Oh shit, Dana thought. What is he going to do? She looked around. Do I need the cops? Should I call 911?

  “Don’t hit the kid again.” Flame kept his voice low enough that Dana could barely hear the words. “Don’t hit any of the kids again.”

  “Get the hell out of here!” The big man held the knife at his side, blade toward Flame. “Who the hell do you think you are?!”

  “I’m an angry man.” Flame leaned forward. “Angry at the world.” He shook his head. “Don’t make me take it out on you.” He raised an eyebrow. “You hearin’ what I’m saying?”

  The big man bristled—but made no overt move, just glared at Flame.

  Who deliberately turned his back and took a step toward Dana.

  As he did so, the tattooed man thrust hard with the butterfly knife, aiming it at Flame’s kidney.

  It never made contact. Flame had been expecting that kind of a move and, in a lightning-quick move, turned and grabbed the wrist of the man’s knife hand. Dana could see the muscles on Flame’s arm go rock hard as he closed his hand on that wrist, squeezing tighter —and tighter—and tighter.

  The tattooed man’s face changed. He tried to pry Flame’s hand loose, tried to scratch at the bigger man’s face.

  All to no effect. Flame kept squeezing as the man struggled until, with a shockingly loud crack, something in the man’s hand broke and the knife fell to the floor.

  “Remember what I told you,” Flame said, still gripping the man’s twitching wrist. “Remember.”

  Then he released the man’s hand and, without a look back, slid back into the seat across from Dana.

  “I’m in on two conditions,” he told her as he sat back down.

  Dana let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “What are they?”

  “One: we concentrate on anti-terrorism and related security jobs—no hand-holding for mid-level politicos taking pleasure trips to ‘inspect’ hotspots.”

  “Precisely what I had in mind.”

  “Two,” he looked her up and down. “How much money have you put into this?”

  Dana was surprised. Why does he need to know that? She looked at him, read nothing in his face. Is he trying to calculate a salary? She doubted that. He really didn’t seem to care about money. Then why?

  Only one way to find out.

  “I put in every cent I had saved and all the money I inherited from my dad.” She looked into his eyes. “Just over a hundred thousand—enough to rent an office and pay for utilities for a few months.”

  “A hundred grand.” Flame nodded. “Okay, you’ll have my bank draft for the same amount by tomorrow afternoon.”

  “But…” Dana was confused. “I didn’t ask…”

  “Partners, you said.” He signaled to the waiter for more drinks. “Equal partners.” He smiled. “Gotta share the costs,” he raised an inquiring eyebrow, “don’t we?”

  As they shook hands, the tattooed man limped past the table—carefully avoiding Flame’s eyes as he left the restaurant.

  Nobody paid him the slightest bit of attention—and nobody offered to help.

  -8-

  As Flame and Dana started on their second round of drinks, two very different individuals sat down at a somewhat shabbier restaurant on the other side of the continent.

  “¿Tenemos suficiente? Do we have enough?” Raphael Manuelo Mapache, with the blood of the Apache running through his veins, was ageless, his face carved and pitted by years in the sun. His companion, Matias Blanco was, by comparison, pale and smooth-skinned with soft flesh that showed every one of his fifty-five years.

  “One more shipment,” Blanco sighed. “We need at least one more shipment to get the desired result.”

  “That will be difficult,” Mapache settled back into his seat and motioned for service. “There are no more shipments scheduled.” He shrugged. “This is not a rich country—the radiation treatment is not a common one.”

  “What about the other side of the border?” Blanco paused as the waiter arrived and put two glasses down on the table. “You know I cannot drink this,” he told his companion as the waiter walked away. “Why did you order it?”

  “Do not worry,” the leather-skinned Mapache told him as he drained the first glass. “It will not go to waste.”

  “I see…” Blanco, a convert to the religion of peace, often wondered why Allah did not strike down men like this Mexican who sneered at his laws. But if he did, the Argentinian told himself. Who would we use to do the work that needs doing?

  He allowed himself a small smile, then said: “You have not answered me—is there a supply of the material on the other side of the border?”

  “It would not work.” Mapache made a negating gesture. “We can pay off the federales—they expect as much—but if we raided a hospital in the United States,” he shrugged, “there would by many questions asked.” He leaned toward the smaller man. “Questions that might reveal things about the other missing shipments…”

  “We must get the needed material!”

  “There may be a way.” Mapache picked up the second drink. “It could be expensive.”

  Blanco smiled. It is always money with men like these—as if it will save them from the anger of God!

  Aloud, he simply said: “Money is not a problem.”

  -9-

  Flame was shocked at how much the world had changed for him when he followed Dana out of the commercial flight that had taken the two of them to Baghdad International. It’s like I’ve been wearing sunglasses and just took them off! The past few weeks setting up the new security firm had been busy ones for Flame. I needed the work. He hadn’t had a dream in all that time and now, as he scanned the battered arrivals building and the checkpoints that were set up at every access point, he felt his old self. Everything is so clear—so sharp.

  His mind reeled with memories of this place. It even smells familiar; he followed Dana into the customs office. Garlic and cinnamon and sweat. He smiled.Never changes.

