re a rich lady now. Looks to me like you should be thanking me.”

“I got out because I saw an opportunity to do what I’ve always wanted-something I never had at the CIA-despite your promises.” She held the M &Ms in her sweaty hand so long the color was rubbing off them.

“You’re a damn good operator, but you never would’ve survived in the Special Activities Division-no woman ever has. Come on, Camille, you know those operators. They’re all Delta and SEALs. They don’t play with girls. They’re the Agency’s military-they never would’ve let you go out on a mission with them no matter how desperate they got. If I hadn’t stepped in, you’d still be at the Agency making coffee for the boys.”

“Right. And if I were still working for you, I’d be servicing dead drops, sticking messages under things and marking the spots with chalk-takes real skill. You know, I found out that Iggy had actually approved my transfer over to them. I certified in all the Black Book standards-the exact same standards all the Delta operators train to.”

“Camille, honey, no one doubts you’re every bit as good as they are.” He held his hand out and pointed at the M &M bag. “Gimme.”

She hesitated, then poured him a handful, took more for herself and dropped the bag onto the desk. Joe was the one who had gotten her hooked on them back when he had taken her to Algiers on her first undercover mission for the Agency.

“I trained all my life for that kind of action.” Camille wiped her green and red stained palm on her pants. “You lied to me that I’d get it in the Agency.”

“I told the truth. I thought it would be different.”

“It would’ve been if you hadn’t sabotaged me.”

“You’re like a daughter to me. I was protecting you,” Joe said. “They would’ve fucked you good, left you alone, hanging in the cold on some mission, expecting an extraction that would never come. I’ve seen them do it to others.”

He picked up the bag of M &Ms and held it out to her. Camille stared at him, studying him as she took the candy. He was an expert at deception and manipulation, but he actually seemed sincere. She wanted him to be sincere. “Quit shitting me.”

“You were the best student I ever had. I got a real kick out of mentoring you. I didn’t want to lose you. You know what they say, ‘all’s fair in love, war and the Agency.’”

She held up her index finger and bowed her head slightly while she finished chewing, then she swallowed. “What do you want?”

“A job done right.”

“I have contracts for anything the Agency wants. Have someone else contact one of my ops officers, give him a target and my boys will take care of it.”

“I want you to do it personally.” Chronister paused, looked her in the eyes and appeared for a second as if he was going to crack a smile. Then he said, “I want you to kill Hunter Stone.”

Chapter Nine

Troops and civilians at a U.S. military base in Iraq were exposed to contaminated water last year and employees for the responsible contractor, Halliburton, couldn’t get their company to inform camp residents, according to interviews and internal company documents.

– Associated Press, January 22, 2006, as reported by Larry Margasak

Ramadi, Anbar Province

Ramadi was an unending stretch of bombed-out houses, neglected alleyways and decaying two-story concrete tenements. Garbage heaps and twisted car frames cluttered even the best neighborhoods. Roosters crowed from behind walled courtyards and dirty, skinny children were everywhere, playing in the streets and on rooftops. Hunter walked along an open ditch that smelled of sewage as he headed toward his contact’s tailor shop in the downtown souk. With his white dress and checkered headscarf, he looked like an Iraqi, but he walked like an American and he knew it. He continually forced himself to slow down and amble along, reminding himself he was in no rush. Rubicon didn’t have a chance at finding him. At that moment his biggest threats were the blister on his left foot and his growing thirst. He could live with that.

After a few hours of walking, he entered the market district. Sticky bodies, hawkers’ cries, stale urine, diesel fumes, grilled lamb, smoke-the souk was a sensory explosion and lack of sleep and high levels of adrenaline made the assault worse. And everyone but him seemed to be carrying an assault rifle.

The tiny shops spilled out onto the streets, blocking already crowded sidewalks. Vendors carrying their entire inventory in small crates clogged the throng of people, thrusting watches, chewing gum and CDs into the faces of anyone careless enough to glance their way. He even spotted two vendors selling automatic weapons and grenades. Car horns competed for attention with the latest pop divas from Egypt. Hunter shoved his way through the sweaty masses, searching for Khalid’s tailor shop among the many small stores selling satellite dishes, pirated DVDs and small appliances.

In the middle of a busy street corner, an old woman was hunched over a metal tub filled with large chunks of ice and plastic bottles of desalinated water imported from Kuwait. She wore head-to-toe black. Her hair was gray, her teeth rotten-Hunter guessed she was in her forties. Poor women did not age well in this part of the world.

Hunter fished a water bottle from the tub and checked to make sure the seal was intact. Saddam’s revenge because of some unscrupulous vendor selling rebottled Euphrates water was the last thing he needed. He pulled the carjacker’s money from his pocket. The crisp bills were pressed together in tight folds. He peeled off a pink 25,000 dinar note, the biggest they had printed and the smallest the guy had. On the black market, it was worth about twenty-five bucks in real money. The woman wrinkled her nose and said something he couldn’t hear and he shrugged his shoulders. She stood, told him to wait, then disappeared into the crowd. He gulped down a bottle, then a second one. Even though he was thirsty, the desalinated seawater tasted flat. A few minutes later, the woman reappeared and handed him a wad of purple, brown and blue bills and some coins. He shoved them into his pocket without counting and walked on.

Merchant stalls sold baskets of pomegranates, mounds of spices and stacks of melons. A seller held out a handful of pistachios and Hunter took a sample. He broke it open and ate it, but the first nut was bad and the aftertaste bitter. He had once loved exploring exotic Third World markets, but his three combat tours in Iraq had drained away the joy. Now every car concealed explosives, every merchant harbored an AK, each sleeve cloaked a knife and a crowd was only one incitement away from a mob. He loathed this place for what it had taken away from him.

He strolled past a bakery with a display window stuffed with honey-drenched sweets. His mouth watered. Promising himself that someday after the war he would return with Stella to enjoy it, he kept walking, but he couldn’t get over the pleasures the place had taken away from him. He stopped. Iraq was not going to defeat Hunter Stone. Hell, it wasn’t even going to get to him today. He returned to the shop and bought a bag full of treats. Standing on the street corner taking in the bustle of the market, he shooed away the flies as he downed a half-dozen gooey, nut-filled pastries. The day had definitely taken a turn for the better.

Chapter Ten

Although the U.S. government says the hunt is still on, the CIA recently closed its Bin Laden unit.

– Morning Edition, National Public Radio, July 3 2006, as reported by Mary Louise Kelly

Camp Tornado Point, Anbar Province

“Kill Hunter Stone?” Camille laughed. “I don’t know who you’re talking about. Who’s Hunter Stone?” Camille wasn’t sure how deep the Agency had nosed around into her relationship with Hunter. Out of fear for each other’s safety, they each had gone to extreme efforts to protect their privacy, but they apparently hadn’t gone far enough.

“Come on, Stella.”

“Camille Black, please.”

“We’ve known each other too long to fuck around with games like this. And quit hogging those M &Ms.”

“Help yourself, but you’ve got to be kidding if you think I’m going to eliminate Hunter for you.” She held out the bag while he fished out a handful. “What the hell did he do?”

“He’s put this Agency in a very difficult position, but I think the same can be said about what he’s done to you.”

“I try to stay out of CIA politics, especially since 9/11 when the Pentagon started trying to short-sheet you guys at Langley.”

“Short-sheet us, hell. They’ve been out for blood and they’re not going to be happy until they’re standing over the Agency’s lifeless corpse. But this isn’t about Washington politics. Stone’s gone over to the other side.”

“Bullshit.” Camille leaned back in the chair and left the bag of candy on the Marine colonel’s desk.

Chronister reached into a worn leather attaché on the floor and removed a stack of papers. He passed Camille a photo of Hunter handing over a crate to someone on a loading dock. She glanced at it and immediately handed it back to Chronister.

“This shows nothing.”

Chronister passed Camille a stack of photos depicting Hunter at the same warehouse with the same man. He also included other shots of Hunter with a dark beard and in Iraqi dress meeting with the same figure in a crowded bazaar. Chronister continued speaking. “The man he’s turning the weapons over to is a lieutenant of al-Zahrani. It doesn’t get much more serious than supplying weapons to one of the two men scrambling to become bin Laden’s successor.”

“OBL’s successor. I’ve been hearing a lot about that lately. So did some al Qaeda lieutenants finally catch on you’ve been holding the fucker for years and seize the opportunity to take over the network? Did they figure out that you’ve been running him, stringing them along, releasing just enough messages to make them think he’s in charge from some rathole in Pakistan?”

“I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.” Chronister grinned.

Camille knew Hunter was part of the team that, less than a year after 9/11, had caught bin Laden, barely alive, hiding in a cave in a northern Pakistan. Of course, Hunter would never come right out and tell her, but instead had spun a wild yarn about a successful hunting trip for the world’s rarest animal, his excitement betraying the thinly disguised metaphor. “Don’t patronize me. You’ve had bin Laden on ice in Afghanistan for years. I’ve heard so many specifics from so many different units, I could take you to the cell block where you’re holding him. Hell, I even know the names of the kidney specialists you’ve got keeping him alive-if he’s still alive.”

“Al Qaeda sure has been an organizational disaster for years, hasn’t it?” Chronister laughed.

“Looks to me that might be changing with al-Zahrani and Abdullah fighting to pick up the pieces.”

“It’s not going to happen, unless, of course, they enlist a lot of traitors like Hunter Stone to help them out.”

“Hunter is not a traitor. No way.”

“Not knowingly. My guess is that he believes he’s selling stuff to run-of-the-mill insurgents. I’m willing to give him the benefit of the doubt when it comes to betraying his country. You, my dear, are a different matter. Do you know how Stone got those arms caches-by staying one step ahead of Black Management. You really have to hand it to the guy. He’s got balls-crossing not only us, but Rubicon and you. He didn’t go after Triple Canopy, Blackwater or any of the others. Think about it. He chose to mess with Camille Black’s very own Black Management. Think anything personal went into that decision to fuck Black Management? I think he wanted to screw you, Stella-screw the great Camille Black.”

“Anything personal between myself and Mr. Stone is none of your goddamn business.” Camille struggled to keep her voice steady, not wanting to show Chronister how furious she felt. Part of her couldn’t believe that Hunter would do anything to intentionally hurt her, but she had suffered so much over his fictional death, it was getting easier and easier to believe. She grabbed the bag of M &Ms and chomped down as many as she could shove into her mouth. Her anger grew with each bite as she studied the photographs. Chronister sat back and waited.

“Am I supposed to believe that he was working for you at the Agency when he infiltrated Rubicon?”

“He was ours.”

“Word on the street is that he was hooked up with Task Force Zulu.” Camille tossed the photos onto the desk.

“He did try to go to the Pentagon black units first, but they all turned him down. You know how strict certain units are about the operators having their lives in order so they’re not vulnerable to blackmail. His was a fucking mess. I assume you might know something about this.”

“You’re talking about financial hangovers from his ex-wife?”

“Ex-wives. According to his file, he’s still paying on two separate boob jobs for those gals. Didn’t he knock up that last one-the crazy one-when you and I were undercover after those suitcase nukes in Turkmenistan?”

“We were both seeing other people-sort of.”

“Sort of.”

“As a good Southern boy, he felt he had to do right by her and marry her.” Camille wiped her hands on her pants.

“I’m from Brooklyn. The South doesn’t make a fucking bit of sense to me. But seems like he screwed you big time.”

Camille stood. “Look, I’ve got to go.”

“Stone approached the Agency a couple of years ago when things got a little too confusing for him. We helped him simplify his life by faking his death.”

“A couple of years ago. When exactly?”

“A little over two years ago-it was early March.”

“You mean a month before he was supposed to marry me?”

“I mean a month before he was supposed to marry you and Julia Lewis.”

Chapter Eleven

The veil of secrecy surrounding the highly classified unit has helped to shield its conduct from public scrutiny. The Pentagon will not disclose the unit’s precise size, the names of its commanders, its operating bases or specific missions. Even the task force’s name changes regularly to confuse adversaries, and the courts-martial and other disciplinary proceedings have not identified the soldiers in public announcements as task force members.

– The New York Times, March 19, 2006, as reported by Eric Schmitt and Carolyn Marshall

Ramadi, Anbar Province

After another hour of exploration, Hunter found Khalid’s shop in a quiet corner on the edge of the souk, near a busy mosque. Bolts of colored fabric were stuffed into the small sales room and color pictures of the latest Middle Eastern fashions snipped from magazines were plastered over every square inch of the walls. The floor was littered with swatches of fabric, pin cushions and even a pair of scissors.

A man yelled a greeting from behind a red cloth curtain, “Salaam alaikum.”

“Alaikum salaam,” Hunter said and continued in Arabic. “I might have left my wallet here last week. It had a special picture of my daughter, Barika.”

“Was she wearing the wedding dress I sewed for her?” A portly man stepped from behind the curtain. He carried scissors and wore a tape measure around his neck.

“No. The dress was from her aunt in Amman.” Hunter said the final identification phrase as he studied the man’s eyes.

He saw fear.

“Come. I’ve been expecting you.” The man held the curtain open and motioned with his hand.

No one at Force Zulu had yet been alerted that he was coming in. “You’ve been expecting me?”

The man hesitated for a second longer than Hunter would have liked. “I meant when people leave their wallets in your shop, you expect them to return.” He smiled. Several teeth were missing. “Come and I will locate your wallet for you. My wife will bring you tea and sweets.”

Hunter waited in a sandy courtyard while the midday call to prayer blared from loudspeakers mounted throughout the district. Hunter ignored it as he sat in a plastic chair beside an orange tree, not sure if he should believe Khalid’s assurances that his unit would be there any moment to escort him to safety. The agent had been vetted long ago, Hunter reassured himself, but something didn’t feel quite right. Sipping tea, he twirled a fallen orange blossom between his fingers until it disintegrated, then he sniffed his fingers and smiled. His tongue checked on his tooth. It moved too easily and he knew it had to be stabilized soon if it was going to be saved. He hoped to be sitting in an American dentist’s chair at a base in Baghdad by late afternoon. He wished the Zulu Bushmen would hurry up.

Just as the drone of the muezzin’s call to prayer was ending, three Force Zulu operators burst into the courtyard, their guns sweeping the area. He had expected them to come posing as civilians, not wearing full combat gear. Hunter held his hands in the air, aware they would instantly judge him to be an Iraqi and a potential danger because of his man-dress. He’d worked with all of them and was surprised they didn’t seem to recognize him.

“SABER TOOTH. Coming in from the cold. And it’s damn chilly out there.” Hunter laughed.

One operator approached Hunter, two others stayed by the door, their guns trained on him. They were all from his squadron and they should’ve seen past the Iraqi clothes and his new beard and recognized him by now.

“On the ground, you douche bag.” Stutler kicked Hunter’s left foot, knocking him slightly off balance. “Face down.”

“What the hell are you doing? It’s me-SABER TOOTH.” Hunter dropped to the ground. He knew better than to fight overwhelming force. “I’ve been deep undercover and my cover was blown. Check with General Smillie at SSB.”

“Smillie is the one who sent us.” Stutler zip-tied Hunter’s hands behind his back, then patted him down and found the knife. He ripped the sheath from his leg.

“I’m not offering any resistance. At least leave my feet free so I can walk without falling all over myself. Come on, Scott.”

“No way, man. You could take out Bruce Lee with those legs. I’ve been on too many missions and in too many bar fights with you.”

“Yeah, I’ve saved your sorry ass from the bad guys and from your wife more times than you can count.”

“That’s why I’m saving yours right now. Everyone else in Zulu wants the honor of killing the only fucker ever to betray the unit to the muj.” He shoved the plastic tie under Hunter’s ankle, then pulled it tight.

“I would never betray Zulu. Never. Rubicon’s framing me. You’ve got to believe me.”

“Dude, you’re the last guy I ever thought would work for al-Zahrani.” Stutler pulled Hunter to his feet.

Hunter shuffled into the tailor shop. A fourth team member waited inside.

“Move, you dumb-fuck” Stutler shoved him.

“Hey, it’s hard enough walking in a dress and these zip-ties don’t make it any easier.” Hunter stumbled as if he had tripped on his dishdashah and intentionally fell to the ground on top of Khalid’s sewing clutter. He rolled over on his back. “You’re going to have to help me get up.” He patted the floor until he found the pair of scissors he’d seen on the way in. Cupping them in his hands, he hoped Stutler didn’t notice in the exposed moment before the wide sleeves of the dishdashah covered his hands. He had no idea what he was going to do with them, but he had to start expanding his options.

Hunter waddled from the tailor shop and looked around for the team’s Humvees. He spotted them halfway down the block, on the other side of the street. Logistical nightmares like this were why the soldier in him hated markets, but the spy in him had fallen in love with them all over again. The crowd parted for Stutler’s team. Friday prayers had ended and men streamed from the corner mosque. Hunter made eye contact with a young man. He was accustomed to the acidic glares of the Iraqis, but he felt sympathy coming from the guy. Then Hunter understood. They didn’t see American soldiers taking away another American; they saw the American occupiers dragging away another Iraqi resistance fighter.

“Keep moving. Don’t stop.” Stutler pushed him.

Hunter slowed down and didn’t say a word. He knew the team was bound by rules of engagement that were tighter than the plastic ties around his legs. Killing him in an escape attempt was undoubtedly permitted, but they all had been in the sandbox long enough to know better than to shoot a bound Iraqi in the middle of a crowded market. As far as the masses were concerned, Hunter was one of them, another innocent victim of the evil Americans. The old Arab proverb kept running through his mind: never give advice in a crowd. Hunter worked the scissors around in his hands to the right angle, then he stopped.

“Move, I said. Now!”

Hunter dropped to his knees, lowered his hands and cut at the plastic tie at his ankles.

“Get up, you asshole.” Stutler grabbed Hunter under the arm and pulled him to his feet.

Hunter shuffled forward as if his legs were still bound. He instinctively turned the scissors so that they pointed toward Stutler, but he knew he couldn’t bring himself to stab a fellow Bushman, so he stopped, threw back his head and shouted at the top of his lungs, “Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar! Allah is great!”

Hunter saw a piece of a brick fly toward Stutler, then a hail of rocks pelted the operators and angry shouts closed in from all directions.

The last thing Hunter saw was a chunk of concrete flying toward his head. It was painted green, the color of the Prophet.

Chapter Twelve

“They’re pretty freewheeling,” the former CIA official said of the military teams. He said that it was not uncommon for CIA station chiefs to learn of military intelligence operations only after they were underway, and that many conflicted with existing operations being carried out by the CIA or the foreign country’s intelligence service.

– The Los Angeles Times, December 18, 2006, as reported by Greg Miller

Camp Tornado Point, Anbar Province

Camille opened her mouth, then closed it slowly. Resting her chin on her hands, she stared some more. The betrayal sliced so deep, she didn’t know what to believe. Hunter’s story had never felt quite right and she had always sensed he was hiding something. She took a deep breath and pursed her lips. “You’re telling me Hunter was engaged to someone else when he was engaged to me? I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’ll do the job,” Joe Chronister said.

“How do I know this is true?”

“Because of how it resonates. You know it’s true, Camille. Deep down inside, you know it.”

Chronister gave her another stack of photos. On top was one of Hunter with a woman who looked like she had stepped out of the pages of a Neiman Marcus catalog. The bitch was obviously edgy, high-maintenance and totally out of Hunter’s league. She was probably insane, which would make her within his reach, but not his grasp-his favorite type of gal, totally Hunter. “He could never afford a woman like that-not even if his official death had absolved him of alimony and child support.”

“But you know he’d have the hots for a broad like that, don’t you?”

Camille tossed the photos onto the desk. “Pictures can be doctored. Give a trained monkey Photoshop and you could be showing me shots of Marilyn Monroe giving him head.”

“Stella-Camille-he faked his death so he could get away from you to be with her. It wasn’t cold feet, it was a hot-”

“Stop. Don’t say it.” Camille held up her hand and looked away from Chronister so he couldn’t see her fighting back tears as she remembered his lame excuses. Hunter had played her for a fool and she let him do it-over and over again.

“But in case you want more evidence, here are some intercepted emails between-”

“Email is the easiest thing in the world to fake. Untrained monkeys can do that.”

Chronister reached back into his attaché and pulled out a thick dossier. He handed it to Camille. “You’ll also find copies of several handwritten cards, love notes and letters with his signature.”

Camille flipped through the pages, shaking her head. The handwriting was his. The adoring sticky notes were familiar-too familiar. She slapped it closed and pressed her hands against each side of it.

“I’ve seen enough.”

“No, you haven’t. I still have copies of statements from his joint bank account with her. Three months ago when Rubicon started raiding Black Management job sites, it went from chronically overdrawn to a six-figure surplus.”

Camille threw the folders onto the desk and looked at Chronister. “As I said, I’ve seen enough. You have my attention. So why isn’t the Agency handling this job in-house?”

Chronister took a deep breath. He recognized the look on Camille’s face and he liked what he saw. Things were progressing better than he had hoped, thanks in no small part to the Marine father-figure who had unknowingly softened Camille up for him. In thirty-two years with the Agency, he had recruited hundreds, maybe even thousands of spies, convincing them to betray their countries for one reason or another. Money. More often than not money made them do it, but sometimes it was for love, other times for revenge. Every once in a while some poor sap gave his country the Judas kiss out of a belief in peace, democracy or the American way. The real art in turning someone into an agent was getting under their skin and figuring out what they needed deep down inside. And he knew exactly what Camille needed. There was something she yearned for from both her father and from him-an apology. They had both pushed her relentlessly and made her promises that she could become something that she would never be allowed to be because of her gender: a Special Forces operator.

