“Why should we care?” Gino’s eyes were moving, keeping an eye on the surrounding area. “We’re not going to take him to a hospital—are we?”

  “I had something else in mind.” Flame hefted the man onto his shoulder and carried him to the side of the road, dumping him with his back against the remnants of his barricade. “He might be able to tell us where the other lion is…”

  Ten minutes later, the man was awake and talking groggily. His family had settled nearby and had relations living near Takrit. One of those relations had gotten work with an archeological recovery party—the one who had located the Babylonian lions. He had sent word of the plans to ship one of the relics back to the museum in Baghdad in the hope that his family members could waylay the couriers and take the artifact for ransom or sale.

  He told Flame how he and his cousins had killed the men from Blackwater (Flame didn’t bother to correct him) and buried their bodies in a nearby wadi. They had then taken the first lion to their home, planning to hold it there until the second one was shipped. When both were together again, their father would sell the pair to a cousin in Baghdad who had the contacts needed to either get money from the museum or sell it to a wealthy collector outside the country.

  “What do we do?” Gino asked as the man finished his story. “Do we go after the second lion?”

  “Sure.” Flame smiled. “Bound to be a little extra money in it for us if we recover it.”

  “What do we do with this one?”

  “Let him guide us.” Flame looked around. “He and the others can’t have come too far.”

  “We just gonna leave the Hummer and the other lion here?”

  “We’ll pull the car off the road and get it out of sight over yonder,” Flame pointed to a wadi to one side. “We can hide it pretty good with the cammo netting I’ve got in the back.”

  Twenty minutes later, with the Hummer safely hidden, Flame and Gino followed the surviving Iraqi up an almost invisible trail toward his home. The man was sullen with anger and shame as he realized what the two men were going to do—but helpless to do anything about it aside from plan what he would say to his people when the time came. Surely they could overcome a mere pair of infidels!

  They might have done just that—had the two infidels given their captive a chance to shout out a warning. Instead, Flame and Gino waited until their target was in sight, then tied the man’s good hand to his bound feet, gagged him with his own keffiyeh, and dumped him in a ditch.

  Leaving him behind, they moved to a point where they could get a good look at their target.

  It had once been a great house, Flame saw. There were remnants of stone foundations scattered over a cleared area below—and the telltale signs of orchards all around. The water must have gone, killing the trees and driving the original owners away. Now a single well and two small huts stood in the space that had once held a much larger building. A pen to one side held goats and a rude lean-to partially covered the Blackwater Van that, Flame assumed, held the first lion. He took a long moment to study the scene with his field glasses then turned to Gino.

  “I count five non-combatants.” He kept an eye on the village. “Two kids and three women. You?”

  “Same,” Gino replied, and nodded toward the larger of the two huts—the one nearest the lean-to. “Figures the elder is in there, maybe napping through the heat of the day.”

  “Maybe.” Flame bit his lower lip. “Odd that he wouldn’t be waiting to hear how the ambush went.”

  “You think they’ve got some security we can’t see?”

  “One way to find out.” Flame checked the load in his weapon, and made sure his body armor was secure. “I’ll take a look—you cover.” He caught Gino’s eye. “If I signal, come on down—if I take fire, cover me and we’ll meet back at the Hummer.”

  “I’m the one who should be handling the recce, not the other way around, you know that, right?” Gino’s eyes held Flame’s.

  “My turn first.” Flame pushed himself over the small rise that kept them out of sight. “Watch for my signal,” he tossed over his shoulder as he moved quickly toward the village.

  “You’re the boss,” Gino sighed. “And I hope you survive to keep it that way.”

  Flame found lots of cover as he went down the hillside. Large rocks were scattered here and there, and all around there were areas of scrubby brush where figs and other fruits had once grown.

  Used to be nice land around here, Flame thought as he moved from cover to cover. Trees, fruit, everything men needed. He shook his head. Even if the well went dry, they could have found a way to irrigate. He shook his head. But they’re all too busy fighting over whom their Prophet picked as his successor!

