The capital city of Berzhaan wore its Russian influences well. Old and majestic, the architecture harkened back to a more civilized age. Ben rubbed the back of his neck as he ducked out of the busy foot traffic and into a familiar fast-food establishment where he was to meet his contact.

      No matter what he might want to believe about a more graceful age, he knew that men like him had always been around and that fighting was something that had come naturally to this land in every age. There was something wild and untamed about the Middle East. Something that made even the most determined atheist sense there was a higher force at play in this land.

      Ben ordered a Big Mac and fries from the attendant in perfect Russian. Most of the locals spoke Berzhaani, which was derived from Arabic, and Russian, after the country’s long relationship with the former Communist nation. No matter where he was in the world, he could get a Big Mac, but there was still something a little weird about ordering one in Russian.

      Ben found a table in the back of the restaurant and sat down. He opened the bag and prepared to wait for his contact. He’d just reached in to snag a fry when the clerk yelled out to stop him.

      “Wait, sir. That is the wrong bag.”

      Ben pushed to his feet and handed the clerk the bag he’d been given. The new bag was slightly heavier and Ben glanced inside to see a small yellow capsule nestled in with his super-size fries.

      “Thanks,” he said to the clerk, and worked his way back out to the street. The last time he’d had fries had been with Tory in her apartment right before the start of this mission. They’d lain on the floor, watching another one of her favorite Tom Cruise movies and eating junk food.

      He wanted to go back to New York, tie her to a chair and lock her in her apartment. He needed to know she was safe. She wouldn’t understand it and he wasn’t ever going to let her know it, but she made what he did worthwhile. Knowing that she was safe while he saved the world, or at least a small portion of it, made it easier for him to sleep at night. And he didn’t want her anywhere near Berzhaan.

      The Kemeni rebels had scattered after their defeat and the death of their leader Tafiq Ashurbeyli, during their takeover of Suwan’s capitol building last February, but they were still out there. The last thing Ben wanted was for Tory to come here and start poking around.

      The woman had a real talent for finding the truth and she never stopped once she was on the trail of a story. Should he have told her he’d be going after Andrea? Would she have listened to him and stayed in Manhattan? He doubted it.

      He pocketed the capsule and blended into the throng of people on the street. He wanted to examine the information he’d been given, but he knew he couldn’t out here.

      A late model car pulled to a stop next to him. Ben identified Salvo and slid into the car. Salvo pulled away from the curb.

      “How’d it go?”

      “Smooth.”

      “Does anything ever not go smoothly for you?”

      He thought of Tory and the constant frustration he felt at not being able to get through to her. He thought of his sister and the way she treated him as if he were letting down the family name with his globe-trotting ways. And his mother, who was disappointed that he still hadn’t found himself an heiress and settled down. His personal life was one constantly changing mess.

      “Yes. But only temporarily,” Ben said. He had an image to keep up, especially around his men.

      He palmed open the capsule and removed a tiny microdisc, passing it to O’Neill, who sat in the backseat. His small laptop computer was up and running, receiving information and dissecting it.

      “This should be the coordinates of the rebel camp. Plug those in with Manning’s last known location and the coordinates of the downed chopper.”

      “I’ll have a location for you in a minute. I thought that the Kemenis disbanded after their attempt to take over Suwan last year.”

      “For the most part they did, but the survivors are still ready to fight.”

      “Any idea who the leader of the new movement is?” O’Neill asked.

      Ben didn’t take his eyes off the terrain. “That’s not our mission, O’Neill.”

      “It’d be nice to have the upper hand a time or two. Remember that FUBAR mission on Puerto Isla?” O’Neill asked.

      “Hell, yes. What a fuckup,” Salvo said. “But Slick here got us through with no problems.”

      “That’s what they pay me for,” Ben said.

      They left Suwan, heading south out of town. The lights of the city dropped away behind them as they rode out into the barren landscape. The military unit they were entrenched with was about thirty miles away in the foothills.

      The night closed in around them as they sped along the deserted highway. O’Neill worked on his computer in the backseat while Ben monitored the radio for updates. They’d had an in-briefing earlier in the day and they were still a go on retrieving the marines. The ROEs—rules of engagement—were to stay focused on getting the Marines out, to expect some hostile fire and to engage only if necessary. The CO didn’t expect them to sustain any causalities.

      Suddenly a round of gunfire ripped through the night. Salvo cursed and floored the gas pedal and Ben pulled his firearm and returned fire. O’Neill did the same out of the other window.

      The Kemeni rebels had been driven out of Suwan, but they still patrolled the roads and sometimes shot at cars to make their presence felt. This time they’d get a little more than they bargained for. Ben prayed they’d back off now that he and his men were returning fire. Last week, a group of missionaries had nearly been taken hostage when they’d stopped to change a tire, and Ben and his men couldn’t afford to talk nice to keep their own freedom. It was kill or be killed.

      The car sputtered. Salvo kept his foot on the gas, but they all heard the whine that signaled the radiator had been hit.

      “We’ll dump the car and continue on foot,” Ben said.

      “Yes, sir.”

      Salvo steered them onto the shoulder and all three men got out of the car. The enemy gunfire had ceased, but the vehicle was DOA.

      They fell into an easy formation, Salvo and Ben standing guard while O’Neill packed up his computer. They shot the gas tank and let the car burn, careful to stay out of the light cast by the flames. The car was registered to an attaché at the U.S. Military listening station. They didn’t need for it to be identified until the LASER team was out of country. This way the car could be reported as stolen.

      “Ready to roll, sir.”

      “Let’s move out.”

      As they moved across the desert, all that Ben heard was a series of clicks on the radio. He’d been in a hundred situations like this one, but for the first time, as they made their way on foot back to the military base, he felt a churning in his gut that wasn’t excitement.

      A churning that said that a man could die out here and his family might never find out what had happened to him. A churning that said maybe his luck was finally running out now that he had someone to live for.