The only difference between Chronister and her father was that her father had really believed it could happen for her one day. In the late eighties, after her father had taken her along on a covert mission to Soviet Uzbekistan to clean up some Agency business and he had debriefed them both, Chronister knew he had to have her working for him. He had never seen raw talent like hers. When she was old enough, he had dangled the opportunity to enter the CIA’s paramilitary force in front of her to convince her to join the CIA over the Marines, even though he knew a woman didn’t have a chance with the Agency’s Special Activities Division either.

He glanced at Camille so see if his dramatic pause had gone on long enough. She was starting to look concerned.

“Is something wrong?” Camille said. “I asked you why the Agency isn’t handling the hit in-house.”

Chronister took another handful of M &Ms and talked while he chewed them. He took a deep breath and looked directly at her with the most remorseful expression he could muster. “Because I owe you.”

He caught a glint of hope in Camille’s eyes. She wants it.

“What do you mean, you owe me?”

“I’m facing retirement. Things look different when you get older and that lifelong dream of a fishing cabin in Michigan is only a few months away.”

“What are you saying?” Her face softened, but her arms were still crossed.

“I’m saying you start to regret mistakes when you get older. Maybe even want to make things right.”

“It’s too late for that.”

“Maybe. Like I said, you were like a daughter, but I shouldn’t have protected you. I should’ve sent you over to Iggy and the Special Activities Division with my blessings. You would’ve made a damn fine operator for them.” He sighed and shook his head, pretending not to notice the tears he saw welling up in her eyes. “Camille-Stella, forgive me. I’m sorry.”

She turned away for a second and wiped her eyes. It almost felt genuine to him as he got up and hugged her. He cared for her.

He really did.

As he hugged her, he thought about how perfectly his plan was falling into place. He had worked too long and hard on SHANGRI-LA to allow one of Force Zulu’s wannabe spooks come in and fuck it up. The last thing he wanted was the Pentagon muscling in on the project. Convincing Camille Black to take out Stone was the cleanest way to get Zulu off his ass. The Pentagon would write it off as a crime of passion, a lover’s spat. No one would suspect the CIA’s hand in the murder of a US military spy. It was too bad he could never explain it all to her, because Camille was one person who would really appreciate the genius in his design.

He touched her face and wiped away a tear

Camille pulled away and sat down. “Sorry.” She averted her eyes in shame from the tears. “What’s your timeframe?”

“Soon as possible. But it’s not a straightforward wet job. We need information from Stone. He’s had SERE training from us and the Marines. He’s not only been a guest of Saddam without breaking, he was held by the North Koreans for weeks before we bought him out. You’ve seen his fingernails. The man is not a talker.”

“He’ll talk to me. What do you need?”

“Stone is a bit player trafficking arms to al-Zahrani because his wife has high maintenance costs. But he knows who al-Zahrani’s main man is inside Rubicon. I need you to extract this information for me, then kill him. You can make it as slow and painful as you want.” Chronister knew the Force Zulu types-they were the über-patriots who teared up when they heard the “Star Spangled Banner.” One of them would never work with al-Zahrani’s organization, unless he was doing so under orders, orders that were bringing him too close to SHANGRI-LA. He wanted to know Stone’s mission, but doubted even Camille could get it out of him.

“You sure you don’t want him back alive?”

“Come on. You know how the world works. If an Agency analyst betrays us, US courts try him for treason. If a case officer betrays us, we eliminate him. Stone betrayed us.” Chronister took another handful of candy and ate a green one. “Stone’s made a fool of you-more than once. What say you, my dear?”

Chapter Thirteen

A former US army colonel, Alex Sands, declared: “The whole point of using special operations is to fight terror with terror. Our guys are trained to do the things that traditionally the other guys have done: kidnap, hijack, infiltrate.”

– New Statesman [London], May 17, 2004, as reported by Stephen Grey

Anbar Province

Hunter lay with his eyes closed, half awake, half asleep. He was aware that he was dreaming in Arabic and that made him happy. The unconscious didn’t bother messing around with a language it hadn’t mastered. As he floated toward greater consciousness, he realized he wasn’t dreaming in Arabic, but was listening to it. His forehead throbbed and he remembered the concrete fragment coming at him. He couldn’t sense anyone’s presence nearby, but he didn’t want to take any chances, so he kept his eyes closed and tried to make out what was being said, but the voices were too distant and muted. Then he heard a loud thump and a voice shouting in English.

“Help me! I’m Jackie Nelson. If anyone can hear me, I’ll reward you. American dollars. Help me.” The voice was hoarse and it seemed to be coming from the next room.

Muj. The tangos had somehow snatched him and he knew far too well what they did to their American prey-internet beheadings, bodies dragged through the streets, and severed heads delivered to American bases. He had long ago vowed he would take his own life and as many of theirs as he could before they did anything like that to him.

Lying motionless so he didn’t alert any mujahedin guards that he had come to, Hunter peeped, but saw no one, so he opened his eyes and sat up on the stained sleeping mat on a filthy floor. He was still wearing the clothes he had stolen from the Iraqi carjacker. The room was empty and the door was shut, but the window had no bars and no glass. A warm breeze blew through it.

“If you can hear me, help me! Get the Americans. Reward. Dollars. Dinar.” The voice weakened as she repeated herself.

When Hunter stood, the blood rushed from his head and he saw swirls of flashing light and blackness. He sat down again, took a deep breath and waited for his blood pressure to rise. His lips were chapped, his mouth dry and he was hungry, but he was no longer zip-tied. Why had the tangos cut him free? At once he understood: the muj weren’t his captors-they were his liberators.

Hunter opened the door and stepped into the main room. Most of the outside wall was missing and the gnarled wreckage of a bombed-out car was visible through the hole. A sliver of a mirror clung desperately to the opposite wall, which was pitted with craters from the blast. A small perimeter had been cleared of debris around a makeshift table constructed from a door and saw horses. Scattered about one end of the table were a brick of plastic explosive, wires, detonators, pliers and a Colt long gun. Three men sat around it, each with an AK-47 at his feet, and a teenager leaned against a wall, an AK slung over his shoulder.

Hunter forced his thoughts into Arabic. “Marhaba.” He nodded his head in greeting as he waded through the rubble.

“Marhaba,” they said, echoing one another as they looked up. Two were twins, probably in their late teens, no older than twenty, and the oldest of the three couldn’t have been more than twenty-two.

“Thanks be to Allah that you saved me from the Americans.” Hunter placed his closed fist over his heart and bowed his head. Cries from the trapped American woman drifted through the walls. He ignored the hostage’s desperate pleas and wished she would stop before she got them both killed. Any English he heard could break his concentration and cause a deadly slip of the tongue. “I am in your debt.”

“The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” the twenty-something one said. He avoided eye contact with Hunter. “Do you have a name? I am Fazul.”

“I go by Mu’tasim,” Hunter said. He had practiced this moment over and over, expecting to someday go deep undercover with the tangos. His Egyptian-accented Arabic was fluent, but he knew there were too many subtleties, too many opportunities to use an awkward word or the improper inflection. “But my given name is Sergei.”

The men laughed. “Sergei. You’re Russian?”

“I kill Russians. I am Chechen.”

“Chechen? So that’s why the Americans want you. I’ve trained with Chechens. They know no fear. I’ve seen a single Chechen with an AK-47 kill an entire platoon of Marines. They shot him, but he kept at them.” Fazul picked up the AK and pointed it at each of his friends, pretending to shoot them one by one. “He killed them all-even the Marines who ran.”

Hunter forced a laugh. “Allahu akbar. What else is there to say?” Other than “You fucking lying muj. Marines do not cut and run.”

“Who are you with, Sergei?”

“I’m on my way home, insh’allah-Allah willing. I’m no longer with a cell and if I were, you know I cannot say.”

“No. I mean, which leader do you follow? Abdullah or al-Zahrani?”

Hunter hated politics, but he knew enough about them to understand that he hadn’t been captured by ordinary insurgents, but by the much rarer al Qaeda cell-or at least al Qaeda wannabes. The last thing he wanted was to get trapped in the middle of the growing schism inside al Qaeda over bin Laden’s successor. He wasn’t even certain what that was all about. He had heard rumors that bin Laden had finally died, but those had been floating around for years and he was pretty sure bin Laden was still alive in the secret prison in Afghanistan where he had been held since Hunter’s team of operators had captured him in early 2002 in the mountains of Waziristan. The US government had wanted to avoid creating a martyr or rallying al Qaeda supporters into seeking his freedom by increasing attacks on American targets, so it instead made the al Qaeda leader fade away. Hunter wasn’t officially read into the project, but he knew that the CIA and Pentagon immediately took joint control of al Qaeda, feeding its lieutenants with useless orders which rendered the organization ineffective. It cost the Administration plenty in terms of political capital because the public believed it still hadn’t nabbed bin Laden, but the fiction was a small price to pay to keep the world and America safe.

Hunter didn’t know what had happened, but something with the plan had clearly gone wrong over the past year. The best he could figure out was that a couple of bin Laden’s more ambitious lieutenants either had figured out the American scheme or simply had sensed a weakened leader and staged a silent coup. Both Abdullah and al-Zahrani had declared bin Laden dead and were now fighting each other for control of al Qaeda. The internal violence in the organization had escalated so much in the past year that the two main factions were inflicting more casualties on each other than on the West, mirroring the Iraqi civil war between Sunni and Shi’a Muslims. Hunter took a deep breath as he looked around the terrorist safe house for clues as to which sect the tangos were with. He found none and said, “I follow the only true heir to bin Laden.”

“Of course.” Fazul smiled. “And his name is?…”

The teenager pushed himself away from the wall, stood straight and pointed his AK at Hunter.

“Long ago in Chechnya I pledged my life to bin Laden, may blessing be upon him. Now my loyalty is with…” Hunter studied them for signs that it was time to go on the offense. If he caught the right moment, he could use Fazul’s body to absorb the boy’s bullets while he reached for a weapon. He continued, “…al-Zahrani.”

Fazul put his hand on Hunter’s shoulder and held it there for a few moments. “You are a wise man, Sergei.”

And a lucky one.

Fazul’s cell phone started vibrating and a synthetic muezzin beckoned to midday prayers, “Allahu akbar. Allahu akbar. Ashhadu an la ilaha illahhah…”

Hunter knit his eyebrows, then smiled as he stared at the phone. Fazul picked it up, allowing it to finish playing the call to prayer. “It has a timer to play the adhan five times a day and it adjusts to the new time each day or if you move into a different location. It even has a direction finder for Mecca.”

“Amazing,” Hunter said. He couldn’t bring himself to choke out a few more words to praise their god, even though he knew he should have added them.

Several small rugs were rolled up in a pile along the wall. One of the twins passed them out.

“Give our guest Amir’s prayer rug. He no longer needs it. May Allah bless his soul,” Fazul said, his countenance suddenly dropping.

Each tango carried his AK along with his prayer rug to the barren courtyard behind the house and Hunter followed them. A goat gnawed at the sparse scrub and heat rose from the sun-scorched sand. He squinted, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the blinding light. As he had feared, they were in the middle of the desert with no other structures in sight. He could forget about slipping away quietly in the night.

Hunter walked over to a well and picked up the bucket to fetch water for the pre-prayer purification ritual. Fazul grabbed his arm. “No, my friend. It’s nearly dry. We have little water. We must use sand.”

To confirm his suspicions that they were Sunni like most of al Qaeda, Hunter paused for a second to see if they washed their hands rather than their faces first in the cleansing. He did the same, first rubbing his hands with sand, then his face, ears, arms and feet. During the first Gulf War when he was in the desert for days with Task Force Ripper, he had used the coarser Saudi sand for a dirt bath, but the powdery Iraqi sand left a dusty coating where the Saudi sand had come away clean. Next he only pretended to rub it on his teeth.

The four mujahedin turned toward Mecca, put their arms in the air and declared Allah’s greatness. Hunter listened for other insurgents as he said the prayers along with them, but he heard no other voices. The four to one ratio wasn’t great, but he could work with it. All he needed was one opportunity.

His teammates at Force Zulu had thought he was insane, practicing the Muslim prayers over and over until they became second nature. Those drills in both Sunni and Shi’a prayer customs were all that was preventing him from looking like the new guy at a dance class, struggling to mimic the others while tripping over his own feet. He folded his hands over his chest and recited the first verse of the Koran in Arabic.

He bowed.

He stood.

He prostrated himself.

He recited the prayers all the while watching for any opening to take them out. Fazul’s rifle was within reach, but the others were slightly off in their timing so that at every moment during the ritual one of them was on a prayer mat within reach of his AK. He could probably take out one or two, but not all of them and not before they got him. He stood, turned to the twin on his right, then Fazul on his left and exchanged the last prayer with each of them. “Peace be unto you and Allah’s blessings.”

Yeah, right.

Chapter Fourteen

“But DIA [the Defense Intelligence Agency] is now engaged in doing far grander things with regard to trying to penetrate foreign organizations,” said [Col. W. Patrick] Lang, the former DIA official. “They’re trying to penetrate jihadi organizations… It’s happening all over the Islamic world.”

– The Los Angeles Times, March 24, 2005, as reported by Mark Mazzetti and Greg Miller

Anbar Province

Fazul ordered the teenage boy to fetch food and drink for Hunter. He returned after a few minutes carrying a plate mounded over with white cheese, olives and flatbread. He handed it to Hunter who stood near the table, eyeing the AK underneath near Fazul’s feet. Fazul was becoming more and more focused upon the bomb he was cobbling together.

“Rubbish.” Fazul studied the markings on a blasting cap, then tossed it onto the floor. “This is useless rubbish. Amir, my bomb-maker, killed himself in an accident a few days ago. We’re supposed to be ready for a wedding this afternoon, insh’allah-Allah willing.”

“Thoughtful wedding present.” Hunter balanced the plate with his left hand and ate. The cheese was mild and very salty. So were the olives.

“Here. Sit with us.” Fazul pushed aside some tools, clearing a space for Hunter’s plate. He picked up the sidearm from the table and set it on his lap.

Hunter sat at the head of the table where Fazul had indicated. He would’ve preferred a spot beside the ringleader since it would’ve made an assault easier. “Why strike a wedding and not the American infidels?”

“The families are prominent and they both came out in support of Abdullah. You know the teachings of al-Zahrani, may the Prophet bless him. We first have to clean our own house. Those who follow Abdullah are a pox on us all. Tell me, Sergei, do you know anything about bombs?”

“Enough not to wear one.” He chewed on an olive, taking care not to chomp down on the pit and hurt another tooth.

One of the cell phones was in pieces and Fazul attached blasting cap wires to a circuit board. Then he crimped a wire to the end of a cap and taped the wire to a small battery. Fazul looked up at Hunter. “Where were you trained?”

“I was in camps in Afghanistan.” Where I killed fuckers like you.

“Those days must have been glorious. Had I only been born earlier, insh’allah.”

“Where did you train?” Hunter said.

“Uzbekistan.”

Hunter had never heard of al Qaeda bases in the former Soviet Republic. During the early Afghan campaign, the Uzbeks allowed the US to take over former Soviet bases, but the arrangement dissolved after their government massacred a few hundred protesters and the US objected. Radical Islam scared the crap out the Uzbek leaders, but it wouldn’t be the first time a dictatorship played both sides. Pakistan had it down to a fine art.

“Uzbekistan? The Uzbek government sleeps with the Americans and prohibits teaching of true Islam,” Hunter said.

“Not anymore. Al-Zahrani has an arrangement. As long as we keep to ourselves, we are most welcome-for a price, I’m sure.”

“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,” Hunter said and grinned. “Where is the Uzbek camp?”

Fazul laughed. “If you showed me a map, I could not find Uzbekistan. The camp was a hole in the desert. I saw nothing but sand and voles.” Fazul took the slab of plastic explosive and sunk the cap into the Semtex.

Hunter hoped Fazul really did know what he was doing, but his trembling hands hinted otherwise. He set the bomb down and looked into Hunter’s eyes. “You ask many questions, my friend.”

Hunter felt his body tense up and forced a deep breath to relax himself. “I was in Uzbekistan as a child, when it was part of the Soviet Union. I remember standing with my Young Pioneer group in Samarqand. The turquoise domes of the mosques, they were like nothing I had ever seen. At that moment, I realized that Islam had a glorious past and the communists were lying to us. I wanted to go in and pray, but I was told it was forbidden. The mosques were museums.”

“Patience. The Russians will pay one day, along with the Americans.” Fazul looked intensely at Hunter for a little too long.

A few minutes later the boy returned with a tray carrying glasses of tea and a bowl of sugar. The sugar had ants crawling in it, but the muj didn’t seem to mind. Fazul stopped playing with the explosives to scoop up a teaspoon of sugar and drop it into Hunter’s tea glass.

Hunter could never figure out why Iraqis didn’t use cups with handles for hot beverages. The tea glass burned his fingers, but he knew better than to show weakness and set it down-or to fish out the ants now swimming in the brew. The first sip was hot enough to scorch the hide off a camel and it singed his taste buds. He smiled and complimented them on the excellent tea.

The twins picked up their weapons and stepped into the room with the American hostage, leaving Hunter alone with Fazul and the teenager, who still carried an AK slung over his shoulder.

“No! Stop! No!” The American woman screeched. “No!”

Without thinking, Hunter grit his teeth and pain from the tooth immediately electrified his mouth. He searched for options, fighting to conceal his emotions while white-hot anger seared his gut. At Fort Bragg, Hunter had spent long hours with his team day after day running through live-fire hostage rescue exercises in the Force Zulu shooting house. Suddenly their worst-case scenarios seemed so naïve.

The boy looked toward the door and laughed. Then he turned to Fazul. “May I go, too? I never get my turn.”

Ignoring the boy’s whines, Fazul fiddled with the wires of a blasting cap fastened to a AAA battery. He sat in the line of fire between Hunter and the boy’s AK. Hunter eyed a screwdriver laying on the table and he inched his hand toward it while he watched Fazul sink the blasting cap into the Semtex. Hunter would need the full force of his right arm to shove the screwdriver into Fazul’s temple, so he would have to use his left one to grab the gun from the terrorist’s lap to take out the boy before he could fire the AK. He figured that the twin waiting his turn at the woman would come running out of the bedroom with his AK before Hunter would have time to switch hands. He was glad that he had trained so hard shooting lefty.

The woman’s screeches grew fainter, more haunting.

Hunter snatched up a screwdriver and lunged across the table. His chair fell to the floor. At the last moment, he saw Fazul with a wire in each hand, moving them toward one another, about to close the circuit and accidentally detonate the bomb.

Hunter let the screwdriver fall to the floor as he seized Fazul’s hairy wrists and held them apart.

“Allahu akbar. Praise be to Allah. You almost detonated it,” Hunter said before the boy could react. He then pulled the yellow wire from Fazul’s hand, gave it a tug and the cap pulled out of the Semtex. He reached over to the battery and ripped the tape off, separating the wires from it.

Alerted by the commotion, one of the twins ran out of the bedroom and pointed his assault rifle at Hunter.

Hunter and Fazul stared one another in the eyes without moving. Then Fazul glanced down at the screwdriver and Hunter recognized the flash of doubt.

“I kept you from blowing yourself up,” Hunter said.

Fazul was shaking. “You saved my life. Thanks be to Allah, the merciful and compassionate.”

Grunts and screams came from the bedroom. The one twin was still going at her. Hunter hated himself as he tried to block out her screams and said, “Yes, thanks be to Allah, the merciful and compassionate.”

“Come.” Hunter followed, aware that the teenager was behind him, carrying his weapon. Fazul walked over to the doorway to the room where the woman was being held. Her blouse was ripped and she was naked from the waist down. Her legs and arms were covered with fresh red bruises and older ones that had turned shades of yellow and brown. “Now I reward you.”

“But I’m supposed to be after Gamal! Not him!” The boy said.

“Gamal! Off her! Now!” Fazul pounded Gamal on his back as if he were beating a stubborn donkey. “Off! I said off her!”

Gamal ignored him and continued to hump her. Fazul picked up his AK and whacked him with it in the kidneys. Gamal rolled off her, reaching for his back.

“Why did you do that?”

“Obey me.” Fazul kicked him.

The woman’s shoulder-length brown hair was matted from dirt and tears. Her lips were parched and cracked and her eyes sunken. The woman needed fluids badly. She turned on her side with her back to them and moaned. If she had been an animal, Hunter would’ve shot her to put her out of her misery.

“My friend, here is your reward. You may have her.” Fazul stretched his arm toward the woman as if presenting a gift.

“No. It is haram, forbidden to know a woman who is not your wife.”

“The Prophet, peace be upon him, blessed temporary marriages, particularly for those away from their wives when on jihad. It is halal. Declare your mut’a and take her. Then it is pure.” Fazul looked into Hunter’s eyes and grimaced. “My friend, you are not thinking of dishonoring me and refusing my gift?”

The room where they were holding the American woman had to be well over a hundred degrees and it reeked of stale urine and feces. Sweat dripped down Hunter’s face and he wiped it away with the sleeve of his dishdashah.

The twins and the teenage muj blocked the doorway. They carried their weapons and so did Fazul. Hunter was helpless to try and help the woman without getting both of them killed. Insulting Fazul by refusing to rape her could have the same effect. He understood the scenario well. When his unit had been crosstrained at the Farm, his CIA instructors had spent the better part of an afternoon making them role play the dilemma. He had gone along with the playacting, but he had always believed that if this happened to him, he would be clever enough to figure out an innovative solution.

Now it was for real and Hunter Stone saw no way out.

Chapter Fifteen

Anbar Province

“My gift awaits.” Fazul swept his arm toward the American woman lying on a ripped mattress in a fetal position, sobbing.