  Flame would never understand what made these people the way they were.

  He reached the edge of the village without incident, sheltering alongside the lean-to that held the Blackwater vehicle. A quick check showed that the crate holding the original lion was still in the cargo compartment. Flame began to think about ways to get it out…

  A voice from the biggest hut froze him in place. Must be the elder, he thought, slipping into cover behind the van. Who’s he talking to?

  The question answered itself as an old man emerged from the hut, two youngsters beside him. The children—boys about six- and seven-years-old respectively—were listening to every word the old man said.

  "وسيكون وقتا للصلاة قريبا,” the man said in liquid Arabic. “It will soon be time for prayers.” He touched the eldest boy on the shoulder. “You will have to fetch your brothers from the road.”

  Brothers—not fathers! Flame, after several tours in the sandbox, understood a fair amount of Arabic. Now, his brow furrowed. Where are the older men? It was certainly possible that they’d been drafted into the Iraqi Army—or had joined Al Qaeda or any number of other militant groups. Or they might be in one of the other huts.

  Flame settled into place. The safest thing to do was wait until the kids left to get their "brothers," then take out the old man and deal with any other adults in the village.

  He turned toward Gino to signal the other man to hold his place just as all hell broke loose…

  ***

  “Allahu akbar!” A wild figure appeared on the slope above Gino’s position. “God is great!” The man had a Kalashnikov in his left hand and, still screaming his love of God, he opened fire, spraying bullets all over the slope.

  Flame, reacting quickly, put three well-aimed shots through the wild man’s center of mass, dropping him to the ground.

  The action galvanized everyone around him into movement. The old man hurried back into his hut, and the boys scrambled away, following one of the women. Another of the women scrambled to get under some kind of cover.

  “Shit!” Flame broke cover, stepped into the center of the old foundation, his eyes moving constantly, trying to see everything at once.

  Behind him, the oldest of the young boys had come to the door of the smaller hut, a pistol in his hand. He aimed the weapon at Flame’s back, pulled back the hammer…

  There was a clatter of automatic fire then the crack of a pistol. Flame whirled to find Gino behind him, rifle trained on the body of a seven-year-old boy holding a .357 Magnum.

  “He was about to put one in your back, man.” Gino’s rifle walked across the front of the hut. “Gotta be more careful!”

  Flame nodded and turned to the larger hut—just in time to confront the old man who was trying to slide the action of a very ornate shotgun shut. Before he could jack a round into the chamber, Flame put two rounds into his head.

  The old man fell to the ground.

  A woman came from the smaller hut—and was cut down by Gino’s rifle before she could take a step.

  She was unarmed.

  “Hold fire, Gino!” Flame screamed the order. “Don’t kill them if we don’t have to!”

  “Sorry, man.” Gino’s eyes—and rifle barrel—did not move from the front of the small hut. “Hard to tell the difference.”

  “I’m going into the big hut.”

  “I’ll cover your back.”

  Flame nodded and strode over the body of the old man. He kicked the shotgun aside—just to be sure—and flattened himself against the hut, listening.

  There wasn’t a sound from inside.

  I should just toss in a grenade. Flame knew it would kill anyone still inside. But I’m just not comfortable doing that in this situation. He took a deep breath.Only one thing I can do. He tensed—and a smile suddenly crossed his face. At least there isn’t a big black door!

  He charged through the rug that covered the doorway, ready for anything.

  There was no one inside.

  “Clear here!” Flame sang out, turning back toward his partner.

  “Here too,” Gino answered. “Got three…I don’t know, prisoners?”

  Flame stepped out of the big hut, glancing at the two women and one boy that were all that remained of what had once been an extended family. “Any of you speak English?”

  They regarded him dully.

  “What…” Flame tried his uneven Arabic. “Who are you?”