  The customs inspector passed them without any problems—ignoring the sidearm that was part of Flame’s checked luggage. Everyone here goes armed, Flame remembered. Mostly with rifles that they fire into the air for no good reason at all.

  The first thing on Flame’s list was to get a decent rifle—and enough ammo for the task he and Dana had undertaken.

  “I’ll go see one of my old buddies,” he told her. “Get the stuff we’re gonna need.”

  “Good,” she said as the cab they had hired dropped them in front of the hotel. “I’ll set up the commo rig while you’re gone.” She glanced at her watch. “Don’t take too long—the rendezvous is only about half a day away.”

  “No sweat.” He gave her his luggage—sans the sidearm, which he took out and slid into his belt. “I shouldn’t be more than a few hours.”

  “See you later, then.”

  As Flame hailed a ride, the muezzin sang out the first call to prayer. Yep, Flame thought. I’m back in hadji country.

  ***

  “I’ll be happy to set you up, Flame—what do you need?”

  Jason ‘Scud’ Johnson had been Marine Recon during the occupation. When American forces pulled out, he’d stayed on and found work as a private contractor, first with Blackwater and later, with MVM, Inc. They needed someone like him to be head honcho for the Latin American mercenaries they preferred to use as cannon fodder.

  Flame had met him back in the day and knew he’d have what was needed for his trip outside the Green Zone.

  “Just the usual, Scud.” Flame shrugged and looked around. “I was able to bring my sidearm through security—but I need a long arm and some ammo.”

  “American rifle?”

  “Maybe.” If all went the way Dana had laid it out, Flame wouldn’t have to fire a shot—but it never hurt to be prepared. “What do you have?”

  “Got a couple of M4’s.” Johnson was a small man—just over the Marine height minimums. “But they’re pretty burned out—barrels need replacing.”

  “No.” Flame shook his head. “If I’ve got to shoot, I’d like to hit what I aim at.”

  “I read you.” Johnson turned away for a moment, rummaged around in a cabinet set low to the floor. “How about this?” He turned with a spotless AK-47 in his hand.

  “Let’s see.” Flame took the weapon (which did not have a magazine inserted), checked the chamber to make sure there was no round in it, then broke it down for a quick look.

  “Russian made, I see.” The weapon had a thick-milled receiver end, far superior to the stamped pot metal the Chinese made. The barrel was chromed inside and the stock was Rynex rather than wood.

  Flame checked the action—it was smooth—glass on glass.

  “Not bad.” He put the rifle down on the table. “What do you want for it?”

  “Five thousand.”

  “I only want to rent it,” Flame shook his head. “Not have it plated in gold!”

  “Okay, okay,” Johnson waved a hand. “As you’re an old friend…” He grinned. “And as you give me your word I’ll get the piece back…” He held out a hand. “Two thousand, five hundred.”

  “Throw in a couple of hundred rounds of ammo and a few clips and you have a deal.”

  “Done!” Johnson’s smile widened. “And just because this has been so pleasant, I’ll even throw in a couple of grenades!”

  “Fragmentation?”

  “What other kind is there?”

  The two men laughed, then: “Okay, Scud—now that we’ve settled that—what kind of four-wheel drive vehicles do you have that I can rent for a day or two?”

  -10-

  Dana had been surprised at how cold it was in Baghdad. I always thought of this place as a desert, she thought. But they do get a little bit of winter, which is why the temperature is less than fifty degrees. She smiled. Still better than D.C. It’s snowing there…

  Flame had warned her to bring warm clothes and he was, after all, the expert. He was out hitting up some of his old buddies for the gear they would need to finish the operation. Her job was to set up a base and work out a communications set-up that would allow them to stay in contact without interfering with or being overheard by any of the local operators.

  Both would be important if they wanted to work here again in future.

  She had acquired a complete AN/PRC-152 handheld radio set-up—including a base transmitter/receiver and Sierra programmable encryption—before leaving the states. If it worked as advertised, it would have enough range to keep her in contact with Flame throughout the mission. If it didn’t…

  He returned to the suite they had rented in the Palestine Hotel just after the first call to prayer. He had a large metallic case slung over his shoulder, which told her that he’d been successful.

  “No problem getting what we needed.” He shut the door behind him, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching. “How’s the comm coming?”

  Flame had argued against using any of the hotels in the Green Zone because he knew all were full of reporters and film crews. She argued that its location alongside the Tigris would give them a good line of sight for communications—and that was more important than avoiding the leeches that fed the never-ending thirst for twenty-four hour news.

  She had the stronger argument—which is why they were in the Palestine.

  “Here.” She handed him an earpiece. “It’s the same kind you’ve been using in the Teams—just touch to activate.”

  He inserted the plastic device, tapped it once. “Like that?”

  In answer, she picked up the headset and mike from the table and tapped it twice.

  She smiled when he winced.

  “What do you think?” she asked, and handed him the transceiver that fed the earpiece. “Keep that within about twenty feet and it’ll work just fine.”

  “Encryption?”