Hunter despised the muj, but at that moment he hated himself more as he pulled up his dishdashah and climbed on top of the woman, upon Jackie Nelson. She let out a low groan, a sound that penetrated Hunter’s bones.

Forgive me.

Chapter Sixteen

The days when journalists could move around Iraq just by keeping a low profile-traveling in beat-up old cars, growing an Iraqi-style mustache, and dyeing their hair black, or when women reporters could safely shroud themselves in a black abbaya and veil-are gone. When Jill Carroll of The Christian Science Monitor tried such tactics this January, she was kidnapped while trying to get to an interview with a Sunni politician…

– The New York Review of Books, April 6, 2006, as reported by Orville Schell

Ramadi, Anbar Province

Camille took off her Oakley sunglasses and rubbed her eyes. The bustling market was a security nightmare. Everyone and everything seemed to be in constant motion and the honking of car horns was deafening. Worst of all, they all were armed. She had long ago given up on trying to keep track of the flow of people for someone who might be watching them. Some of her best operators were close by dressed as locals, in case someone decided she was a target of opportunity and tried to snatch her like they had the American geologist a few weeks ago. Whatever the muj were doing to that poor woman, they were not going to have the chance with Camille Black-even if that meant premature death.

A hawker jumped in front of her with a display case of Iraqi bracelets and necklaces. She brushed him aside, remembering how she and Hunter were once enjoying a night market in Istanbul when two men had tried to rob them at gunpoint. They neutralized the threat and, rather than deal with the hassle of the police, Camille had wanted to flee the country. Hunter had surprised her with a better idea: kick up their vacation a notch and tour ancient ruins, staying one step ahead of the Turkish police, putting their skills to the test. Hunter knew how to treat a woman to a good time. She’d give anything to live like that again, she thought, as she and her Lebanese interpreter walked into yet another store selling satellite dishes and cell phones, Iraq’s two postwar obsessions. It was the fourth Omar’s Electronics they had visited in the past two hours. Since nowhere in the town seemed to have electricity unless it was from a generator, she couldn’t imagine that business was exactly booming.

“Marhaba,” Camille and her interpreter said.

A voice returned the greeting from the back room. Camille nosed around. The shop was hardly bigger than a dog kennel and it was crammed with every imaginable cell phone accessory and pizza-box-sized satellite dishes were mounted along the top of the walls all the way around the room. Camille stretched and peeked behind the counter. A prayer rug and a sleeping mat were rolled up and stuck in a corner. A picture of a man with the cuddly look of an Islamic extremist was tacked to the shelf. She pointed to it and whispered to her interpreter. “Any idea which one that is? I’ve seen his picture all over today and I can never remember which is which. Long mangy beards, serenely rabid eyes-they both look alike to me.”

“It’s al-Zahrani. He claims he is bin Laden’s chosen one. He says al Qaeda has become weak because of heresy from within. He says its membership must be purged of all of Abdullah’s heretics.”

“I know, Abdullah, the other Crown Prince of Evil. Succession problems will get you every time.” Camille picked up a Hello Kitty cell phone skin. “Isn’t that how the whole Sunni/Shi’a thing started? Not that I’m comparing Mohammad’s ascent to heaven with Bin Laden’s descent to hell.”

The shopkeeper ducked down as he squeezed through the low doorway. He spoke in Arabic, revealing a mouth full of gold fillings. Camille assumed that he was apologizing for the delay.

“I’m Sally Winston, a correspondent for Newsweek. I’m doing a story on yesterday’s skirmish here in the souk.” She paused for the interpreter, hoping Omar hadn’t caught on that American journalists hadn’t dared to venture out on their own in Iraq in years, but rather relied on their Iraqi staff to do the real reporting.

The man pursed his lips, shook his head and waved his hand. She didn’t need a translation. She had received this same message all day.

“Look, all I want to know is how this guy got away from the soldiers. Was anyone helping him?” Camille showed the man an old picture of Hunter. He was clean shaven and his hair was shaved in a Marine flattop, a look she much preferred to his current beard, civilian-length hair and moustache. She pulled out a hundred dollar bill and waved it in front of him. “I’m really getting sick of everyone playing dumb.” Camille turned to the interpreter and said, “Don’t translate that last part.”

Omar spoke, then the interpreter said, “Perhaps I know someone who saw him leave the souk. Perhaps he had friends.”

The shopkeeper snatched the banknote between two fingers. Camille held on.

“I need more, Omar,” she said.

“You made an offer. I answered your question.” He tugged on the bill.

“You’re right. You did.” Camille released the bill and he jerked it away.

“Come back in one hour and bring more of these. Many more.” The shopkeeper shoved it into the pocket of his dishdashah.

As soon as they left the shop, Omar flipped open his cell phone and hit speed dial.

Chapter Seventeen

Anbar Province

The hokey-pokey started blaring from a cell phone in the other room while the tangos stood around, watching Hunter as he gyrated on top of his temporary wife, the American hostage named Jackie Nelson. Every thrust was like a knife stabbing into his gut. He despised what he was doing, what he had to do. Hunter tried to get the hokey-pokey out of his head, but it wouldn’t leave.

He heard footsteps as someone ran to the phone, then the music stopped and Fazul’s voice answered it. Fazul listened for several moments without speaking, then he shouted at the caller. Hunter closed his eyes and focused on the jerking motion of his hips as he tried to listen in, but he couldn’t make out the words above Jackie Nelson’s cries.

A few moments later, Fazul jogged back into the bedroom and kicked Hunter.

Hunter rolled away from Jackie and Fazul pointed his AK at him.

“My cousin tells me that a woman came into his shop today in Ramadi. She’s looking for her friend-the one the Americans were taking away at the souk yesterday. Her friend is an American, she says.”

Stella. Oh god, what have I done? Hunter’s gut clenched so tightly that he felt like vomiting. Stay in character. It’s the only way out.

“It’s a CIA trick,” Hunter shouted, channeling his rage through Sergei the Chechen. He felt the heat rising up his neck. “They lie. They lie that I’m American so that no one will help me. I am the enemy of your enemy. You saw them taking me away.” His voice raised in a crescendo. He threw up his arms and took a measured breath. “I am helping you prepare for the wedding, insh’allah. Would an American do that? Do you want a car bomb or a martyr vest? I recommend a car bomb because I can wire it for remote detonation with one of these cell phones, but you could send the boy in a vest, insh’allah.” He pointed at the teenage boy.

The boy snorted. “I am not a martyr. I am an executioner.”

One of the twins waved his finger at the teenager. “You, an executioner? You only hold their feet down while I am the one who chops off the heads.”

“Someday, I’ll be the one who whacks off the heads. You wait and see.” The boy pointed to himself.

“Enough!” Fazul held one hand in the air; the other kept the gun pointed at Hunter. “You will build a car bomb, then we will decide if you live.”

Hunter sifted through the nest of wires, tape, blasting caps, rusty tools, torn brown paper sacks of nails, screws and other unrelated hardware. The half brick of Semtex was not much for a serious car bomb and would be better suited for suicide vests, not that he was going to volunteer any advice. At first he hadn’t liked the idea of building a bomb for tangos, but then he’d realized that helping one al Qaeda splinter group take out another was probably a good thing. If he could get at least two of them to leave for the wedding, he was confident he could take the ones that remained and rescue Jackie. He piled the blasting caps together and started to untangle the wires.

“What are you doing?” Fazul said. “We don’t have time for this. We need to leave within an hour. You have more to work with than you know. Come.” Fazul motioned with his hand and stepped toward the doorway.

An old Passat station wagon was parked beside a beaten-up seventies-vintage Nissan pickup missing its passenger door. Several blue plastic gas cans were crammed into the small truck bed along with a rotting wooden pallet. Fazul lifted the pallet. Underneath it were two faded green artillery shells with Russian markings. Duds. Hunter had been on enough training missions to Twenty-nine Palms to know that even a good percentage of American artillery shells didn’t go off-fuses malfunctioned; propellants were faulty; shit happened-and these puppies were unstable and dangerous.

“Use these,” Fazul said as he knocked on the weathered shell.

“Stop! Don’t do that!” Hunter waved his arms in the air. All it took to set off a shell with a piezoelectric fuse buried in the ground was for a shadow to fall across it on a hot day, and movement would generally do the trick for most other detonator types. Shells were designed for rough handling and the brutal launch from howitzers and their cousins, but the firing sequence began a process that successively withdrew the safeties. For some reason that Hunter would rather not find out, at least one of the safety mechanisms in each of the shells had failed to withdraw.

That could change at any moment.

He took a deep breath. The hot air carried away the last drops of moisture from his sweating body. “You found this in the desert somewhere?”

“How do you know?”

“It’s armed. Don’t touch it again.” Hunter pointed to the slanted grooves cut into the copper rotating band around the base of the shell.

“But it will work. I know it will. Amir, may Allah’s blessings be upon him, used to make them work for us until-”

“Until he did something stupid like you just did and blew himself up? I can make it work for you, but only if you promise me you won’t touch any of the explosives. I want to be in one piece when I meet Allah.”

One of the twins helped Hunter place the tools he needed in a flimsy cardboard box while the other twin stood guard a good ten feet away. Jackie’s hoarse cries from when he was on top of her haunted him and he knew he would have to figure out a way to take out the tangos and save her. The bastards were going to pay, insh’allah.

At Hunter’s insistence, the twins off-loaded the blue plastic gas cans and the wooden skid. He wanted as large a working space as possible and his body odor had grown so strong, he didn’t want to hassle his nose anymore by adding gasoline fumes to the mix. Sweat poured down his face as he squatted in the back of the truck bed, hunched over the unexploded ordnance. He said a quick prayer to the real god, then checked to make sure a weapon was still pointed at him. It was. Then he said a second prayer. His explosives courses had been long ago and making truck bombs from old Russian shells was not on the standard curriculum. He knew some Russian and could make out the Cyrillic lettering-OF412-but didn’t have a clue whether it meant it was a fragmentation high explosive or even an armor piercing round. This is why EOD guys had manuals. For all he could tell, the shells could contain propaganda leaflets.

The most explosive parts were at the tip and the least explosive at the base-that much he did remember as he tapped the metal at the bottom with his finger to determine its temperature. Bacon would fry on it. Nice, crispy, haram bacon. He could almost taste it.

“I am watching you.” Fazul waved his finger at Hunter. “I have seen Amir build many bombs and I know what it should look like. If you try to deceive me, I will know and I will kill you.”

“Don’t worry, my friend. I’ll make it right, insh’allah.” Hunter waved his hand, while in his mind, he had only his middle finger sticking up.

He considered smashing the Semtex between the 122 rounds, but was afraid such a crude detonator might not do the trick. He would have to build a proper bomb. He picked up a monkey wrench and adjusted it. Trembling, he reached for the fuse. It contained the highest velocity explosive in the round and the most unstable. He stopped himself short of touching it.

Breathe, man. Steady.

He stared at his arm and tensed his muscles. All he could think about was his friend Demo Dave, may Allah bless his soul, who accidentally threw a wrench down on a fuse. Without letting himself think about it anymore, he took the wrench, placed it around the fuse and adjusted it to fit. He turned his hand in the air as if unscrewing a light bulb to make sure he would turn in the right direction, then he pushed down on the wrench. It didn’t move, so he pushed a little harder.

No movement.

If the thing went off, the blast would be so large he figured it really didn’t matter which body part was closest to it, so he shifted his position and straddled the 122 millimeter round. He ratcheted up the force, but it was stuck. The damn thing had come out of the gun spinning like crazy in the opposite direction, tightening the fuse even more as it had soared through the air. He didn’t think he would ever get it to budge.

The sun burned the back of his neck. He took a deep breath and let out a curse in Arabic which was not nearly as satisfying as an English one. The blood vessels in his neck felt like they were going to burst. When he thought he had it, the wrench slipped. He picked it up and banged on the shell, cursing it in Russian. That felt better. The Russians knew how to curse.

He pushed harder than he thought he could, harder than he would’ve dared a few moments earlier, then he pounded the damn thing with the wrench and tried again. It turned. He removed it and set it aside in the truck bed, but felt no relief. If the second shell went off, it would detonate the first one, too-not that it mattered. One was more than enough to take out him, the tangos and a good chunk of their safe house. Apparently, one already had.

He sat down beside the shell and wiped the sweat from his forehead and waited for his breath to steady.

The second one was no less of a struggle, only a shorter one because he started at it with more force. He unscrewed the second fuse and pulled it from the shell. The bottom of it cleared the round, but something was attached. A six-inch cylinder was stuck to the bottom of the fuse. Hunter didn’t have a clue what it was.

“You broke it!” Fazul pounded his fist on the side of the truck.

“Stop! A jolt can set these things off.” Hunter wrapped them in his headscarf to keep them from knocking against one another as he climbed from the truck, then he placed them in the sand at the base of a date palm.

“Where are you going? You must finish.” Fazul pointed a pistol at him.

Hunter ignored him, stayed in the spotty shade of the palm and began drawing a wiring diagram in the sand. Two footprints represented the Russian rounds and a handprint the cell phone. Hunter rested his chin on his hand as he stared at the desert floor. The sand burned as he raked his finger through it, connecting the two footprints and the handprint in a single big loop. Linking the ordnance in a series like that meant that the entire circuit had to be good or nothing would go off. Hunter wanted it to go off. The tangos were going to pay for what they had done to Jackie Nelson-and for what they made him do to her.

The faded, kinked wires of the old blasting caps did not inspire trust. A break in one of them could prevent the entire circuit from closing and the IED would be a dud. He kicked the sand and made two new footprints and a new handprint. They had to be wired parallel so that only one circuit needed to be completed to initiate a detonation. He pursed his chapped lips as he tried to remember how to do it. As he traced a line with his finger, he thought of Stella and wished things were different. Something about explosions brought her to mind. If only things between them were less volatile.

Careful not to shake the truck too much, Hunter sat on the tailgate and swung his feet up into the back. He took two blasting caps and twisted their yellow leads together, then repeated the procedure with their red ones. He checked the time on the cell phone. It was running out-only thirty minutes until the phone’s timer would call the muj to prayer and complete the circuit, well before they arrived at the wedding.

With a few twists of a screwdriver, the back of the phone came off. Working as quickly as he could, he fastened blue and green wires to each side of the chip that controlled the ringer. He then completed the loop, connecting the blue wire to the two yellow leads and he saved the green wire-the color of the Prophet-to connect with the red wires. He wrapped the phone in tape to hold everything in place.

Returning to the centerpiece of his creation, he studied the fuse well at the top of the 122s, then pinched off a tennis-ball sized chunk of Semtex. The pink substance had the consistency of bread dough and some of it rubbed off on his hand. He made a mental note not to eat anything or touch his hand to his mouth until he got a chance to clean off the residue. If the Czech-made plastic explosive was anything like its American counterpart, ingestion of it could cause a different kind of explosion.

He stuffed Semtex into the cavities in the top of each 122 and shoved a blasting cap into each mass of the plastic explosive, praying that his plan would work. His improvised explosive device was now armed. The blast would be enough to rip the truck apart. Hunter climbed from the truck and waved his arm, presenting his work to Fazul. He knew he shouldn’t be, but he was proud of his very first truck bomb. He was even prouder of his choice of victims. But the real beauty was that the bomb would detonate when the cell phone played the call to afternoon prayers.

Allahu akbar-Boom.

Man, he deserved a cold beer-Allah willing or not.

Fazul approached the side of the truck and looked inside. Moving his finger in circles in the air, he traced the wiring through several loops. Nodding his head in approval, he clutched Hunter’s shoulder and shook it lightly. “All appears as it should. You have saved your life for now, insh’allah.”

“When you’re ready to detonate it, all you have to do is call the cell number-935-7949.” Hunter read out the number of one of the phones that was not hooked up to the IED, just in case he got some wires crossed. He wanted either his timer to work or the whole thing to be a dud. The more he thought about it, being an accessory to blowing up a wedding was not something he wanted on his conscience.

“How far away should we be?” Fazul said.

The answer Hunter wanted to give was sitting on top of the goddamn thing, but he shaved off several hundred meters from how far he would personally distance himself and said, “One hundred meters.”

Hunter gathered the tools into a cardboard box and carried it into the house. One of the twins followed him, his gun always pointed at him. Then he went back outside where Fazul was barking orders at the teenager. The twins piled into the truck and the teenage boy jumped into the back with the IED.

“Mufid, out!” Fazul said. “I told you, you’re guarding our friend and the American whore. Get me a piece of rope, now! We’re going to be late.”

The boy shuffled into the house and returned a couple of minutes later with a half meter long piece of rope. If it were his operation, he would’ve used the extra wire to hog tie the prisoner, but who was he to dispense advice? He held out his wrists and Mufid bound them tightly in front of him. Big mistake, muj-man.

The Passat’s door was jammed. Fazul pulled on the handle, then gave up and climbed in through its missing window. Hunter guessed it was more macho than circling to the passenger side of the getaway car.

Fazul leaned out and gave final orders to the boy. “Keep your gun on him at all times. If he tries to get away, kill him. If the bomb works, when I return we’ll send him on his way with our blessings. If it does not, it’s not our blessings that he will need.” He started to drive off, then stopped and shouted, “And stay away from the American whore.”

Chapter Eighteen

Ramadi, Anbar Province

Camille and her interpreter returned to Omar’s Electronics exactly one hour later. This time she noticed the thick layer of dust on the satellite dishes and assumed the inventory was not turning over very fast. If business was slow, then he’d be even more receptive to selling information. With the way the day had gone, it probably only meant what she already knew-that Iraq was a very dusty country.

She greeted him.

“I am sorry. The man you are looking for is similar to another customer who was in here yesterday. I was mistaken.” The shopkeeper waved his hands.

Camille pulled out a one hundred dollar bill, but Omar averted his eyes. She took out another, then another. When he didn’t even glance at them, Camille knew it was hopeless.

“I cannot help you.” Omar held up his hand, turned and wedged himself through the doorway, disappearing into the back room.

Chapter Nineteen

Anbar Province

The boy kept his AK trained on Hunter as they watched the cloud of dust and sand kicked up by the Passat and the truck bomb disappear into the distance. Hunter flexed and twisted his wrists, trying to get as much play as he could from the ropes, but he only caused rope burn. They were tied too tightly. He’d have to work around it. The boy led Hunter back into the house. Either by instinct or training, the boy kept himself just far enough away from Hunter so he couldn’t disarm him. He ordered Hunter to sit on the floor up against a wall. Like a good Arab, Hunter squatted instead.

“Help me!” Jackie Nelson started pleading again.

The boy stared at the door to the bedroom where she was being held. Hunter was relieved they hadn’t broken her spirit-yet. They had sure fucked with his.

“Why will they not allow you to have her?” Hunter kept his eyes on the hostage’s doorway. “You must not be man enough and they know it. They are your friends. They save you the humiliation.”

“I am a man.” The boy jumped to his feet.

“Of course you are. That’s why you’re the one holding the infidel’s feet when the others cut off the head.” Hunter grinned as he calculated how much farther he needed to push the little bastard. “Tell me, Mufid, do they take you when there’s no woman around? Maybe you like that too much and that’s why they don’t permit you to know her.”

“I am man enough! I can have a woman whenever I want.” He pointed the barrel of his AK at Hunter, then toward the bedroom door. “Get in there. I have to keep an eye on you.”

The boy ordered Hunter to stand beside the wall where he could watch him. Mufid pulled up his man-dress and climbed on top of Jackie Nelson, the AK in his right hand. She screamed and he slapped her.

With Mufid distracted, Hunter inched himself along the wall, moving out of the boy’s main line of sight into his peripheral vision. The boy wiggled, trying to position himself. Jackie struggled and he smacked her harder.

Hunter couldn’t restrain himself waiting for the optimal moment any longer. She had suffered too much. He jumped onto the boy’s back, slipped his bound wrists around his head and jerked upwards. The neck snapped with a loud crack. His hands still around the neck, he lifted the body off Jackie and dropped it onto the floor.

She screamed even louder than before.

“Jackie, you’re safe,” Hunter said as he checked out the AK. He dropped the mag, pushed on the rounds and felt some give. It was a few short.

Jackie continued screeching, her eyes tightly closed.

He raised his voice. “I’m rescuing you. You’re safe. I’m American.”

She opened her eyes. “You’re one of them.” She started crying, then sobbing. He wasn’t sure if she knew where she was and what was happening or if she had totally broken with reality in order to survive.

“No. Calm down and listen to me. I’m with the US government. I’m getting you out of here.”

His arms were still bound, so he couldn’t stroke her or put his hand on her to reassure her. He sat beside her on the smelly bed waiting for his words to sink in. After a couple of minutes, her sobs faded into a whimper. Progress.

“You’re going to be okay, Jackie, but I need you to get a grip on yourself. We have to go.” He couldn’t believe he was taking time to get in touch with his softer side, but he felt like he had to after what he’d done to her. Besides, he wouldn’t be able to get far with her unless she pulled herself together.

Hunter heard a vehicle approaching the house.

“Oh, fuck. Stay here and keep low.” Hunter sat up and grabbed the AK. He rushed into the main room, tripping on his man-dress. Reaching inside the cardboard tool box, he groped around, but couldn’t find the knife to cut himself free. When he heard the engine turn off, he gave up and dashed out the back door with his hands still tied up.

Hunter circled the building, constantly trying to get a better grip on the AK. The red Nissan with his bomb in the back was parked directly in front of the house, close enough that it would take out the entire structure if it detonated. He should’ve told Jackie to run out the back and take her chances with any gunfire.

“Marhaba,” the twins called out and didn’t wait for a response from the boy. “Guess who ran out of gas in the Passat?”

Hunter wanted to spray the truck with bullets, but feared that a stray might set off a detonation. But he also didn’t dare wait long, because it would be prayer time at any moment. He was sure as hell praying already.

As one of the twins slid from the cab, Hunter fired a burst into his chest. The recoil from the AK jarred Hunter and his bound hands struggled to target the second tango. The muj ducked behind the truck, then popped up to hurl rounds in Hunter’s direction. Hunter shot another volley, then ran as fast as he could, circling around the back of the house. When he got to the other side, the tango had his back turned toward him, trying to figure out what had happened to his assailant.

“Hey, you fucking muj!” Hunter couldn’t stand to shoot a man in the back-even one of them.

The twin spun around and Hunter squeezed the trigger. The man’s face burst into chunks of pink flesh and dark blood, then he collapsed beside the truck.

The bomb.

Hunter ran as fast as he could to the truck and vaulted over the tailgate into the bed. He grabbed one red wire and yanked on it. It pulled free. Then he tugged on a yellow wire.

It came loose, disconnecting one of the two circuits.

He exhaled and let his head drop while he waited to catch his breath, but only for a few seconds. The shells could be unloaded later when he and Jackie were ready to use the truck to make their escape from this hellhole. Shaking his head, he couldn’t believe how close it had come to detonating.

He went back inside and found a knife to cut his hands free. When he walked into the bedroom, Jackie sat up on the ripped mattress, trying to pull her torn blouse shut. He took this as a good sign. The room where she had been held contained no furniture other than the filthy mattress and a slop bucket in a corner. There was nowhere even to search for her pants. Hunter pulled the dishdashah from the boy with some difficulty. His limbs were already starting to get a little stiff. Rigor happened fast in the hundred and twenty degree heat. He rolled the corpse so it was face down, more out of respect for Jackie than the dead tango. He shook the man-dress out, opened the hole for the head and handed it to Jackie.

“I’m sorry, but this is the best we’ve got right now.” He helped her get it over her head and put her arms into the sleeves like he was dressing a child.

“What happened?” she said, barely moving her lips.

“Don’t worry about it. The twins are dead and so is the boy. We’re the only ones here.” He took her arm and gently pinched her skin. It tented and very slowly settled back to normal, indicating severe dehydration, but he already knew that. “We’ve got to get you some fluids.”

“There was one more.”

“He’s at large. Out of gas somewhere between here and town-wherever the hell that is.” Hunter extended his hand to her and she took it and pulled herself to her feet.

“I want him dead.” She stared at the corpse of the teenage muj, then kicked it twice. She bent over, removed his sandals and put them on.

“You’ll get no arguments from me.”

“I mean I want you to track him down and kill him.” She wobbled from the room.

Fazul was baking in the Passat at the side of the small desert road. The twin morons couldn’t be trusted to do anything right. All they had to do was throw a can of gas into the back of the truck without hitting the IED and come back for him. They were probably indulging themselves in the pleasures of temporary married life with that American harlot. He regretted ever taking a hostage. They were too much distraction and he still hadn’t found anyone to pay enough ransom for her to make it worth his trouble. The husband had seemed uninterested.

He flipped open his cell and called his cousin who agreed to pick him up. Praise be to Allah that Omar had closed his electronics store early and was nearby, so it would only take a few minutes to swing over. He hung up the cell. If the twins were not back by the time Omar got there, he’d have him drive to the house and he’d kill both of them along with the American whore. He snatched a prayer mat from the back seat, got out of the car and used his cell phone to check the direction toward Mecca.

Any moment, it would be time for afternoon prayers.

Jackie walked through the main room and out the back door. Soldiers lived with their guns in combat and Hunter was still on the battlefield. He was not going to make the mistake of letting his guard down a second time, so he picked up the AK and ran after her. One of its sharp edges cut his hand.

“I’ve got to get out of here,” Jackie said. Her eyes were glazed and she didn’t seem to be looking at anything in particular.

“Sit down.” He pressed lightly on her shoulder as she tried to walk away.

“No, I have to go.”

“You’re severely dehydrated. You’re not thinking straight.” He took her by the shoulders and guided her toward the shade of some date palms about fifty meters from the house. “Sit here in the shade.”

She ignored him and walked out of the compound’s back gate and into the desert. Hunter reminded himself that he needed to be patient, when he really wanted to shake her to her senses and if that didn’t work, knock her out and carry her to safety. He followed the crazy chick into the desert.

Hunter thought he heard something and turned back to the compound in time to see a brilliant white flash, then an orange fireball rising into the sky. He shoved Jackie to the ground and threw his body over hers just as he heard the loud clap. The earth shook as the blast wave passed. A piece of tangled red metal fell near Hunter’s head, missing him by inches. A hailstorm of concrete cratered the desert around them, then smaller debris pelleted his back. As if someone were sifting the particles by size, sand followed. Then suddenly everything was quiet and a dust cloud enveloped them, making the air hard to breathe.

He rolled off her the moment he thought it was safe and he hoped to god he didn’t re-traumatize her by throwing his body on top of hers so suddenly. The last thing he wanted was to go back to ground zero with her. He coughed, then pulled the sleeve of his dishdashah up to his face. “Breathe through your clothes,” he instructed as Jackie pulled herself up off the ground. “Everything’s going to be fine now.”

“What happened?” She pulled the dishdashah over her nose and mouth.

“Their truck bomb detonated somehow.” Except Hunter knew how. He’d pulled out only one set of yellow and red wires. He couldn’t believe he had disabled one of the parallel circuits but had forgotten the second set of wires. Too many things had been going on at once, but still he couldn’t imagine that he’d been that careless. It didn’t take long for him to convince himself that one of the tangos must have survived longer than he had thought and caused movement that had set it off. That would be what he’d tell the guys in the unit, anyway. Then he remembered he no longer had a unit.

“I have to find some water for you. Come on. Let’s hope those palms are still intact so you can have some shade to sit in.” He took her hand and helped her to her feet. Sweat evaporated so fast he didn’t notice it anymore. As soon as the dust cleared, the mid-afternoon sun would be relentless. They needed water fast.

Most of the mud wall circling the compound somehow had held together, testament to the years of baking in the desert heat. The house had not fared as well. It was gone. Disappeared. Poof. Rubble littered the ground, but not nearly as much as Hunter had expected. Some of the dust he was breathing had probably once been the house. A twisted section of truck chassis no bigger than a bicycle was all that remained of his escape vehicle. Hundreds of flies swarmed in several places. He had been in combat enough to know to avoid those spots marking fresh flesh and blood.

The house had shielded the well from the worst of the blast. Hunter dropped the bucket into it and waited for a splash. It clanked as it hit the dry bottom.

He pulled the rope, hoisting the bucket back to the surface. The well was shallow, not more than twenty feet deep. Since mud coated one side of the bucket, water couldn’t be too much deeper. The rope was long and it didn’t seem too badly frayed. Peering into the dark pit, he knew what he had to do if he didn’t want them both to die from lack of water.

Hunter tied the rope to one of the date palms. Jackie sat watching him, her arms crossed, rocking herself. No way was he going to leave his AK with the unstable lady. It was going down the hole with him.

He kicked off his sandals and threw his leg over the side. His man-dress caught on a broken brick. He couldn’t stand maneuvering in the awkward thing any longer. He had no doubt why the man-dress had never gone over in the West. They totally sucked. Man-purses like some Europeans carried at least had some practical advantages he could understand, but not the mandress. He vowed never to give a woman a dress as a gift again. It wasn’t right.

Hunter turned to Jackie and shouted. “Look the other way, okay?”

She shook her head and didn’t turn away as he propped the AK-47 up against the side of the wall and peeled off the dishdashah. He reached for the gun again, then talked himself out of taking it with him. It would be an extra hassle and it was very unlikely that a target would lean over the top and into the very narrow range of fire he’d be afforded from the bottom of the well.

He lowered himself unarmed and naked into the well. He liked fast-roping, but not without protective gloves, so he kept his descent slow.

The bottom of the well was cooler and slightly damp, a virtual spa. The mud felt somehow comforting as it squished between his toes. For a moment, he was a kid again, skinny-dipping and running up a muddy river bank in the Ozarks. He smiled to himself as he got down on his knees and started using the bucket to dig. At least there was enough sunlight for him to see what he was doing.

He dumped pail after pail of mud alongside the wall. Each successive load was wetter than the previous one. He paused to take a break, straighten up and look at the sky and remembered his grandmother telling him stories of well diggers being in such darkness that they could see stars. When he glanced back down at his hole, water was seeping into it.

Back on his knees, he cupped his hands and drank. The water was sweet-silty, but sweet. He laughed as he splashed it all over himself.

Several buckets of mud later, the well was running with enough clear water to fill the pail. He drank all he could, and then poured a bucket of it over his head. He refilled it and started to climb up the rope, using the wall for footing. Then he thought he heard a car. The higher he climbed, the louder the engine sound became.

Fazul.

Fazul stared at the rubble of his former safe house, his mouth agape. It had vanished, as if Allah had scooped it up and left only a few handfuls of dirt and stone behind. A swarm of flies buzzed near the ground and hundreds more covered something in the sand. He shooed them away from a strip of pink flesh.

“May Allah bless them and grant them peace,” Fazul said.

Omar made eye contact with him and Fazul nodded. Omar understood it was the twins.

The American whore perched under a tree, rocking herself, watching him. She was no threat. He would deal with her later-like he should have long ago. He scooped up a handful of sand and spilled it out, covering what was left of the twins.

After the last grain of sand had left his hand, he turned toward Mecca and raised his arms. “Allahu akbar.” Omar did the same. They folded their hands over their breasts, the right one on top of the left. Both men stood as they recited as much as they could remember of the Janazah.

Hunter paused, hanging on the rope about six feet below the top of the well as a car door slammed shut. It was followed by the sound of a second one, which made no sense to him. Maybe it wasn’t Fazul. His toes dug into the earth on the side of the well as he grappled for something firm enough to help him support his weight. His muscles burned as he hung there, listening to sounds that didn’t make sense. Fazul’s voice was distinct and he seemed to be praying, even though prayer time had passed.

Hunter climbed hand over hand further up the rope. Straining to hold on, he pulled himself high enough to peek over the edge. Fazul and a tall man had their backs to him as they recited a funeral prayer. He hoisted himself over the side, teetering on his belly while he reached down to where he had stashed his gun.

It was gone.

Hunter looked around and saw Jackie Nelson slowly wading through the debris. She held the AK at her side, aiming it at Fazul. Their loud prayers masked the sound of her approach. They appeared unarmed. Hunter shifted his weight to pull himself over the rim of the well.

“Jackie, no!” Hunter shouted and waved his arms, not bothering to cover his nudity. “Don’t do it. Keep it pointed at them and bring the gun back to me.”

The Iraqis spun around, but neither drew a weapon. Fazul knit his bushy black eyebrows and glared at Hunter. Hunter snatched up his dishdashah and slipped it over his head.

“You can’t shoot them in cold blood.” Hunter approached her slowly. At least when the tangos held an AK, he knew what they were going to do with it. She was so out of it, she could spin around and shoot him without warning.

“Stop. Stay right where you are or I’m taking them both out.” She looked over her shoulder at Hunter, then back at Fazul. “You, get undressed.”

“I don’t think he speaks English. And he’s not going to do that,” Hunter said.

“Before he dies, he’s going to get a taste of how he humiliated me. Tell him to strip.”

Hunter translated.

Fazul laughed and spoke in heavily accented English. “No woman commands me.”

“Take it off, you fucker.” Jackie fired a burst at his feet, kicking up a cloud of dust.

Fazul tore his clothes off, then put his hands over his genitals as fast as he could.

“Don’t do this,” Hunter said. “You’re not thinking straight because of the dehydration. It’s not right to execute an unarmed man. You don’t want that on your conscience all your life.” Hunter walked around her, careful to stay within her line of sight so he didn’t startle her.

“I don’t want to spend my whole life regretting I didn’t kill the fucker who kidnapped and raped me. We all know there’s no justice in this fucking country.” She continued toward Fazul. When she was fifteen feet away, she fired a burst into his groin and the hands covering it. Blood gushed from what remained of his genitals as he collapsed to the ground, moaning loudly.

The lanky Iraqi screamed, then threw his hands into the air. “I have eleven children. I have four wives to care for. Please.”

Flies lit on the meat as Fazul pawed at himself with the stubs which were all that remained of his hands. He let out an eerie howl that sounded more animal than a human.

“For god’s sake, finish him off. No man deserves to die like this,” Hunter said as he edged closer to her. The other Arab didn’t move, even though she kept the gun trained on Fazul.

“No. You know he made me watch while they executed a German oil worker? The little fucker held Wolfgang’s feet while he begged to be the one to chop off his head. What kind of people are they? You know what they did to me!” Tears streamed down her face.

Hundreds of flies crawled over Fazul as he writhed on the ground, moaning. The sand turned dark from the blood. Hunter looked away. A buddy in Afghanistan once bled out from a groin wound and Hunter knew death took a hell of a lot longer in reality than it did in the movies. The guy had the worst twenty minutes of his life ahead of him.

“I have much children. Please,” the Iraqi said in English.

“It’s over. They can’t hurt you anymore.” Hunter slowly walked up beside Jackie, put his hand on her shoulder, then grabbed the barrel of the gun with his right hand, spoiling her aim while his left hand came off her shoulder, took hold of the stock and pulled it to him.

He jacked a round, aimed the AK into the tango’s kill zone and squeezed the trigger.

The wailing stopped.

Hunter lowered his head and turned away. Earlier in the day he had actually looked forward to the moment when he would kill Fazul for what he had done to Jackie Nelson and for what he had made Hunter do to her. Now there was neither revenge nor justice in what he did, only mercy and mercy made him feel a little more human in a place where he didn’t want to feel anything at all.

Chapter Twenty

“You won’t find MI6 agents in any country where you can’t buy a cappuccino.”

– Foreign Correspondent, Australian Broadcasting Corporation-TV [Australia], March 29, 2005, interview with Craig Murray, former ambassador for the British Crown

Anbar Province

The sun was finally lower in the sky and the temperature was only moderately miserable when Hunter and Jackie climbed into the old VW Beetle that Fazul had returned in. The lanky Arab was slumped against the date palms, fingering Muslim prayer beads and muttering something to himself. Hunter had taken his cell phone, but had assured him that he would call one of the numbers on speed dial and tell them where to find him after they made their escape. He turned the key, but the car didn’t make a sound. The only thing that seemed to be going his way was that Jackie was snapping out of it and she didn’t seem to have any association between him and the repeated rapes. Unfortunately he did.

He got out of the car and slung the AK over his shoulder. “You know how to start it by popping the clutch?”

“Yeah, I had one of these when I was in grad school.” After slurping down most of the bucket of water, her voice was stronger. She crawled into the driver’s seat, stomped the clutch and shifted into gear.

Hunter hiked up his man-dress and dug his feet into the sand and braced his hands on car. The metal was almost too hot to touch, but he would’ve picked up burning coals to get out of there. Hunter pushed, but felt resistance. “Steer it away from the loose sand.”

The car gained traction and started rolling faster.

“Pop the clutch! Now!”

The engine started.

Hunter glanced back at Omar. He was still fiddling with the beads, probably praying. He opened the driver’s door and threw the AK into the backseat.

“Move over,” he said. “You still need a lot more fluids. Dehydration affects judgment.”

“That didn’t really happen, did it? Oh my god. You’re not going to tell anyone?”

“I have nothing to tell and no one to tell it to,” Hunter said. If only this were the first time he had had this conversation. Iraq had a way of testing morals and sooner or later, everyone failed. Revenge was too easy, the opportunities too many. Multiple combat tours had taught him that it only took a moment of righteous rage to guarantee a thirst for justice that would never be quenched and a faint taste of blood that would never leave his lips.

Hunter stuck his head out the window and spat, even though his mouth was dry.

The insurgent’s safe house was in the middle of the desert with no real road leading to it, only a trail that had been packed firm from years of constant use. In spots the desert rippled across it, hiding it from view. So much of Iraq was covered with hard, baked sand, but in this area it was as loose as it was in Saudi. The late afternoon sunlight cast shadows that made the path even trickier to follow. He couldn’t believe that anyone was foolish enough to bring a vehicle with such low clearance through the desert. The road forked and he chose what appeared to be the firmer path. He navigated between ruts and drove as fast as he dared-which was only a little faster than he could’ve walked it.

A nearly full water bottle rolled out from under Jackie’s seat. “Hey, the gods are finally smiling on us.”

She opened it and drank, then passed it to Hunter. He drank less than he wanted to and handed back the bottle without looking over at her.

“You haven’t told me your name,” Jackie said.

“Ray.”

“Is that your real name?”

“Real as it gets.”

“So you’re CIA?”

“Don’t overestimate the Agency. Most of them are cocktail party pimps. It’s their local whores who screw the muj, not them.” His voice was clipped.

“Somehow I didn’t think my husband Brian sent you.”

“He might have sent someone, but it wasn’t me.”

“Then what were you doing there, posing as one of them?”

“It’s complicated.”

She sighed and turned away from him. “I liked you a lot better when you first rescued me.”

“I liked me a lot better then, too.”

After a half hour of silence, Hunter spotted a line of palms, then he saw trucks and cars moving by, but the closer they got to the highway, the more loose sand covered the road. He stopped and got out to make sure that he was still on it. He was. A hundred meters later, the wheels spun in the sand, digging deeper and deeper.

Don’t you have that guy’s cell phone still in your pocket?” Jackie said.

“You want to call AAA?”

“I could call my husband.”

“You really want to give the muj your home number when their cell phone bill arrives?”

Hunter walked around the car, then ahead where he thought the road was, but his feet sunk into the soft sand. He returned to the car.

“We’re going to have to walk to the road,” Hunter said. “Even if we get it out, we can’t get through this. We’ll get stuck again. I don’t know how the hell he got it here, unless maybe we should’ve taken a left back when the road branched.”

“I don’t know if I can make it,” Jackie said.

“I’ll get you there.”

He dug through the junk in the Arab’s backseat, then through the trunk searching for food or water. The guy had stashed away a bottle of whiskey, assorted porn magazines, but no more water. “You did the right thing letting the other Iraqi live. The guy’s not al Qaeda. At least I don’t think this is one of their training manuals.” Hunter held up a dog-eared copy of Playboy.

With Hunter carrying the AK, they set out for the highway. Lingering alongside a highway in twilight was not his idea of a good time. With their night vision equipment, the Americans ruled the night, but twilight was happy hour for the insurgents-time to lob off a few mortar rounds or ambush a convoy rushing back to the safety of a green zone. The weak, shifting light of dusk played tricks on night vision goggles and Black Hawk pilots and others patrolling the main convoy routes could easily be confused. Friendly fire was the last way Hunter wanted to go.

“So what are you doing here in Babylon?” Hunter said.

“I came with my husband. He’s an oil exec.”

“I thought this was one of those posts where they didn’t allow spouses.”

“He’s got some kind of pull. I’m a soil scientist and there was going to be all kinds of work for geologists because of the oil. Petroleum is not really my thing, but I’ve got the degrees.”

A herd of camels grazed in the distance. Hunter couldn’t tell if there was anyone with them or not. “The work didn’t come through or what?”

“Oil here is a disaster. They’re not back to prewar levels and if anyone tries to tell you they are, they’re lying. There’s no need for geologists here. No one’s looking for new fields. They need engineers to get things running again and to keep patching them up after they’re sabotaged. They could also use about a billion guards to protect the pipelines and the facilities.” Jackie stumbled and Hunter caught her by the arm before she hit the ground.

“You okay?”

“More or less-how far away do you think the road is?”

“Couple miles. Not too bad. I can carry you, if you don’t think you can make it.”

“I’m okay. But one question, what do we do when we get to the highway?”

“Hitchhike.” Hunter gave her a thumb’s up. “Except we won’t use our thumbs-that gesture can get you in trouble in these parts. It’s the local version of giving someone the bird. And I’ll have to ditch the AK first.”

“And how do you think we can get Americans to stop for us when we’re wearing these things?” She tugged on her dishdashah.

“They won’t, unless you do something crazy like pull your off dress. They’d probably stop for a naked lady. We’re going to have to hitch a ride with the locals and take our chances.”

“Then I’m stripping.”

Chapter Twenty-One

In the documents, which cover nine months of the three-year-old war, contractors reported shooting into 61 vehicles they believed were threatening them. In just seven cases were Iraqis clearly attacking-showing guns, shooting at contractors or detonating explosives.

There was no way to tell how many civilians were hurt, or how many were innocent: In most cases, the contractors drove away. No contractors have been prosecuted for a mistaken shooting in Iraq.

– The News & Observer [Raleigh/Durham, NC], March 23, 2006, as reported by Jay Price

Anbar Province

Purples and oranges lingered in the sky when Hunter and Jackie spotted a Chevy Suburban leading a convoy of SUVs, American contractors zooming back to a green zone before nightfall. From the several different makes of vehicles, he guessed several companies had banded together for safety. White signs in English and Arabic on each vehicle warned: DANGER. KEEP BACK. AUTHORIZED TO USE LETHAL FORCE.

“Here’s our big chance,” Jackie said as she started to pull up her dishdashah.

“Don’t.” Hunter grabbed her arm. She shook him off, surprising him that she suddenly found so much strength.

“I’ll do whatever it takes.” She pulled the garment over her head and waved it at the approaching vehicles. “Help us! We’re American! Help!”

The headlights of the first vehicle shined on her naked body. It slowed down, then stopped with the doors cracked open and barrels of assault rifles sticking out. Hunter whispered to her. “This could be a problem for me. Follow my lead.”

“What the hell are you talking about? We’re saved.”