  “Cyclical.” She patted the unit. “The NSA might decode it—but we don’t care about them.”

  “Sounds good.” He turned to the big case that he’d dumped on one of the beds. “I’ll head out just before sunset so I can clear the checkpoints—that’s assuming the pick-up is still on for tonight?”

  “No changes.”

  “Good.” He pulled out five magazines for the AK-47 and several boxes of Russian-made bullets. “Then I guess it’s time for me to start earning my money.” He started loading rounds into the mags, making sure each seated properly. “I am earning money, am I not?”

  “I guess.” Dana shrugged and continued fiddling with the radio system. “We’ll have to get the bosses to work out the pay scale.” She smiled. “Maybe back in that El Garage place.” Her grin widened. “I kind of liked their burritos.”

  “Me too. Their beer wasn’t bad either.” Flame finished with one magazine, started on a second.

  “What did the burrito taste like to you?” Dana usually avoided personal questions with Flame—but he seemed to be in a good mood.

  “Peanut butter and jelly.” he shook his head. “And you don’t want to know what the beans tasted like!”

  Flame figured to head out just before the next call to prayer. He put the rifle back in its case and added the loaded magazines, grenades and radio gear. Clicking the case locked, he stripped off his shirt and donned his body armor. A lightweight jacket (from the Big and Tall shop in Georgetown) went over the armor, disguising it to some extent. His Sig Sauer P226 went into a cross-drawer holster on his belt and a ka-bar combat knife slid into a sheath that was an integral part of the armor’s spine.

  When he was done he was running light—less than thirty pounds of gear. He shook things down, took a moment to see that everything was in place, then shouldered the rifle case and headed for the door.

  “I’ll check in when I clear the final checkpoint,” he told Dana as he headed out.

  “Right—and again when you reach the rendezvous point.” She smiled at him. “Don’t start a war—please?”

  “I’ll do my best.” He gave her his best wicked grin. “But I can’t make any promises.”

  And then the door was closed and he was gone.

  The elderly Land Rover he’d gotten from Scud was the perfect car for the mission—assuming that it ran as advertised. The engine sounded healthy enough and the ride back to the hotel proved it to solid enough that Flame had hopes. Besides, it was battered enough to fit in with all the other cars on the road in Baghdad—with luck no one would expect a foreigner to be driving such an ugly car.

  Twenty minutes later, he activated his radio and reported himself clear of the city. The guards at the checkpoint really didn’t give a shit about anyone leaving the Green Zone—their concerns centered on those entering—and what they might be carrying.

  Flame would deal with that aspect of the mission later. For now he speeded to the northwest. He had about a hundred and fifty klicks to cover before daybreak.

  He found himself enjoying the experience.

  I can’t believe I’m back in the sandbox, he thought as he sped down one of the recently repaired highways that carried most of the city’s northbound traffic.It’s too bad Sergeant Neff and his unit are gone—I could have gotten some top-rate gear from them, although this… He patted the case beside him. Ought to do just fine.

  The return to Iraq had affected him strangely. He’d thought himself fully recovered from the aftereffects of his head wound right up until he deplaned at Baghdad International. As soon as he stepped into the open air everything became clearer—more precise. It was as if his senses had been boosted somehow.

  It’s because I’m back on duty—sort of, at least, he told himself. My old habits of observation just snapped back into place. It was a good thing—a thing that might keep him alive if this mission went to shit.

  Flame crossed the Tigris on a rickety concrete and wood bridge and turned more westerly. He wanted to be at the rendezvous location with time to spare. It never hurt to have a good hide to check things out—and he planned to be ready and under cover in plenty of time to do just that.

  ***

  Dana watched her partner’s progress on the GPS system that was part of the comm unit. Satellite coverage over the sand box was quite efficient and she was able to watch him move swiftly along the paved road that paralleled the river.

  It’ll get rougher when he goes off the road, she knew. I’ll probably lose the GPS then. She bit her lip. Wish I had a drone at my disposal—or a satellite overview.

  She knew that wasn’t going to happen. I’m independent, now. She enlarged the image on her laptop. For better or for worse…

  A glance at the TV—which she had left on with the sound turned down—showed her that things were heating up in Fallujah and Tikrit. I hope our clients got out okay. She and Flame had contracted to secure and escort a TV documentary crew that had been shooting footage in the Sunni-dominated regions of Iraq when things started going south.

  Their own security guards—hired by the network they worked for—had fled when gunmen attacked a satellite station the news crew was using to uplink their material. The network, based in Germany, had asked the US for help—which had been denied due to the current American policy of ‘no boots on the ground.’

  The request had, however, been heard by other departments and offices—one of which seized the opportunity to suggest Dana’s newly formed agency might be able to help.

  Dana and Flame had been on a plane sixteen hours later.

  Idiots should have left as soon as Al-Qaida militants began to appear in the streets. Dana knew. Now they’ve lost their guards and their ability to contact their home base. She glanced at the TV. And soon they’re going to have to duck both the militants and the Iraqi army! There are crazies on both sides who are going to shoot anything that moves. She shook her head. Including a harmless press contingent.