“Hands in the air.” Two contract soldiers wearing body armor and carrying AKs hopped out of the Suburban, their weapons trained on Hunter. The doors to the others were partially open and even though he couldn’t see the gun barrels, he knew every one of them had an automatic weapon pointed at him. Whistles and shouts came from the convoy.

“Shake it, baby,” someone shouted.

“Put your clothes on, Jackie.” Hunter drew out his words, feigning a Southern drawl.

“I said hands in the air,” the soldier said. “You, too, honey.”

“Get dressed now. Slowly.” Hunter turned his head toward the soldier and shouted. “Roadside strip show’s over. She’s had enough humiliation.”

She slipped the dishdashah over her head, but the catcalls continued.

“Look, we need a lift. You can tell we’re no threat to you. Feel free to frisk me or I can strip off my man-dress and give everyone another cheap thrill.”

“I’ll pass on that one.” One of the soldiers patted down Hunter. “I don’t suppose you have any ID on you. What are you doing here like this?”

“A mission went south. We’re lucky to be alive.” Hunter looked over the vehicles. There were three Ford Expeditions, a Lincoln Navigator and a RhinoRunner. He knew Stella had several Navigators and some Rhino-Runners for VIP transport. But the Ford Expeditions concerned him. They were Rubicon’s signature vehicle.

The soldier radioed his supervisor, then lowered his weapon. “There’s room in the second vehicle. Welcome back to civilization.”

Jackie tugged on an Expedition’s reinforced steel door, but it barely moved. Hunter reached around her.

“I got it. These armored things are a workout.”

Hunter boosted Jackie into the backseat and two men scooted over to make room for her. Two others sat in the third row of seats. All were dressed in khakis and ruby red T-shirts, Kevlar body armor and photographer’s vests stuffed with ammunition. The real hunters usually didn’t go out until late at night, so he guessed most of these guys were probably bomb disposal experts at the end of their work day. Elvis was blaring from the CD player. Hunter kept his head low, trying to shield his face as much as possible, hoping that whatever he had discovered about Rubicon, they wanted to keep extremely quiet and had not issued a general alert to all their troops. He only wished he knew what the hell the big Rubicon secret was that he supposedly knew. He kept racking his brains for clues and he didn’t even have many of those except Ashland, the spy he recognized in the tango safe house.

Hunter pretended to check on Jackie, pulling down her lower eyelid, even though it really was too dark to tell if the whites of her eyes were as jaundiced as he assumed they were. She needed more fluids and he could use this to keep the attention on her and reinforce that they were together because Rubicon was searching for a lone runner. “You fellas got a medic kit on you? I need a saline bag to get her hydrated.”

“Sure thing. We’ve got a medic in the other truck if you need one,” one of the guys behind them said as he reached for a med kit and passed it to Hunter.

“Thanks, but I can handle it right now.” Hunter unzipped the soft case and set an IV bag, a needle packet and an antiseptic wipe on his lap. He handed the kit back.

One of the men in the backseat said, “Jimmy, you got any of that Gatorade left?”

“Yeah.” Jimmy sat twisted to the side, looking out the window, his gun ready for action. He stuck his hand over the seat without turning away. “Here. It’s pretty warm though.”

“Thanks,” Jackie said. “Any of you guys have a cell phone,” Hunter elbowed her, but she ignored him and continued, “that I could use to call-”

He put his foot on top of hers and tapped it, then pressed with increasing force.

“You bet,” the guy next to her said and flipped open his Iraqna phone.

“I’m only going to tell him we got out alive,” she said in a low voice as she punched in a number. Hunter reached over and hit cancel.

Two of the men glanced at each other, noting his odd behavior.

“Sorry,” he mouthed to Jackie. She flashed him a disapproving look, but seemed to be playing along. Hunter rubbed the alcohol wipe on Jackie’s arm, then attached the needle to the IV bag and inserted the catheter.

“What the hell happened to you two out there?” The team leader said from the front passenger seat as he turned down the music.

“Just another day at the office.”

“Not at liberty to say, huh?”

“Sorry. It would make things a lot safer for us if you’d forget we were ever here.” Hunter squeezed the IV bag to force the saline to flow faster as he monitored the traffic ahead. It was heavy and classic Third World style: every man for himself. Signs, regulations and even lanes were treated as suggestions to be ignored. It was a giant game of chicken at seventy miles an hour on roads broken up by bombings, tank treads and neglect.

“I don’t know how you spooky types do it. I’ll take working with bombs any day. Hell of a lot safer.”

Hunter wanted to get the conversation off them fast and the best way to distract an EOD guy was to get him started talking about bombs. “So do you guys run with ECM?” Hunter knew the vehicles of the best contractors were all equipped with electronic counter measures which would send out signals that detonate any radio-controlled roadside bombs ahead of them.

“They don’t do much good anymore. The tangos have imported a passive infrared trick from Hezbollah-thank you Iran.”

“ECMs really don’t work?”

“Nope. Not with a totally passive infrared system. You enter the IR footprint of one of those and you’re Swiss cheese-even in one of these armored babies.”

“Anything you can do about them?” Hunter said as he watched a pickup overloaded with refrigerators and stoves slow down to give them room.

“The recommendation is to use thermal vision to spot a temp differential from the surrounding objects, but I think your best bet is never to ride in the front vehicle.”

“Head’s up. White van tracking us. Over there on the service road,” one of the shooters said as he pointed his AK at the driver.

The Ford Expedition weaved in and out of traffic, speeding up. One hundred ten. One hundred fifteen. One hundred twenty miles an hour and the speed was increasing. Heavy bulletproof windows couldn’t always be trusted to roll back up when it counted the most, so the men sitting by the doors cracked them open and stuck the barrels of their weapons outside. Without exchanging a word, the guy sandwiched in the middle passed Hunter his weapon. Hunter shoved the IV bag into Jackie’s lap and opened the door just enough.

The white van sped up.

“What do you think?”

“Not good.”

The Rubicon SUV ahead of them swerved toward the ditch, kicking up dust. Suddenly Hunter saw why. A compact car stuffed with a family was in front of them, creeping along the road and they were hurtling toward it. In a fraction of a second, they were on its bumper. The Rubicon driver swung into the shoulder, passing the car on the right, driving into the dust cloud. The Ford Expedition bounced so hard Hunter’s head hit the door frame and he started to fall out the door. He grabbed for anything he could find and held on to the seatbelt as he hung outside the door. Even though visibility was only inches, he was staring straight down at a blur of garbage, churned-up earth and discarded plastic bags.

He snagged his foot under the passenger seat and pulled himself upright into the cab. Seconds later they emerged from the dust cloud, four feet from the white van. The van’s driver pointed something at him.

Hunter leaned out and started to squeeze the trigger, then he realized it wasn’t a gun, but a finger.

“Hold fire!” Hunter shouted, but not in time. The van’s window exploded into fragments. The driver slumped over the wheel and the van veered toward them.

“Look out!” Hunter said.

Their Ford Expedition took a sharp left, throwing Hunter back toward the door. He held onto the seat as the door swung open, then back a little. Hunter waited until the ride smoothed out, then held onto the frame, leaned back outside and pulled the heavy armored door shut.

They were back on the main road, again zipping between cars, trying to catch up to the lead vehicles in the convoy. He looked back and saw the white van hit one of the countless decapitated palm trees that line Iraqi highways. Then he glanced at Jackie. She was staring straight ahead, her eyes wide.

The Rubicon team leader turned up the music and Elvis was rocking over his new blue suede shoes.

Jackie whispered to Hunter. “That was a finger. He was pretending to shoot with his finger. He even mouthed ‘Bang.’ I saw it right before-”

“Yeah, he was acting stupid and it got him killed. But it’s big boy rules out here.” Hunter whispered, trying to keep his voice below the music. Now back in his seat, Hunter squeezed the saline bag as he returned it to his lap. “The Iraqis are fed up with the occupation and it’s hard to blame them. Could you imagine carloads of heavily armed Iraqi contractors speeding down the Beltway in DC during rush hour and shooting at any vehicle that spooked them? But as long as we’re here, it’s got to be this way. A vehicle speeding up to approach a convoy is either a suicide bomber or someone committing suicide. You don’t come close to an American vehicle and everyone knows it. That’s why we have those little signs warning everyone to stay back. We’re authorized to use lethal force. Like I said, big boy rules.”

“It was a finger, for god’s sake.”

“There was a dust cloud and it was nautical twilight. It’s a split-second decision.”

The shooter in the backseat made eye contact with Hunter and grinned. “Road rage, man. Commuting is a real bitch.”

“BK, you saying you’re ready to get shipped home to avoid the commute?” the team leader said.

“No way. I’ll take this over a civilian job any day. You know when I worked at Burger King I actually had to smile at people? You didn’t hear me asking those tangos, ‘You want fries with that?’ Those days are over, man. I make in a day what I used to take home in a month. Hey, maybe I ought to start shouting that every time I shoot a tango. It could be my tagline.” BK held his AK, pointed it at a truck and pretended to shoot. It veered off the road and into the ditch. “You want fries with that, tango-man?”

The men laughed.

Hunter didn’t. He closed his eyes and saw the van driver pointing his finger at him. Bang.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Triple Canopy grew to over 800 employees and earned annual revenues exceeding $100 million within its first year of operation.

– Triple Canopy, Inc.

Blackwater was originally slated to be paid $229.5 million for five years, according to a State Department contract list. Yet as of June 30, just two years into the program, it had been paid a total of $321,715,794.

– The Nation, 28 Aug, 2006, as reported by Jeremy Scahill

Camp Raven, Black Management Iraqi Headquarters

The Green Zone, Baghdad

The car lights glistened off the shiny silver retro-style trailer in the former parking lots across from the presidential palace. During Operation Iraqi Freedom I, when Hunter was fighting his way into Baghdad alongside the legendary Colonel Dunford, Camille quit the CIA and was in Hollywood mortgaging everything she owned and negotiating with a movie studio to buy a luxury trailer that had become too rundown for their starlets. Within six weeks, the trailer was in Baghdad and Camille was courting military brass for contracts in the Green Zone’s first speakeasy. The war had been good for business and the current drawdown of troops was a bonanza. Each soldier pulled out meant a vacuum that had to be filled. The Iraqis weren’t up to the task and America was too deeply involved to roll over and allow room for al Qaeda to move in.

Enter Black Management.

Enter Triple Canopy.

Enter Rubicon Solutions.

Enter Blackwater.

Only families cared about dead contractors-Pentagon body counts didn’t. Relying even more heavily upon the private military corporations, the US was able to quietly maintain a constant level of influence while the American public celebrated the homecoming of the troops.

Alcohol now flowed more or less freely in the Green Zone and Black Management’s reputation for the best operators in the Iraq and Afghan theaters pulled in the contracts, so the speakeasy had long ago given way to formal offices. Black Management headquarters had expanded into three low concrete buildings with four-foot-thick ceilings engineered with layers of cutting-edge materials designed to absorb mortar blasts. Two clamshell maintenance hangers housed helicopters undergoing repairs and their Baghdad fleet of Black Hawks, Little Birds and Super-Cobra attack helicopters were parked on the ramp. But upon Camille’s insistence, the original Hollywood trailer had been preserved.

Camille stepped inside it, fondling those early dreams.

Sue “Pete” Peterson swiveled in her Aeron chair and jumped to attention as soon as she saw it was Camille. Her hair was even more closely cropped than Camille remembered, but she still wore enough Old Spice to make Camille nearly gag. Pete worked as the Black Management deputy project manager for logistics for the Baghdad area of operations, but whenever Camille was in town, she reassumed her old role of personal aide to the boss.

“At ease. I thought you were going to salute for a minute there,” Camille said.

“Sorry, ma’am. Old habits die hard.”

“We crapped out in Ramadi. The trail’s cold,” Camille said as she pulled apart the Velcro shoulder straps of her Kevlar vest. Pete helped her out of it and hung it on a coat rack. Camille was very aware of how the sweat made her T-shirt cling to her breasts. So was Pete. Camille would never admit it, but she liked the attention and Pete was more of a gentleman than most of the guys she worked with. It wasn’t that often that Camille let someone make her feel like a lady.

Camille continued speaking. “We must have talked to two hundred shop owners and vendors. Hundreds of people were there yesterday during the riot and they all say they saw nothing. I even believed one or two of them. Iggy back from Afghanistan yet?”

“Tonight. Don’t worry. Virgil’s holding down the fort, but he hasn’t been too happy about it. It’s his shot at being the alpha dog and there’s no one to play with. It’s been quiet lately-real quiet.”

“Quiet makes me nervous. You don’t know where the tangos are. They’re moving around, regrouping for something big.”

“You want some ice water? A soda?”

“I got it. I miss the old speakeasy days. I could use a cold one right now.” Camille opened an apartment-sized refrigerator and pulled out a can of Coke with white Arabic script. She took a sip, then set it on the coffee table and sunk herself into the black leather sofa, closed her eyes and took a long breath as she savored the air conditioning. The unit for her trailer was twice the recommended BTUs for the space and seemed to be one of the few that could stand up to the desert heat.

“I can send one of the boys for whatever you want and I could rustle up some whiskey a little faster than that.” Pete set a glass of ice on the coffee table in front of Camille and poured the soda into it.

“No need. I’m good.”

“Can I be frank with you?” Pete was the kind of woman who, even if you didn’t ask, would tell. It got her into trouble. It got her out of the Army. It got her a job with Camille.

“You always are.”

“We’re not a mom and pop shop anymore. You don’t need to do this yourself. I heard from Virgil that you went out on a run and led a takedown last night. That’s too dangerous for the president of a billion dollar company.”

“We’re not there yet. Though the accountants are projecting we’ll hit it in November if current trends hold.” Camille sipped her Coke. “Things have gotten hot with Rubicon and I needed to see for myself.”

“Is that all?”

“I like to keep my skills sharp.”

“I hear you on that one. I sneak out every once in a while with the boys just to pop a few fly balls. But that wasn’t what I was talking about.” Pete stood and walked over to a cabinet beside the stainless steel sink. “You’ve been at the Kandahar base so much lately, I’ve gotten out of the habit of stocking up for you. Looks like all I’ve got to offer you to eat right now are some corn nuts, pretzels or a stale Ding Dong.”

“Pass on the Ding Dong.”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t touch it either.” Pete ripped open a vending-machine-sized bag of pretzels and dumped them into a blue ceramic bowl hand painted with a geometric pattern and stylized Arabic writing. She offered some to Camille, then set the bowl on the coffee table.

Camille bit into a pretzel. “Business is too good in Afghanistan-actually most of our work at the moment is unofficially over the border in Waziristan, tracking down Abdullah. The Taliban and al Qaeda run that part of Pakistan, but no one wants to admit it any more than they want to admit the US is active there. Even though Pakistan is our good friend in the fight on terror, as far as I’m concerned Pakistani intelligence is the most functional part of al Qaeda.”

“The tangos have sure been going after each other without OBL to hold them together.” Pete plopped down in the armchair across from her. Camille sensed there was something bothering her. Pete’s expression suddenly became more serious and she continued, “I’ll tell it to you straight. You have no business running after this guy.”

“Abdullah? You’ve got to be kidding. He and al-Zahrani are the world’s two most wanted terrorists now that it finally leaked that bin Laden’s long dead.”

“Come on. You know who I mean-Stone. I’ve never seen you put out an alert to all supervisors like this morning. Asking them to grab Stone, sure, but the part about you reserving deadly force for yourself-that was out there.”

“I want him brought in alive. He has some information I need.”

“Right. Come on, Camille. You and I go back to the days when this trailer was sitting at Shuwaikh, impounded by the Kuwait Ports Authority because we didn’t have some trumped up permits. The amazing part is I hauled it up to Baghdad in one piece, more or less. Sure couldn’t do that now, too damn dangerous.”

“Amazing you wrestled it away from them. I thought Black Management was sunk then and there along with everything I owned. Of course, I thought that several times-like when we couldn’t get any operators to join us because they didn’t want to work for a woman. Thank god Iggy joined me. He really turned things around. Without him, we wouldn’t have hit critical mass.”

“Iggy was sure a magnet for the best operators. But you’re selling yourself short. There are a lot of boys who wanted to work with you. You’ve got star power, too.”

“More like sex appeal. I know these guys. All they think about is pussy and that’s all a woman’s good for.” She ran her fingers though her hair, pushing it back behind her ears. “You recognized him from the picture?”

“Oh, yeah. And I’m sure I’m not the only one.” Pete grabbed another soda and drank a swig from the can before filling half a glass. She opened a file cabinet and pulled out a bottle of Wild Turkey. She added a shot, then set the bottle in front of Camille.

Camille dumped some whiskey into her Coke too, even though she was more of a vodka kind of gal.

“When did you find out he wasn’t KIA?” Pete said.

“Two months ago. What I just now found out was that the Agency helped him fake his death so he could marry someone else-a hell of a way to break off an engagement.”

“Ouch. You gonna take him out?”

“You do know me, don’t you?”

“We’ve been around together and I’ve seen more than I should.” Pete shook her glass and the ice cubes clinked against the side.

“What you don’t know is that I’ve been hired personally for the job. Temp Agency stuff. He was working for them inside Rubicon and apparently the new hussy is high maintenance. He got greedy and stupid. Sold seized weapons caches to the tangos.”

“You believe it?”

“I believe enough.” Camille took a deep breath. “It’s a knife straight into my heart. And the more I find out, the more it gets twisted.”

“What if it’s been twisted? You know the Agency. They’re not exactly in the truth business.”

“Even if only half of it is true, choosing death over me is enough to make me want to help him get his wish.”

Pete chuckled. “I hope I don’t ever cross you, but I gotta say, there’s no one I’d rather have watching my back than you. Don’t get me wrong. The boys working for us are the best, but they all do it for adrenaline or money. You’re old-school like your daddy. It’s all about loyalty-loyalty to country, family, friends.”

Camille smiled at the thought that she was like her father when it came to loyalty, but she knew it wasn’t true. Her father was a true Marine-Semper Fi-always faithful. As much as she had dreamed of becoming the same, the Corps wouldn’t allow her to follow his path. Combat operations were off-limits to women. Her father had seen to it that her long range marksmanship skills could compete with the best scout snipers and her surveillance, weapons and survival skills could match any recon Marine. But as a woman, she would have been relegated to combat support. On the day she graduated from college, she went to the Marine recruiter’s office with her father, but left without signing the enlistment papers and instead called Joe Chronister and accepted the CIA’s offer.

She still resented that she was denied the camaraderie that forged a Marine. But Camille was a girl and girls were supposed to leave their families and their names behind when they married. They changed sides to go with the highest bidder; they were the original mercenaries.

Like it or not, Camille was one, too.

Camille set down her drink. “You know, I used to think Hunter was the only man I’d ever know who had an even stronger sense of loyalty and honor than my father. He’d agonize over doing the right thing when all I cared about was being the best.”

“The floozy might have really gotten under his skin. People will do all kinds of strange things for a woman. I could tell you stories.”

Camille laughed. “You know, the funny thing is he keeps trying to tell me he’s doing it to protect me.” Camille downed the Coke and whiskey, then poured herself a straight shot and raised the glass. “Like Daddy always said, Semper Fi.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

The Green Zone, Baghdad

Entering into the highly fortified Green Zone in the Iraqi capital reminded Hunter of crossing from drab communist East Germany into the glitzy, affluent enclave of West Berlin. West Berlin was a subsidized showcase of just how good things could be if only the commies discovered the wonders of the American way of life. Fast food, relatively safe streets and the absence of poverty in the Green Zone made similar promises to the select Iraqis allowed inside its razor wire and blast walls. Nearly two decades after the fall of the Berlin Wall, things still weren’t going very well for the East Germans and Hunter suspected the Iraqis would face similar disappointments-if the situation were ever stable enough to remove the blast-proof concrete T-walls, checkpoints and tanks that kept the Americans and the Iraqi government safe from Iraq.

The Green Zone was the safest place in Iraq for all Westerners-all Westerners except him. All he could think about was getting out of there. The zone had a high concentration of security forces which would be searching for him and it also had paranoid Westerners who would turn in anyone accused of supporting the insurgency. It wouldn’t give him much room to maneuver to figure out why Force Zulu had cut him loose. But the red zone-the rest of the country-was too hostile to give him the breathing room he needed to sort things out and formulate a game plan for clearing himself. He needed to fall back to neutral territory-somewhere that wasn’t color-coded. He needed to get the hell out of Babylon.

Once inside the zone, the convoy vehicles dispersed toward their various corporate military camps. They let Hunter and Jackie out near the al-Rashid hotel. He ducked into the shadows and Jackie followed. The Arab man-dress that had saved him in Ramadi made him stick out in the Green Zone, particularly at night without most of the Iraqi support staff around.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to take you to the hospital?” Hunter said.

“There’s not much they can do for me. I want my own bed and I don’t want the press around. I live around the corner.” She took his hand. “There’s no way I can thank you enough.”

“We’re good. I need to get moving.” He pulled his hand away.

“What’s this all about? What’s so dangerous?”

“Good-bye, Jackie. Take care of yourself and get out of this place as soon as you can.” He pecked her on the cheek and walked away without looking back.

“Ray! Wait!”

Hunter kept moving even though he heard her light footsteps jogging after him. He thought about trying to find Stella. She did have a large facility in the bubble, but he couldn’t take the risk of getting nailed by her security if she wasn’t there. The one thing he was sure of from his time at Rubicon was that it had infiltrated Black Management. He couldn’t trust anyone there other than Stella and he wasn’t even so sure about her. She had a temper and he could sort of see how she might really be pissed at him, particularly over him stealing her SUV and not apologizing for standing her up in Dubai. The best thing he could do was to get out of the country, maybe even head to Saudi-no one would expect an American to flee there. But first he needed food, rest and money.

Jackie kept trying to catch up with him. She yelled after him. “You don’t have anywhere…” Jackie gasped for breath, then continued, “…to go…do you?”

Hunter stopped.

Chapter Twenty-Four

The logistics task order contract awarded to Halliburton subsidiary KBR for food and living services in Iraq in 2003 has cost more than $15.4 billion so far, according to the GAO.

– United Press International, December 29, 2006

At the lowest level, Blackwater security guards were paid $600 a day. Blackwater added a 36 percent markup, plus overhead costs, and sent the bill to a Kuwaiti company that ordinarily runs hotels, according to the contract.

That company, Regency Hotel, tacked on its own costs, and a profit, and sent an invoice to ESS. The food company added its costs and profit and sent its bill to Kellogg Brown & Root, which also added overhead and a profit, and presented the final bill to the Pentagon.

– The News Observer [Raleigh/Durham, NC], September 29, 2006, as reported by Joseph Neff

Camp Raven, The Green Zone, Baghdad

As soon as she got word of a possible sighting of Hunter, Camille jogged back to her trailer from the Black Management Ops Center to meet with the informant, one of her employees who had just returned in a convoy to the Green Zone from a job site near Ramadi. She went inside and it reeked of sweat and Pete’s Old Spice, a putrid cocktail. Sitting on one of her leather armchairs was a man in his late forties. His skin-tight tan T-shirt was streaked with dirt and had his blood type written on it with a Magic Marker. Like many of her frontline personnel, he had the Black Management black panther logo tattooed on his forearm. His belly hung over his khaki slacks. He would never pass a military physical and she was surprised he had passed hers, except she knew the shortage of skilled technicians had caused them to loosen up standards in some occupations, particularly for Explosive Ordnance Disposal guys.

Camille extended her hand to the man. “Hi, I’m Camille.”

“Mark Fields, pleased to meet you.” He leaned forward, using his weight to help him stand to greet her, then he wiped his hands on his pants, renewing their dirt coating. “Ma’am, I’m sorry. I would’ve taken time to shower if I knew I was meeting the big boss. We hit a hundred and twenty-three today at the site. Hot enough to make a camel sweat like a pig.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Camille said, even though he reeked of body odor. She stifled a gag as she sat down. “Pete, can you get Mr. Fields a bottle of water?”

“You got it.” Pete walked over to the fridge. “Fields here is an EOD supervisor for a team working on a site near Ramadi. They’re Baghdad-based and they convoy with some guys from Rubicon and Zapata.”

“Whoa. I know this isn’t why you’re telling me this, but why are we going through the risk and expense of the commute when we have personnel at Camp Tornado Point in Ramadi? That road is nasty.” Camille started to raise a hand for emphasis, then stopped herself. She wasn’t there to micromanage.

“There’s a big job in Ramadi and everyone’s EOD units are stretched thin.” Pete tossed Fields a bottle of water.

“Thanks, Pete,” he said.

“So I hear you’ve got some information for me?” Camille said.

“I think I saw your man.”

“You think?”

“It was getting kinda dark and he was dressed like a towel head, uh, I mean like a local. And he was with a girl.”

“An Iraqi?”

“Dressed that way, but I’m sure she wasn’t one of them. She stripped to get the convoy to stop. She was as thin as a twig.”

“Where is he now?”

“Somewhere here in the Emerald City.”

“In the Green Zone?”

“Yeah. We were packed to the gills, so they had to ride with Rubicon. I knew you’d want to know more, so I called one of my buddies who works for them. I’ve been trying to get him to switch over to Black.” Fields picked up the water bottle and gulped down half of it, then let out a sigh. “Anyways, my buddy was in the SUV with him. Jimmy said the guy was some kind of a spook. Apparently he and the girl infiltrated the insurgents and things got too hot for them. Jimmy said she was so dehydrated, they pushed in two bags of saline between where we picked them up outside of Ramadi and here. She was skin and bones. She was definitely American from what Jimmy said. Oh, and he couldn’t stop talking about how bad they smelled. Said it was all the guys could do to keep from puking. Now I could identify her for sure. I got a real eyeful when she flagged us down.” Fields flashed a conspiratorial smile at Pete. “You shoulda been there.”

“So does Rubicon have him? Did they take her to the hospital?” Camille tried to get her mind off Fields’ intense body odor. It was starting to make her queasy and she worried she might not be able to get the place aired out well enough by bedtime.

“Nope. Said they’d be fine and they got out over by the al-Rashid. Jimmy said they were real cagey.”

“Pete, what was the name of that geologist kidnapped in Anbar a couple of weeks ago?” Camille ran her hand through her hair and leaned back while she tried to come up with an explanation for Hunter hooking up with a woman in that condition. Her best guess was that he had come across a woman being held hostage and she knew him well enough to know that he would either free her or die trying.

“I remember that. The woman was freelancing for an oil company when they grabbed her. One of the al Qaeda splinter groups backing al-Zahrani sent out a ransom demand, then I didn’t hear any more. I don’t think they have her back yet.”

“Get on the internet and pull up a picture.”

Pete handed Camille a color printout of a studio shot of the abducted geologist. She had shoulder length brown hair and the complexion of a movie star. She passed the photo to Fields, stretching herself to get it as close to him as possible, so he didn’t have to raise his arm to take it from her.

“Bingo! That’s her.” Fields tapped the picture with his index finger.

“Who is she?” Camille said.

“The article is printing out. Just a sec,” Pete said. She took a sheet from the laser printer and glanced at it before handing it to Camille. “Her name’s Jackie Nelson-I know who she is now-she’s the wife of a Rubicon exec who tried to lure me over to them once.”

“What’s his name?”

“Brian Nelson, a VP for Rubicon Petroleum.”

Camille glanced at the photo again. If she didn’t know the Rubicon exec’s spouse was a geologist, she would’ve guessed trophy wife.

“Rubicon does oil, too?” Fields said.

“Their fingers are in everything,” Camille said. “Don’t you know the Rubicon story? When Dick Cheney left Halliburton to run for VP, some of the execs split off and formed Rubicon Group. The government throws nonbid contracts at them all the time. Rubicon Solutions is the security subsidiary they started after 9/11 and they’ve also got a consulting firm that does studies for the Pentagon, recommending the mother ship’s services. Then, of course, there’s their PR firm that constantly reminds the world that everything they do is really for Third World widows and orphans. Think of them as Halliburton’s evil twin. Frankly, both of them scare the shit out of me.”

Fields grunted. “Didn’t know that. I always thought they were small potatoes because that’s where the guys go when they get fired from us or TC. They’re known for being a little loosey-goosey. I know one Rubicon shooter who claims he’s wanted in-”

“Thank you so much for bringing this to my attention.” Camille stood and extended her hand to Fields. She couldn’t stand to look at how his sweaty T-shirt clung to the rolls of his beer belly any longer and she needed to track down her lead before Hunter slipped away. She pulled three one hundred dollar bills from a pocket where she had stashed them in Ramadi and held them out for Fields without looking down at them.

“I can’t take that from you, ma’am. I’m happy to help out.” Fields waved his hand.

“Then do me a favor. Take it and go treat your crew to a few rounds of drinks on me.” Camille smiled as she walked him to the door. As soon as he left, she opened the windows and said to Pete, “Find out where Jackie Nelson lives. And check the hospitals, just in case. I want to have a chat with her-tonight.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

The Green Zone, Baghdad

Jackie Nelson’s apartment might not have been up to middle class American standards, but it was the most luxurious place Hunter had been since he last left the States. He’d slept inside plywood walls in the Rubicon barracks and he worked in cinder block houses or mud brick homes clearing them of weapons and insurgents. The walls of Jackie’s apartment were Sheetrock and they were covered not with oriental carpets, mirrors or pictures of some bearded mullah, but with dozens of charcoal portraits and pencil drawings of American troops and Iraqi civilians. The furniture was a jumble of Iraqi antique chests and Ikea basics, but the TV was flat panel; the stereo was Bose and he was sure the beer was cold. It felt almost American. It felt almost safe.

Hunter knew he had to be careful.

“Walk me through it. I want to know how you know your husband won’t be coming home tonight.”

“You’re as paranoid as Brian is. Like I said, we have a system. See these two drawings?” Jackie pointed at a pen and ink drawing of an Army medic bandaging the arm of an Iraqi girl and at a sketch of a bearded spice merchant in an Iraqi market. “When the one with the medic is on the right, he’s in the country. When it’s on the left, he’s abroad. He’s out of the country. Don’t worry. Brian never gets home at night.”

“And why do you think he’d still be doing this weeks after you were kidnapped?”

“He’s a creature of habit. I could be dead for a year and he’d still be doing it.”

“He travel a lot?”

“Constantly. There’s always some big secret project. So secret, he won’t even tell me what continent he’s going to.” Jackie took a glass pitcher from the fridge and poured two glasses of water. She handed one to Hunter, then held hers up in a toast. “To my hero-Secret Agent Man Ray.”

Hunter flashed her a smile and wished he could forget what the tangos had made him do to her. He couldn’t believe she didn’t seem to have any memory of it, but then he knew all too well the tricks the mind had to play in order to survive torture. He gulped down the entire glass without pausing. She refilled it.

“Don’t you want to call your husband and at least tell him you’re alive? You couldn’t wait to call him earlier.”

“I don’t know whether he gives a damn anymore, but it doesn’t matter. He’s in Uzbekistan and he doesn’t have his cell with him. God forbid that he leave a trail of anything.” Jackie grabbed a box of Ritz crackers and ripped it open. She popped a whole one into her mouth and held the box out for Hunter. “I have to shower. I can’t stand being like this a second longer. Afterwards, I’ll call my sister.”

“Wait a minute. Uzbekistan? I thought you said he wouldn’t tell you where he went.”

“I have my ways.”

“Gonna tell me?” Hunter followed Jackie into the hallway and stood outside the bedroom door, nibbling on a handful of Ritz.

“Why not? You’re going to disappear from my life forever after tonight, aren’t you?”

“Afraid so.”

“I told you I’m a soil scientist. I do forensics. When I was stateside I did a lot of expert witness gigs-tying soil samples to remote crime sites, that kind of thing.” She opened a wardrobe and pulled out a polo shirt and pair of Dockers and threw them on the bed. “If these don’t work for you, help yourself to something else.”

“So you scraped soil off his shoes?”

“I almost forgot shoes. Hope you wear a size eleven, otherwise you’re out of luck.” She handed him a pair of deck shoes. “I think he’s been cheating on me. I wanted to know where he kept disappearing to, so I analyzed the soil. He’s up to something in Uzbekistan, somewhere around Zarafshan.”

“You can be that accurate from little chunks of rock?”

“Actually, it’s the microfauna and microflora that are the dead giveaways. Well, it wasn’t that easy. In grad school I worked summers for Neuberg Mining Corp. We did some extensive studies of the Muruntau deposits-they were trying to figure out the most environmentally friendly way to get the gold out of low grade ore. As soon as the bastards realized they could buy off the Uzbek government and get away with heat-leaching, my trip there got cancelled along with my job.” Jackie took out a bathrobe for herself. “Anyway, all I have here is an old microscope, but I thought I recognized some plant fragments in the soil unique to that region of the Kyzyl Kum desert. I couldn’t imagine what the hell Brian was doing there. Uzbekistan has oil in the south, but nowhere near where the truffles are found. So I sent a sample to a friend in Ann Arbor for an elemental analysis. And guess what she found when she ran an ICP-MS?”

“Not a clue.”

“Gold-along with extremely high levels of methyl mercury concentration in the truffles.”

“You’re way over my head now.”

“I was dead-on-Uzbekistan, Muruntau mines, somewhere near Zarafshan. The Soviets were shameless in using mercury in the mining process-that sample could only have been from a gold mine. And one of my old professors confirmed it was the Kyzl Kum truffle.” Jackie walked into the bathroom and grabbed a towel. “I still think Brian’s been cheating on me-even if he’s doing it in an old gold mine.”

He followed her to the bathroom doorway. “Uzbekistan, huh? You’re damn good.”

“I’m damn bored.” Jackie turned on the shower with Hunter watching. “You keep standing there. You planning on joining me or something?” she said in a way that made him think she was flirting with him.

She was one messed up lady and Hunter realized he needed to move on before she latched onto him even more.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be following you. I was curious about what you were saying and I wasn’t thinking.” He started to shut the door, then paused. “So your husband works for some kind of a oil company?”

“Yup. Rubicon Petroleum.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

The Green Zone, Baghdad

One hour later

Camille was surprised when Jackie Nelson cracked open the door, but she guessed a lone Western woman at the doorstep didn’t appear too threatening, particularly since they were so rare in the Green Zone. Jackie stood, blocking the doorway, wearing a fluffy white bathrobe and a towel wrapped around her hair. Civilians were such a trusting bunch.

“Jackie Nelson?” Camille held up her corporate identification card-her real one. She knew Rubicon would find out that she had paid a visit to the wife of one of their VPs and she preferred to do it brazenly. She loved to pull Rubicon’s chain-then run like hell. “I’m Camille Black, president and CEO of Black Management. I need to talk to you about this man. He’s in danger.” She showed her a photo of Hunter.

Jackie glanced at it and looked away. Her face was gaunt. “I’ve never him seen before.”

“I’ve heard he rescued you. You owe him your life.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t give me that. I know.” Camille made eye contact and held her gaze. Jackie’s eyes were bloodshot and slightly jaundiced. “You rode here with a Rubicon crew, but you didn’t tell them who you were. Why not? Your husband’s one of their VPs. I’d think they would have been even more helpful if they’d known.”

“Ray said it was too dangerous.”

“Was Rubicon the one holding you captive?” Camille had no idea who had held her hostage, but she couldn’t figure out how Hunter got hooked up with her if Rubicon weren’t involved. Last she knew, Rubicon was trying to kill him. Even if there were no Rubicon link, it couldn’t hurt to wedge some doubt between Jackie and Rubicon. Like Joe Chronister had taught her many years ago, this was how informants were born and she could use one with inside connections to Rubicon. Camille stepped closer, into the cracked door and Jackie moved back a few steps into the apartment.

“Why would Rubicon ever want to hold me hostage?” Jackie said.

“Maybe as an executive perk. Word around here is that your marriage isn’t going too well.” Camille bluffed, but she knew the odds were in her favor. Hardship posts and relationships didn’t mix well.

“I think you better come in and shut the door.”

“Is he here?”

“I stretched out for a few minutes while he showered and nodded off. I woke up and he was gone.”

“He couldn’t stick around in a Rubicon apartment. They’ll be here soon. They tried to kill him a couple of times yesterday. I know because I helped him get away.” Camille listened for any noise hinting that Hunter was in the apartment. It was quiet, except for the hum of the refrigerator and the air conditioner.

“Why would Rubicon want to kill Ray?”

“Do me a favor and play this for me. Background noise.” Camille gave Jackie a CD. A former NSA scientist in Black Management’s expanding intelligence division had mixed special privacy “music” composed of sounds that could not be easily identified and filtered out. It was grating, but effective.

Jackie took it and sighed. “I know the routine.” She turned on the player.

“To answer your question, I honestly don’t know why Rubicon’s targeting him. Maybe he saw something they don’t want him to know about.”

“Rubicon is a paranoid bunch, but it looks like you’re that way, too.” Jackie sat on the sofa and pulled her legs up onto the cushions. She stared blankly down the hall.

“Rubicon is dangerous. Paranoia can mean survival.”

“Why do you want to help Ray?”

“We have to keep it quiet.” Camille hesitated. She didn’t want to have to go there, but it was the best way to get the woman to help her. “Ray and I are engaged,” Camille said, fighting a tempest of emotions. She knew she had to play the part and force herself to be happy about it. The random sounds of the music were irritating and only made her more agitated.

“That’s wonderful. Have you set a date yet?”

We did. “No, not yet. We’re waiting until we can have a big wedding back home.” Camille smiled and it made her feel more hollow inside.

“He’s in trouble and on the run. I do know that much,” Jackie said and then relayed the story of her rescue from the terrorists. She paused frequently, stared down the hallway and shook her head as if another dialogue were going on internally.

“You keep looking down the hallway. Is he here?”

“No.” Jackie avoided eye contact with Camille.

“Was he here?”

“Yes.”

“I can help him, but I’ve got to find him first. When was he here?”

“He left over an hour ago. I don’t know where he went.”

Camille wasn’t sure if she believed her, but the woman had no reason to lie, except to protect Hunter. She was already pushing it, coming into the apartment of a Rubicon executive and interrogating his wife. Searching down the hallway would have consequences she didn’t want. To be on the safe side, she would post observers outside the building just in case he really was hiding down the hall. If he really had left an hour ago, he could be anywhere, inside or outside the Green Zone by now.

Once it became clear that Jackie didn’t have any useful information, Camille stood to leave. The woman needed to debrief, but Camille didn’t have time or inclination to be her confidant. And she couldn’t stand another moment of pretending everything was like it had once been between she and Hunter. She had forgotten how happy she had been just to be with him and watch him move about in the world, interacting with people and animals. He had such strength and compassion. He was a warrior and a lover. There was such a balance of opposites about him. And his mind-he made her think so hard and laugh so hard. God, I miss him.

She gave Jackie a glossy black business card as she tried to stuff her emotions back where they belonged. “I’ve got to get moving if I’m going to find Ray. If you think of anything that might help me, call me. If you get scared and want out of here or you need an escort to the airport or need protection from Rubicon, call my assistant Pete. My men will be here in a flash. We’re not far away-just across from the old presidential palace.” She stopped the music and retrieved the disk from the CD player.

“I know the place. I hope you can help him. Ray-or whatever his name is-is an incredible guy. You’ve got to be one of the luckiest women on the planet.”

“He is amazing.” For a moment, Camille really did feel lucky. She always did get into her cover stories a little too much, she scolded herself. But he was amazing.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

At least 13 DynCorp employees have been sent home from Bosnia-and at least seven of them fired-for purchasing women or participating in other prostitution-related activities. But despite large amounts of evidence in some cases, none of the DynCorp employees sent home have faced criminal prosecution.

– Salon.com, August 6, 2002, as reported by Robert Capps

The Tribune’s series, which documented the deaths of 12 workers who had been trafficked from Nepal to Iraq, raised a specific alarm because it detailed alleged abuses involving contractors and subcontractors “employed directly or indirectly by the U.S. government” at American facilities in Iraq under a multibillion-dollar privatization contract. That contract, which has cost taxpayers more than $12 billion, is held by Halliburton subsidiary KBR.

– The Chicago Tribune, January 19, 2006, as reported by Cam Simpson

The Green Zone, Baghdad

The rushed shower, shave, self-inflicted haircut and clean clothes made Hunter feel like a new man. He only wished they also made him look like one. As long as it was dark and no one looked too closely, he could probably pass as one of the thousands of contractors in the Green Zone. It had been risky enough to take the time to clean up and the danger of any extra minutes to alter his appearance in a Rubicon-leased apartment was too great. He stole a Leatherman utility knife and a swatch of duct tape, an operator’s best friend, from Jackie’s husband. He felt bad sneaking out while Jackie was asleep, but he felt a lot worse about other things he had done. He tucked a pebble in his right shoe to alter his walk, but the rock poked him so much as he walked down a flight of concrete steps in an alley, he stopped and emptied his shoe. Tradecraft be damned.

The streets were empty of foot traffic. At night the Green Zone was an American enclave and Americans drove everywhere. He needed wheels and money. He didn’t find any in the predictable spots at Jackie’s and he didn’t want to ransack the entire apartment. Dozens of new American-made pickup trucks were parked along both sides of a street that seemed to otherwise be abandoned. He had only been there once, but he knew he had found the place he was looking for.

He walked down an alley toward the sound of loud music coming from a basement. As he got closer, he could see an Iraqi bouncer standing at the door.

The Western-dressed Iraqi had a cigarette dangling from his mouth and an AK slung over his arm. He looked Hunter over, then nodded and opened a blue painted door to a bar tucked away in a basement. Hunter stepped inside and the thick cloud of smoke immediately made his eyes burn as the beat of the blaring hip-hop music pulsed through his body. The place was packed with American contractors and a few privileged Iraqis. Strings of Italian Christmas lights hung over the bar, the brightest spot in the otherwise dark establishment. No one knew whether the few nightclubs and bars in the Green Zone were illegal or not, but everyone knew they had to be treated as such if they were to avoid offending local Muslim sensibilities. It was the best stocked bar in the Middle East outside of Dubai. Thanks to Western contractors importing cheap foreign workers to staff their service contracts, young Filipino and Thai bargirls kept the men entertained. Southeast Asian women always looked young to Hunter, but no one could have convinced him that any of these girls were over fifteen. Hunter watched a constant stream of them escorting American men and rich Iraqis into a backroom.

Assault rifles were placed on tables and empty chairs-always within easy reach of their owners. Hunter had been counting on the fact that the real operators worked at night and the guys in the bar at this hour were mainly construction workers, bomb disposal guys and run-of-the-mill security guards. But for some reason tonight there were too many familiar faces and that made him nervous. He knew a lot of the guys there by their call signs, or names that didn’t really belong to them. The Special Operations world was a small one and Hunter had been a part of it for over a decade.

Hunter picked up an empty beer bottle and carried it as camouflage as he worked the crowd, searching for an easy mark. Contractors always carried too much cash to places like this and he needed money and credit cards. The cash would get him out of Iraq and the credit cards would buy airline tickets as part of a fake trail to destinations only his pursuers would visit-he definitely wouldn’t.

Someone put his hand on Hunter’s back. “Well if it isn’t Jack Russell. How you doing, flyboy?”

Hunter swung around. The man was in his midforties and wore a brightly colored Hawaiian shirt. He looked part Chinese with a lot of something else thrown in. Hunter vaguely remembered him as an instructor in a gentleman’s course where Force Zulu had sent him to learn the basics of handling a helicopter so he could pick up enough to land one safely in case a pilot became incapacitated. It was one of the most humbling experiences of his life. The first time he took the controls, he couldn’t keep the helo inside an area the size of a football field. It spun. It whirled. The beast had a mind of its own and he doubted it could ever really be tamed, only forced into temporary submission. Two courses and many simulator hours later, he could almost keep it in the air without making himself quesy.

Hunter pretended to sip from the empty bottle as he kept an eye on the door. “Keeping myself in the crosshairs. So what are you up to nowadays?”

“Still flying them whirlybirds. You ever get that ticket?”

“Never. I like my wings either fixed or honey barbequed. Helos flip too easily.” Hunter sat down the bottle down. “You’re going to have to help me out with your name.”

“No, problem, Jack. It’s Wayne Akana. But everybody calls me Beach Dog.”

“So what outfit are you with here, Beach Dog?”

“I retired from the Night Stalkers. I keep planning on moving back to the North Shore, but right now I’m flying for Black Management. As a matter of fact, this afternoon I flew Camille Black herself from Ramadi into the bubble.”

“Camille’s here in the Zone?”

“Sure is. See that big guy over there?” Beach Dog pointed to a man whose belly hung over his Bermuda shorts. Several men crowded around a table with him. “He’s buying drinks for everyone on his crew, says the rounds are on Ms. Black’s tab.”

“Any idea where she is right now?”

“What do you want to know for?”

“We used to have a thing.”

“Sure you did. I’ve heard that from a lot of guys.” Beach Dog smiled and gulped his Heineken.

A Rubicon security team walked into the bar, dressed for work, not a night on the town. They wore photographer’s vests with bulging pockets over Kevlar body armor and they carried AKs. Hunter hunched down a little and moved so that Beach Dog was between him and the door. “Can you get me to Camille?”

“Now?”

“She’s got some big problems and I have something she needs.” Even if Stella were really furious at him, Hunter was sure he could talk her down. All he needed to do was get her to understand the truth. And besides, he had to find a way to make things right with her. He ached inside as he thought about how much he wanted her. Suddenly it didn’t make any sense to flee Iraq to save his ass if it meant leaving his heart behind.

“Yeah, right,” Beach Dog said. “I don’t think she needs anything in your pants.” He waved to a waitress, then pointed at his empty beer bottle. “I’ve heard talk from the guys that she might even have something going on with Pete. You know, the woman with the short hair and comfy shoes who works in her Baghdad ops.”

“I’m not joking.” Hunter grabbed him by the arm. The Rubicon operators scanned the crowd. Hunter slouched lower and looked around for options.

“Dude, you are one intense guy.” He stared at Hunter’s hand grasping his forearm.

“See those two men working their way to the bar? They’re Rubicon operators and they’re here to kill me. Keep yourself between them and me.”

“Hey, I’m here for a good time, not to play combat-flashback with you.” The helo pilot put his hands in the air as if surrendering.

“If you were with Camille Black today you had to have heard her talking about problems with Rubicon. I’m not crazy and I have critical intel for her about Rubicon. There’s going to be money in this for you. You know she’s generous with those who go out of their way to help her.”

“How serious of a problem is it?”

“You saw the look on her face today, didn’t you?” Hunter gambled. He could almost see how the two vertical lines formed between her eyebrows when something was bothering her. That look used to scare him because it usually foreshadowed trouble between them, but now he would have welcomed it just to see her again.

“I’ve never quite seen her this way,” Beach Dog said as a waitress handed him another beer.

“I’m telling you, big bucks.”

Beach Dog sighed. “Follow me.” He approached three men talking to two girls who had barely reached puberty. He put his arm around the waist of a petite Filipina and looked at the men standing around the tall table with her.

“Hey, what are you doing, Dog? Hand’s off. I just bought her,” a man twice the girth of Beach Dog said as he pushed Beach Dog’s arm away. He pointed to a passport from the Philippines lying on the table.

“Rob, remember how we ducked the Aussies at the bar in Patpong? I’ll have her back to you in two shakes.”

“She better still have that new car smell.” Rob shrugged his shoulders and reached for his drink.

“Take the other one,” Beach Dog said to Hunter as he led the bargirl to the back of the bar. “You need one of these to get into the brothel in the back. It’s got plenty of exits.”

Hunter took the one of the Filipino girls by the hand. He expected to follow Beach Dog, but instead, the girl immediately started leading him to the whorehouse. Beach Dog and another girl were right behind him.

A small Asian man sat on a stool in front of a glass door with newspapers stuck to the panes to obscure the view. He nodded to the girl and let the group pass.

It took a few seconds for Hunter’s eyes to adjust to the darkness, but his ears were immediately oriented to the sounds of sex: heavy breathing, moaning, grunting and assorted fucking sounds which sounded like a giant orgy coming from all around him, but there was no laughter, no signs of lingering. When he could see, he understood. It was a place where you wanted to do your business and then get the hell out. He was walking through the most sorry-ass brothel he’d ever seen, and as a Marine he’d seen some pretty bad ones. Sheets hung from wires crisscrossing the ceiling, creating small cubicles. They stopped short of the concrete floor, well above the thin mattresses. Clothespins attempted to hold the corners shut, but not much was hidden and from what he saw, he wished it were. The Iraq War had gone on long enough for proper whorehouses to be established, so the only way he could explain the place was that the proprietors had designed it for quick disassembly in case of a police raid. Either that, or they were cheap fuckers.

The girl tugged at his hand to lead him into a cubicle. He planted his feet and shook his head.

She formed a circle with her index finger and thumb and thrust two fingers from her other hand in and out of it. “Ten dollar.” Then she puckered her lips and blew. “Five dollar.”

Hunter shook his head. “No thanks.” He looked behind him to Beach Dog. “Where the hell’s the door?”

“Straight ahead, past tent city.”

The girl grabbed Hunter’s arm and tried to pull him back. “Why you no like?”

He shook her off and kept going.

Ten minutes later they were in Beach Dog’s extended cab Ford F-150 truck approaching the Black Management compound.

“I think I’m better off if I get under a blanket in the backseat for the security point,” Hunter said as he ducked low in the seat.

“Dude, chill. I’m telling you, it’s just like going onto a base back home. Right stickers, right look and nobody says boo.”

Beach Dog rolled to a stop at the security shack and held out his thumb and little finger, flashing the guard the Hawaiian shaka sign. “Hey, Kimo, been catchin’ any waves lately? I hear we had some big sets come in yesterday.”

“You too funny.” A heavy Hawaiian man let out a deep belly laugh.

“Too much beach and not enough water in this place.” Beach Dog held up his plastic security identification badge.

“Your friend, he have ID?”

The guard pointed at Hunter who looked at Beach Dog and shrugged his shoulders. He needed a backup plan fast, but at the moment he was stumped. He would not take out an innocent security guard. Come on, Beach Dog.

“I can give him one visitor pass, but I need an ID,” Kimo said.

Beach Dog grimaced. “He can’t leave a trail. No one can know he was here with me.”

“He some kind of spy or something?”

“Promise me you won’t tell anyone what this is about.” Beach Dog leaned out the window and lowered his voice. “Steamy, hunky man-love.”

“For real?” Kimo cocked his head and inspected Hunter as if he had just arrived on the planet.

Hunter let his wrist fall limp in his most effeminate wave while he told himself Beach Dog couldn’t possibly be serious.

“Go, go, go. But next time, his place.” The guard raised the barrier.

“Now you keep that long board waxed. I feel a big swell coming on.” Beach Dog winked at Kimo.

“You too much. Go!” Kimo closed his eyes and shook his head.

As soon as they cleared the guard shack, Hunter turned toward Beach Dog. “Dog, you don’t really-”

“I like surfing the big waves, if that’s what you’re getting at.” Beach Dog smiled in a way that gave Hunter the feeling the guy really was coming on to him. “That trailer over there. That’s the boss-lady’s.” He pointed to a retro-style trailer, but drove past it.

Hunter had nothing against gays and even had intervened several times to keep some poor guy from getting the shit kicked out of him just because he had lost the chromosomal luck of the draw. But he still felt a wave of nausea when he thought about two guys. Two chicks were a big turn-on, but two guys were just gross, particularly when one of them was him.

As they drove past several helicopters, Hunter said, “Why don’t you pull over there out of the streetlight?” He wished he didn’t have to deceive the guy. He would be careful not to injure him permanently.

“My trailer’s just over there by the helicopters.”

“I can’t wait, dude-if you know what I mean.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Brown & Root’s open-ended logistics contracts from the Army and Navy indeed much of the military privatization campaign are grounded in a 1992 study the company did for the Defense Department that several analysts said formed the template for privatization of logistics for a downsized U.S. military. Soon after the company delivered the classified study, which reportedly concluded that the Pentagon could save hundreds of billions of dollars by outsourcing, Brown & Root won its first competitively bid logistics contract. Vice President Dick Cheney was defense secretary when the first Brown & Root study was done, and he became chief executive of its parent company, Halliburton, when he retired…

– The Los Angeles Times, January 24, 2003, as reported by Mark Fineman

Camp Raven, the Green Zone, Baghdad

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather stay at the al-Rashid?” Pete said as she unfurled a sheet and guided it as it fluttered down onto the leather sofa in the Black Management trailer. Pete had insisted on helping Camille make the bed and Camille got the feeling she was hanging around, wanting something.

“No way. It’s run by Halliburton. I trust them about like I trust Rubicon.” Camille held a down pillow under her chin and worked it into a pillowcase. “Here I get 600-count cotton sheets and I don’t have to worry about suicide bombers or cockroaches. Roaches creep me out almost as much as Halliburton does and I’d be hard pressed to say which one of them is more likely to thrive after a nuclear war.”

Pete laughed. “Any guesses where Hunter is?”

“He won’t stick around in the Green Zone. Too many people can recognize him here. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s already out of the bubble. He can pass for an Arab and he’s got the balls, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he heads to Saudi. It would sure throw anyone off his trail. No Westerner in his right mind would rush into the flames of hell.” Camille shook her head. “I can’t think about it anymore. I’m driving myself crazy mulling over the possibilities.”

“I laid out some fresh towels for you in the bathroom. It’s a little cramped in there, but it works. I’ll bet a shower will feel real good right now.”

“A lot of things would feel good right now.”

“I can arrange for anything you want. Massage. Anything.” Pete smiled, her eyes undressing her.

Camille unzipped her carry-on-sized Swiss Army suitcase and took out a USP Tactical pistol, a cosmetic case, then a lacy, black night gown. She held up the negligee just to play with Pete. She had bought it only a few weeks ago before Hunter stood her up in Dubai. It had been two long months since she’d had sex and for a guilty second, she actually entertained Pete’s offer. Camille was one of the few females among thousands of men in the Green Zone and she could have had any one of them she wanted. The top operators kept their bodies hard and well-sculpted and she liked that, but she had hardly paid attention in the last two months since she had learned that Hunter was still alive. It was time to get over him, do the job for Chronister and go on the prowl again.

The more she thought about it, the more she wanted sex. She even considered Pete again, but decided she liked her women femmier. “Thanks for the offer. But I don’t think you have what I want tonight.”

Shortly after Pete left for the night, Camille closed her eyes and stuck her head under the shower stream. For a few choice moments she could forget about Hunter and quit worrying about what she was going to do when she found him. It scared her how much she wanted to kill him and that she knew deep down that she really could. As long as he was alive, he would keep hurting her and the pain got worse each time. Chronister had given her an easy way out. She wouldn’t be killing him for personal reasons that she might someday feel guilty about; it was for god and country. She didn’t have to decide what she was going to do now. Instead she focused on the sensation of the warm water caressing her skin and savored each steamy breath. It was good to breathe humid air again. She was so sick of the desert, she was ready to move into a terrarium.

She poured shampoo into her hands, rubbed them together, then ran her fingers through her hair. It felt bristly from all the dust and dirt.

A sudden cool draft brushed her body. She looked up, but the glass shower stall door was fogged over and a towel she had slung over it obscured everything else.

“Pete?”

No answer.

“Pete, is that you?” She felt a wave of fear as she quickly assessed how vulnerable she was, naked and without anything to use to defend herself. Water rolled down her face and shampoo burned her eyes. She splashed water on them and looked around the stall to see if there were anything that she could use as a weapon. A plastic Bic razor was her best bet and it wasn’t a very good one. She listened, but couldn’t hear anyone over the sound of the shower, even though she sensed a presence.

She smacked the safety razor against the stall and broke off the head. With enough force and at the right angle, the jagged plastic handle could puncture a neck. She took a deep breath and kicked open the shower door.

Hunter sat on the closed toilet seat. He didn’t move, but looked her over with elevator eyes and smiled.

“You’re looking damn good, Stella. Damn good.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Camp Raven, the Green Zone, Baghdad

Shampoo suds slid from Stella’s hair onto her shoulders, then flowed down to her breasts where the stream forked. Hunter traced each shifting tributary with his eyes, starting with the ones that curved around the sides, the foamy bubbles making each breast seem even softer than he had remembered. He watched the suds drip from her nipples toward the floor, but his gaze stopped halfway at the swirls of her pubic hair. Her curly brown hair danced with the flowing bubbles, a shimmering veil teasing with fleeting glimpses of pink.

He reached for her just as she lunged at him with a plastic razor handle. Dodging, he grabbed her arm and stood up, throwing her off balance so that she slipped on the sudsy linoleum. He bent her hand backwards, forcing her to drop the plastic weapon. His foot crushed it. Just as her head was about to smack against the sink, Hunter jerked her up by the arm, pulling her close. She tried to get away from him, but his strength overpowered her.

As Hunter seized her wrist, Camille raised her foot to strike him, then felt her other foot slide across the slick floor. Suddenly the edge of the sink was right in front of her. She raised her free arm to catch herself and pain shot through her other wrist as Hunter twisted. She struggled to regain her balance, but everything she touched was wet and slippery and then she found her body pressing against Hunter. For an instant, she liked it. She squirmed, but he held her locked in a bear hug.

“Let go of me.”

“Not until you quit fighting me. Why do you attack me every time you see me?”

“And why do you stab me in the back every time you see me?”

“It’s not what it seems.”

“You keep saying that-right before you screw me again.”

Hunter captured her gaze for a moment before he spoke. “Whatever you think I’ve done, forgive me. I love you-more than anything. I’ve never intentionally done anything to harm you.”

She drew back her leg, preparing to ram her knee into his groin, then she looked into his eyes and wasn’t all so sure. Something about his eyes made her feel that he really did love her. She lowered her leg.

His eyes pled with her as he spoke. “And right now I need you. A lot of people are trying to kill me.”

“And I’m one of them. You know, I was ready to forgive you and help you-that’s when you stole my truck.”

“I was trying to tell you when you wouldn’t let me get a word in edgewise. Rubicon has someone on the inside at Black Management. That’s how they got the information about your job sites. I couldn’t take the risk.”

“But you can now?”

“I’m desperate.”

“You know I want to believe you.” She tried not to notice how natural it felt for her body to scrape against his, then she realized he probably had the same feelings about her. She tilted her head and looked up at him, inviting a kiss. He lowered his head toward her and gently touched his lips against hers. She kissed him hard and lost herself briefly. But she wanted to lead him to the edge and make her move there. Whether or not she went ahead with Chronister’s contract, she had to escape from Hunter’s grip. It was a matter of pride. The only problem was that it felt good, too good. Her tongue played with his, luring it into her mouth, but he would only dart inside for a few seconds, so she sucked his bottom lip into her mouth, then she bit down hard.

Hunter was experiencing a joy he’d almost forgotten over the past few days, even years. His mind raced to restore everything that had been between them, then a sharp pain jolted him. “What the-” He jerked his head away and accidentally bit down on the loose tooth, ramming it deeper into the tender socket.

The second he realized he’d let up a little, he tightened his hold but the soap made his hands slide. Her naked body rammed against him and he bumped back. He gyrated with each thrust, twisting, turning together, a dance of warriors. Her fingernails dug into his wrist. God, he wanted her. “You’re the only woman I’ve ever loved.”

“That’s not what I’ve heard.” Her elbow smacked him in the ribs. He was starting to think that maybe she really didn’t want him.

“Whatever they’re telling you about me isn’t true. I couldn’t get the evidence, but I know Rubicon is working with the tangos. They think I know something and I wish I knew what the hell it was.”

“Why don’t you run to your CIA friends for help?”

“I’ve been burned, even with my unit. And I’m not OGA. I’m with Force Zulu.”

“My contact told me you were with the Agency-that the Bushmen wouldn’t have you. The Agency helped you fake your death so you could get away from me and marry that Julia bitch.” Stella jabbed her thumb into the tender spot under his arm. It brought tears to his eyes as her thumbnail cut his skin and dug into the tender flesh, but he breathed deeply and resisted the pain. She knew how to do it right.

“What the hell are you talking about? You can’t be serious. The Julia thing is part of the legend Zulu created for me to use when I infiltrated Rubicon.” He hooked his foot around hers as he pivoted away, then swung back suddenly, slamming himself against her. She tripped. He guided her head away from the sink as he forced her down. The floor space in the trailer’s bathroom was barely large enough for her. He straddled her, pinning her on her back. Her breasts looked a little smaller, but rounder and her nipples were now perked out. Maybe she did want him, but then the air conditioning was blasting. “There is no real Julia Lewis from Tacoma. You’ve been in this business long enough to know how things work. She’s part of my cover-that’s all. Whatever Rubicon is telling you is a lie.”

“It didn’t come from Rubicon. It was CIA. I find it hard to believe that my Agency contact is lying.”

“Really? With all the people leaving the profession to go work for Rubicon and outfits like yours, don’t you think it’s possible that someone’s positioning himself for retirement? Or that the Agency’s finally getting it that Force Zulu is a bigger threat to them than the KGB ever was? We’re better at human intel and direct action than they’ve ever been and someday the president is going to realize that and force the Agency to step aside.” She wiggled underneath him, but didn’t try hard to resist. He knew Stella. She was only making it look real while she waited for the right opportunity, so he had to make sure she didn’t find it. Holding her wrists, he stretched out on top of her. Her velvety skin was right there pressing against him, but his clothes were sandpaper, irritating him with each movement. He wanted to rip them off and feel skin. “I want you.”

“Yeah, I can feel that.” She bumped her thighs against his pelvis. “I’d give anything to step back in time and stop you from faking your death and trying to shield me from whatever baggage came along with being a Bushman.”

Stella moved her hips back and forth underneath him, back and forth. Hunter wasn’t sure if it was for real or if she was working on a distraction so she could attack. She knew he couldn’t resist danger, the warrior’s aphrodisiac. His groin moved in rhythm with hers. “I wanted to protect you.”

“More like you chose your career over me.”

“I said I was wrong. I can’t change what I did. Please forgive me. I love you.”

Stella cracked a smile. Hunter could see hints of a deeper emotion radiating from her green eyes. As a soldier, he knew he had to exploit any weakness he found in an enemy. Stella wasn’t exactly an enemy in the traditional sense, but he had learned long ago the difference between war and love made the battlefield the safer endeavor-or at least the less painful one. He had suffered the loss of friends in combat and moved on, but he knew he could never recover from losing Stella. The battle with her was one he had to fight to win.

“I’m the old-fashioned kind of guy who believes there’s only one woman in the world out there for me. Stella, honey, you’re that woman. Look me in the eyes. If you can tell me you don’t have that feeling way down inside that we belong together, I’ll walk away and I’ll never bother you again. Look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t love me. Can you do that?”

Stella opened her mouth, then closed it. She blinked several times, but Hunter saw the tears anyway.

“I was hired to kill you,” she said.

“So you’re saying you think we belong together?”

“I’m saying I agreed to kill you.”

“You gonna do it?” He sensed such anger underneath the surface and such a sense of betrayal in her that he really didn’t know the answer and he wasn’t entirely convinced that she’d give him an honest one.

“They didn’t say how they wanted it done.” She raised her head toward his, her mouth open just enough so he could see her sharp little teeth.

Chapter Thirty

Camp Raven, the Green Zone, Baghdad

The leather sofa in the Black Management trailer really wasn’t wide enough for Camille and Hunter, but it was bigger and more comfortable than the bathroom floor, so they made it work. Camille woke up with Hunter spooning her, his muscular arms wrapped around her, keeping her from tumbling off the edge. Her skin was clammy, her hair matted with shampoo and she smelled of sex, but she was happy. She caressed his arm and felt a scar on his left bicep that she didn’t remember. She traced its outline with her finger. Hunter muttered something and shifted his legs.

“You awake?” Camille said.

“Yeah, my body’s been so constantly blasted with adrenaline for the last few days, I can’t come down.”

“I don’t remember this scar. What’s it from?”

“A tactical mistake I’m not going to make a second time.”

Camille reached for a penlight on the coffee table. Hunter pretended to let go of her and she put her arms out to break a fall that never happened. She turned on the penlight and shined the thin beam onto his arm. “Ouch. That looks like it hurt. A knife, huh? I was expecting a bullet wound. You get in a bar fight?”

“Something a little rougher than that.” He reached for her hand, deflecting the beam. “Give me that. I’m going to use it to inspect you over from head to toe.”

“That’s a tattoo there underneath the scar, isn’t it? I thought you hated tattoos?”

Hunter immediately pulled the sheet up over his arm.

“What are you hiding from me?”

“Nothing. Get back here and let me show you why they call us Bushmen.” He laughed.

Camille flung the sheet back and shined the penlight on his arm. A scar ripped through a tattoo of a heart. Much of the black lettering had been cut away with the damaged tissue, but she saw all she needed. As in a Rorschach test, she tried to see an “S” in the first mangled letters; then she looked for a “C” even though he never called her Camille, but she had known even before she pulled down the sheet that it was once a “J.”

“J” for Julia Lewis.

Hunter had once had a tattoo for his ex-wife and after having it removed, he swore he would never do it again-and he wouldn’t for Camille. But apparently he felt differently about Julia Lewis.

“I should kill you.” All she could think about was getting away from him before he hurt her even more. She sprang from the sofa to grab her clothes and turn on a light.

When Stella jumped off the sofa, Hunter was sure she was going for a weapon. Earlier he had made note of a USP Tactical lying on the coffee table and he caught another glimpse of it as she moved the penlight away from him. He lunged for it and beat her to it. He flipped off the safety just as she flipped on the light.

“Hand’s up. Don’t move.” Hunter pointed the gun at the center of her chest.

“You son of a bitch. You’re screwing me again.” She held her hands out, but seemed to be shifting her body weight to her left leg.

“Listen to me, dammit!”

“Fuck you!”

Camille could feel the heat rise from her chest, up her neck and into her face. What the hell was he doing, pulling a weapon on her-her own gun-when she was trying to turn on a light? The fucker was lying and he had plenty to hide.

Hunter said, “It’s not what it-”

“-seems. Go to hell.” Camille lowered her hands and took a step toward him, glancing to where she always kept her Ka-Bar knife on the right side of her desk. She wanted to slice. She wanted blood. She wanted pain, ripping, cutting pain. “I’d rather be dead than hear you say that one more time. Shoot me, you motherfucker. Do it!”

“Stop!” Hunter said.

Stella was calling his bluff, closing the gap between them. She moved smoothly, a panther, sensing weakness, moving in on her prey. He could never shoot her and she knew it. Her eyes were wild with rage. As she looked around the room, she averted them from the Ka-Bar knife on the edge of her desk. She wanted that knife. He took a step closer to where his clothes were piled on the floor to make it a little easier for her to get to it. At the moment she lunged for the knife, he tripped her and knocked her to the floor, snatching the weapon for himself.

As fast as he could, he scooped up his clothes and ran from the trailer.

Chapter Thirty-One

Camp Raven, the Green Zone, Baghdad

Hunter didn’t understand why she was reacting so strongly, but he had scars that reminded him not to stick around and try to find out. He sprinted naked across the Black Management compound, circling behind her trailer so she wouldn’t have a clean line of fire when she ran out the door. Knowing her, though, she might blow out a window to get to him. The sun was just coming up and no one was outside. A few hundred yards away, a dozen Black Hawk helicopters and several Little Birds were parked unattended. He knew that like all military helicopters, they would be serviced and ready for flight. With a natural sense for roll, pitch and yaw, he could fly anything-anything which was meant to fly. As far as he was concerned, god intended flight only for things with wings and anything else was begging for trouble, particularly helicopters. But he didn’t see much other choice if he wanted to make it out of the Green Zone alive. Stella would be after him any second.

He ran toward the helicopters, trying to figure out which one to try for. The Little Bird observation and assault helo was favored by black-ops types for its heavy weapons and maneuverability, but the Black Hawks had greater range and his limited piloting skills meant that he wouldn’t be able to take advantage of the Little Bird’s greater maneuverability anyway. He ran to the nearest Black Hawk and jumped inside. He slung his leg around the stick and reached for the ignition, but the key was missing. He used the knife as a screwdriver and worked as quickly as he could to remove a metal plate below the ignition like he’d seen pilots in his unit do whenever they had lost a key. The first rays of the morning gave him barely enough light to see what he was doing. His big fingers fumbled with screws and he pried off the panel, sliced through the wires leading to the ignition, then twisted them together.

Keyless entry, Zulu-style.

There was still no sign of Stella, but he knew the only indication of her could be a small red laser dot ranging the distance between her rifle and his chest. He reached to the overhead console and flipped on the APU, then the generators and the start button for each engine.

Silence.

The engines didn’t even let out a whimper.

The trailer was spinning and Camille touched her forehead to see if there was any blood where Hunter had made her smack her head on the desk. As soon as she could stand, she grabbed for a desert tan T-shirt and khaki shorts, not bothering with a bra or panties. An M-4 assault rifle in hand, she dashed from her trailer, still sticky from sex and burning from anger. Pete stepped from her trailer.

“Which way did he go?” Camille said.

“Who? What’s going on?” Pete said.

“Stone. I want all personnel on the alert for him. Deadly force is authorized. I want that lying son of a bitch dead.”

Hunter’s mind raced through the startup sequence. If a helo were on the tarmac, it had to be airworthy. These things were kept in top shape and it wasn’t like a car which might have run its battery down from leaving the lights on all night. He leaned back and glanced at the battery behind the copilot’s seat. It was unplugged-standard operating procedure for military helicopters. He turned everything back off, then wedged his body between the seats, leaned back, but couldn’t get to it. Counting the seconds, he jumped from the cockpit, threw open the crew door and shoved the plug into the battery.

He sprung back into the pilot’s seat without bothering to strap himself in and flipped the overhead switches.

“Come on, baby.”

He pressed the starters and breathed again when he heard a welcome hum. At first the huge blades lumbered past the window and in moments turned into a dark distortion in the otherwise clear early morning air. He shoved the throttles all the way forward. With his left hand, he pulled up on the collective and the bird lifted into the air.

Textbook.

Camille heard the whoosh of the Black Hawk starting up and dashed around the trailer in time to see it lift into the air. She wouldn’t even take Chronister’s money. This one was on her. She dropped to one knee, aimed the M-4 at the vulnerable tail rotor and she squeezed off a burst.

Hunter heard bullets pinging against the hull. Only a dozen feet off the ground, the helicopter immediately yawed to the right, turning clockwise along with the rotors. None of the warning lights on the dashboard had gone off and he knew the bullets weren’t his problem-he was. He stomped the left pedal and the helicopter spun the other direction and didn’t seem to want to stop. His heart pounded as he hit the right pedal and it whirled again the other way. Saddam’s Presidential Palace blurred past him, then Stella’s trailer. A hundred feet off the ground, he danced on the pedals as he struggled to compensate for the gyrations while the helicopter spun around out of control.

Camille stopped firing, stood and watched as the helicopter twirled around like a Tilt-A-Whirl, all the while gaining altitude.

“That was a damn good shot.” Pete stood beside her and watched it spiral upwards.

“I don’t think so,” Camille said. “If I hit it, it would behave that way, but he wouldn’t be climbing. Without the tail rotor he should enter auto-rotation and take her down immediately. I think he’s just a really lousy helicopter pilot. That asshole better not crash my bird.”

Hunter was dizzy and his stomach felt like it had been left behind several rotations ago. He realized he was overloading the machine with inputs before it could even respond. His eyes closed and focused on finding balance. With each spin he forced himself to go easier on the pedals, overcompensating a little less as he slowly gained command.

As soon as Camille realized Hunter was getting the hang of it, she ran toward the helicopters on the ramp. “Get me a pilot, now!”

Hunter clutched the cyclic control so hard, his fingers were growing numb. The bend in the Tigris was in sight behind him, its deep green waters still a dark strip in the early morning light. He could see the famous cross sabers on Saddam’s old parade ground in front of him. More or less in control of the helicopter over Baghdad, Hunter had now executed his plan in full and didn’t know what the hell he was going to do next, other than get dressed. Flying in the nude was not what it was cracked up to be. His ass was sweaty and sticking to the NOMEX seat, but the rest of him was freezing to death. The troop doors in the back had been removed for combat and the cool air was whipping around. He pulled the shirt on, then managed to slither into the Dockers without sending the helo into a spin.

He checked the fuel indicator. There was enough to fly a little over four hours, depending on the winds, so he was in range of Iran, Saudi, Jordan, Syria, Kuwait and probably even Turkey, although the altitude would zap his fuel. All of the choices sucked. He couldn’t find any charts and the last thing he wanted was to run out of fuel in the desert, so he was limited to following the Tigris or the Euphrates. The port of Kuwait offered ships to anywhere in the world, but travel by sea took too much time and the place had too many Americans and too many bad memories. He pressed on the left pedal, shoved the cyclic forward and headed away from the rising sun into the desert. He would hit the Euphrates, hang a right and follow it north to Syria. With any luck, his old contacts in Damascus would still be alive.

Chapter Thirty-Two

The Green Zone, Baghdad

The Rubicon security executive Larry Ashland had just dozed off when a phone call from the CIA case officer Joe Chronister woke him up with good news: Hunter Stone had been spotted in Baghdad. It wasn’t good news to Ashland, because it meant that he was still in danger of exposure. As long as the Force Zulu operator was alive, Ashland’s cover with Rubicon was at risk. Stone had recognized him from Afghanistan and also from the Iraqi insurgents’ safe house and the Zulu operator knew he was a spy. Judging from their middle-of-the-night encounter in the Rubicon offices at Camp Tornado Point, Stone didn’t seem to understand who Ashland was working for or what he was doing spying on Rubicon. But it didn’t matter. If the Zulu operator passed along the information about him, some analyst along the way might put the pieces together and blow his cover. He couldn’t allow that to happen. Stone had to die.

Seven hours later word came in that Stone had stolen a Black Management helicopter. Ashland immediately dialed the Rubicon Baghdad chief of operations, stepping into his pants while he waited for him to pick up.

“It’s Larry.” Ashland said into the secure phone as he zipped his fly. He gave the Rubicon ops chief a situation report. “I don’t care how much of a head start he’s got on you. Find some helicopters in the direction he’s headed, scramble them and neutralize him. I’m on my way.” He slammed down the phone, cursing his own stupidity. Ashland sensed that the blow-back was just getting started. All he’d wanted to do was keep Stone from tying him to that earlier operation in Afghanistan and blowing his cover. He should’ve taken Stone out himself instead of relying on his former assistant Kyle to do the cleanup work. At least his own tidying up with Kyle was a little more thorough.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Camp Raven, the Green Zone, Baghdad

Camille didn’t care why Beach Dog was peeling duct tape off his wrists as he hurried over to the Little Bird. All that mattered was that Pete found a pilot and he seemed to be sober. Beach Dog hopped into the aircraft, reached into his pocket and pulled out a small white figurine of a cat with its paw in the air. He stuck it to a piece of Velcro that was already on the dashboard. Camille guessed it was some kind of talisman. In less than a minute, the blades were turning. Camille jumped into the copilot seat. Pete finished her phone call and started to climb in, but Camille stopped her. “I want you to find out everything you can about this Julia Lewis he was supposedly married to.”

Pete glared at Camille, irritated at having to stay behind.

“That’s an order,” Camille said, then turned to the pilot as she pulled out a Bose headset. “You understand the mission? I want my Black Hawk back in one piece and I want the pilot in as many pieces as possible.”

“Gotcha, ma’am,” Beach Dog said as the Little Bird rose into the air. “What do you want me to tell the big military?”

“He was heading toward the airport, so I’m guessing he’s flying until he hits the Euphrates, then he’ll use it to navigate visually to Syria. Tell the air traffic controllers we’re sightseeing today, heading to Camp Tornado Point via the Euphrates.”

The nose pitched up as they climbed out over Saddam’s old parade grounds, passing above the oversized crossed-swords monument.

“Ma’am,” Beach Dog said. “The Hawk’s maximum speed is about ten knots above ours. We’re not going to catch up with him.”

“Then let’s cut him off at the pass. He’s following the river and it’s not the most direct route. Take us direct to Fallujah. Contact the ground radar and see if they’re carrying his track.”

“You bet.”

“And turn off our transponder. I want to sneak up on him.”

Camille stared down at the Baghdad slums, remembering Hunter’s touch, his eyes, his smell-and her joy. The cityscape beneath them turned into desert and Camille could feel its harsh emptiness.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Anbar Province

About thirty-five minutes into the flight, Hunter decided that helicopters were pretty cool machines after all. His hand had finally released its death grip on the cyclic and he was playing around a little, zigzagging along with the river, cautiously improving his skills. Sunglasses, tunes and a mug of strong coffee would’ve made the ride a lot more fun. He started humming to himself, “Born in the USA.”

Daybreak at five thousand feet was beautiful, even near Fallujah, but since Anbar was a very active area of operation, he decided he’d better go low and fly below radar. He pushed the cyclic forward to tilt his nose and pushed down on the collective to decrease power. The bird did exactly what he wanted, descending to two hundred feet. Toys like this were reason alone to make up with Stella.

The Rubicon Mi-8 helicopter crew was barely five minutes out of Camp Tornado Point when they made visual contact with the Black Management helo. The Bulgarian pilot, Boyko Koritarov, had been briefed that the Black Management pilot was a novice and probably was flying visually. He knew exactly what he was going to do and he took his time to give the target a wide berth, then Koritarov brought his Russian-built aircraft in behind him, careful to hug his blind spot. When he calculated that he was ten rotor disks away, he ordered his gunner to open fire.

Camille watched through binoculars as an old Soviet-make helicopter approached Hunter’s bird from his right rear. As if the cheap Russian equipment hadn’t been enough of a giveaway, she also recognized the fuselage’s distinctive diagonal ruby stripe bordered in white. Rubicon. “What the hell’s Rubicon doing?”

“Sneaking up on him, using a blind spot. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was getting ready to-”

“He’s firing.” Camille could see sparks as the bullets hit the airframe.

Hunter was singing to himself when he thought he heard something over the roar of the turbine engines. He stopped for a minute, didn’t hear anything and resumed his jam session.

Boyko Koritarov couldn’t figure out why in the world Rubicon got its gunners from the tropical paradise of Fiji. Fijian mercs were cheap, but there was a reason. The idiot was shooting up a self-sealing fuel tank and a crew cabin that had no crew inside. The Black Management pilot was safely on the left side of the craft, apparently oblivious to the assault.

“Retarget tail rotor gearbox,” Koritarov said in heavily accented English.

Hunter had enough of Springsteen and moved on to the Stones-he loved classical music. A few seconds later the Black Hawk yawed to the right and kept spinning. Hunter stomped the left pedal, but didn’t get anything. It kept going around and around, faster and faster. He rammed both size elevens into a space barely large enough for one foot and pushed the pedal with everything he had while he jammed the cyclic forward. Then he saw the warning lights go off at the same time he caught a flash of another helicopter.

Stella.

Stella had finally nailed him.

Camille keyed her microphone. “Unidentified Rubicon Hip, this is Black Management Six, hold fire or we will engage. Repeat, Rubicon stand down.” She turned to Beach Dog. “Please tell me this is one of the Little Birds we outfitted with the 20 millimeter Gatling guns.”

“Yeah, but we’re not in range-too high and too far.”

“Get in range.”

“Hang on.”

The Little Bird dived so fast Camille felt like she was in a freefall-inside and out. She had been too angry in the trailer to grill Hunter and find out the truth she needed to know about that Julia chick-and he had pulled a gun on her. Now she realized she was in danger of losing that chance permanently. And how dare Rubicon shoot one of her Hawks out of the air? She took the targeting controls of the Gatling gun.

She watched Hunter’s helo gyrate out of control as her Little Bird dropped down behind the Rubicon Mi-8. She estimated the range to target now at two thousand meters and closing fast. A few seconds later she opened fire on the tail boom. Metal flew and the tail rotor slowed. She kept firing and now prayed that Hunter survived. The tail boom began to sag as the Rubicon Mi-8 whirled around.

Beach Dog turned toward Camille, his eyebrows raised. “Don’t you think that’s enough? The dude’s going down.”

The Rubicon helicopter spiraled toward the ground.

The gyrations were getting faster and faster. Hunter reached up and brought back both throttles, then struggled against the G-force to bottom out the collective so the damn thing would auto-rotate and quit spinning the cabin along with the rotors. It was like putting a car in neutral and now all he had to do was coast down a hill-straight down. The rotors would spin with the air and, if all went well, lower him to a rough landing. Fighting vertigo, he scanned the ground for a landing site. A village lay directly below him. He had to get clear of it or at least aim for a street, but he was plummeting fast. Pulling back on the cyclic to flare the craft, he pitched the nose up and used the momentum of the main rotor to brake the descent. The spinning slowed, but he was coming up on a rooftop. He wrestled with the two functioning controls and squeezed out a little altitude and a few more meters of distance. Barely clearing the house, he smacked down hard between two buildings. The specially designed pilot’s seat collapsed onto the floor, cushioning most of the blow, and he swallowed something.

He shoved down the collective, pulled on the brakes and blasted out of the door with Stella’s gun. The main rotor was still moving, kicking up dust and sand. He had to find cover before Stella flew overhead and gunned him down.

On the run again in Anbar, this time with no pants on-man, he’d have given anything to have that damn man-dress back.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Anbar Province

The Black Management Little Bird hovered low over the village while Camille scanned the area, trying to get a peek through the dust cloud. Please be alive. She keyed the mike to call to her Baghdad ops center. “LIGHTNING SIX to RAVEN. We have a Black Hawk down. Repeat, Black Hawk down.” She relayed the GPS coordinates. “Beach Dog, take us in low and hover. I want to see if he made it.”

“Not a good idea in this neighborhood. The bad guys we’ve chased out of Fallujah and Ramadi like to hole up in these parts. This is the Wild West.”

“Things get too hot, we’ll pull out.” Camille studied the area. Children looked up from the streets and adults were running outside to see what was going on. So far, she didn’t see any weapons.

The cloud began to dissipate around the Black Hawk. It had hit level, sandwiched between two buildings on a vacant lot. Its back landing gear had broken off, but it otherwise seemed intact. If she could get a salvage crew to it before the locals trashed it, it could fly again.

“Circle to the other side and dip down. I want to see if he’s inside and injured.”

“You got it.” Beach Dog maneuvered the Little Bird in low and pitched it slightly forward. The Hawk’s door was open on the pilot’s side and Camille could see through the front windows. No Hunter.

“He must’ve split when the dust was kicking up,” Beach Dog said.

“He’s got to be in one of these houses. Set it down. I’m going in.”

“With all due respect, Lady Rambo, you’re fucking nuts.”

Beach Dog had a point and she knew it. She didn’t take time to grab body armor or even extra rounds for the M-4. No way was Hunter going to come to her after she had shot at his helicopter this morning. She wouldn’t be surprised if he even thought she was the one who knocked him out of the air. He had no more reason to trust her now than she’d had to trust him, maybe even a little less. “Fall back to a safe distance. I’m bringing in the cavalry for a door to door search.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

Jabal ad Dhibban, Anbar Province

Hunter heard the thud of the second helo hitting the ground as he hauled ass down the alleyway. A tango’s RPG must have hit Stella’s bird. He hoped to god she survived the crash with only enough injuries to keep her from coming after him. His tongue probed the inside of his mouth and confirmed what he had feared: he’d swallowed the damn tooth during the hard landing.

He ducked into the first open doorway he found. An old lady was rubbing raw wool between her palms, making yarn while she watched a game show on TV. A horde of kids was playing with a half-inflated yellow balloon. She screamed and the children joined in as they scrambled to get behind the woman.

“It’s okay. It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you,” he said in Arabic, as he pulled on his pants. He raised his voice and repeated himself so she could hear him over their high-pitched shrieks, then he heard a helicopter moving above the building. It wasn’t as loud as a Black Hawk; it sounded smaller, more like a Little Bird. What was a second helo doing there so fast?

The woman started to settle down and was now breathing hard, trying to catch her breath.

“Don’t hurt us.”

“Give me the biggest jilbab you’ve got and a headscarf and I’ll go. You’re going to be all right. Get me the clothes. Now!” He grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet as gently as he could without losing any speed. Man-handling an old lady got to him, but he had to get a sense of urgency across to her. Women aged so fast here. He told himself she was probably not more than ten years older than he was. But even if they were the same age, it still didn’t make it right.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Jabal ad Dhibban, Anbar Province

The belly of the Little Bird deflected some light gunfire from the locals as it hovered low over the village while Camille and Beach Dog searched for any sign of Hunter. Wherever he was, he was staying put. When she realized the sound of their helicopter was probably making him feel pinned down, she ordered Beach Dog to climb to a safe altitude. Camp Tornado Point was less than fifty kilometers away and it would take the Black Hawks under ten minutes once they were airborne. Beach Dog flew in a high holding pattern while they waited for the Black Management troops to arrive. With any luck, Hunter would chance a dash between buildings and they’d get a bead on his position.

The airframe of the Rubicon helicopter had rolled on its side on impact a few hundred meters outside the village. There was no movement around it, but Camille knew that didn’t mean much. The cabin was a defensible position, offering shelter from the sun, which was already starting to bake. The crew could be sitting inside, waiting for rescue. The downed crew was Rubicon’s problem, not hers. She would help with a little close air support only if the tangos moved in around them in serious numbers.

Using binoculars, Camille watched two helos flying toward them from the direction of Camp Tornado Point. From their last reported position, she didn’t expect to have a visual on them yet, but she guessed that she could see farther than anticipated in the clear desert air.

“Whatcha gonna do about Rubicon shooting down our bird?” Beach Dog worked the cyclic as they circled above the village. “You’re not going to let them get away with it, are you?”

“No way. I’d say they’ve crossed the Rubicon.”

“Huh?”

“The die’s cast.” The two helicopters were now close enough for Camille to get a good look-Russian-made, with diagonal ruby stripes bordered in white: Rubicon. “When Julius Caesar marched his army across the Rubicon River, he knew he was starting a civil war in Rome. Rubicon crossed the line today. I’d say we’re looking at the same thing-civil war.”