  More dull stares.

  “What do we do with them?”

  “I don’t know yet.” Flame swapped magazines in his rifle, and then took a moment to pick up the old man’s shotgun.

  “Nice weapon.”

  “Too nice for this lot, wouldn’t you think?” Flame studied the carefully engraved weapon, touched the gold inlay. “This is a big shot’s gun.” He found a silver plate on the underside of the shoulder stock. “It says it was a gift to ‘Abu Waliy al Din.’ ” Flame glanced at the body lying in front of the big hut. “I wonder if that was the old man’s name.” He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter now. Keep an eye on them, I’m going to check on the lion.”

  Flame put the shotgun aside and strode to the van. It only took a few seconds to determine that the lion was still secure in its crate—and that the car would start.

  “Okay.” He tossed the shotgun into the back of the van, picked up the pistol the boy had used, and stuck it in his belt. “Let’s do this the easy way.” He unslung his weapon. “Gino, get in the van and pull it away from that lean-to. I’ll watch these people until you’re free and moving and then join you.”

  “Right.” The other man clicked his safety on and trotted to the van.

  Flame heard it start a moment later.

  “I know you don’t understand me,” he told the now glaring faces in front of him. “But I suggest you don’t try to make a living as bandits anymore.” He nodded toward the dead youngster. “It’s dangerous.” He heard the van pull away from the lean-to. “Go into the city.” The van pulled in behind him. “Move to a relative’s house.” He climbed in, weapon still trained on the three. “Leave this place.” He gestured for Gino to pull away. “Now.”

  He pulled the door closed and they pulled away. Ten minutes later, they were back on the road, two lions secured in the Hummer’s cargo area.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Admiral Dorrance was sitting at their usual table when Dana walked in. She’s looking better, he told himself. More alive—healthier. He was glad. Dana Morton was a skilled analyst—one of the few who could juggle a large number of seemingly unconnected events until she could put them together in a scenario that could be understood and countered. She’d done good work for both the CIA and the NSA before being ‘retired’ by a political operative who didn’t know—and didn’t care—about operational security.

  “How’d the mission in the sandbox go?” Dorrance pushed a seat out and filled the glass in front of it. “Did Flame get the lion safely to the museum?”

  “He delivered both lions! Collected a bonus for recovering the second one.” She grinned at the look on the admiral’s face. “He also found out what happened to the ‘Academi’ guys who were blamed for losing the first one.” She shook her head. “God, that’s a stupid name.”

  “They wanted to find something as far from ‘Blackwater’ as they could.” The admiral shrugged. “They succeeded with the name at least.” He leaned forward. “How did Gonda do?”

  “We didn’t talk too much about that—line wasn’t secure. Flame did tell me that he’s not sure if Gonda is the right fit.” Dana picked up the glass in front of her and sipped. “Says he did a professional enough job overall—but that he seems a little bit trigger-happy.” She looked into the admiral’s eyes. “He shot a woman and a kid in the course of recovering the lion.”

  “Were they armed?”

  “Kid was.” Dana took another sip of the drink. “Woman just moved at the wrong time.”

  “That kind of thing does happen.” Dorrance shrugged and shook his head. “Unfortunate as it may look to us from a distance.” He sipped his own drink. “What counts is that they pulled off the job—got the prize to the destination. That’s what’s really important.”

  “I guess.”

  “How about your end?” He leaned forward. “Have you found someone to handle your tech and intel yet?”

  “I hired Eric Bivens.” She caught the admiral’s gaze, blue eyes blazing and ready for a fight. “He was my number two at Langley.”

  “Bivens.” The admiral pursed his lips. “Wasn’t he the one that got you tossed out of NSA?”

  “No.” Dana shook her head. “That was the political prick that just had to know what was happening to make sure his guy had clean skirts before the election.” She finished her drink, eyes going cold. “He owes me—and one of these days, I will settle the account.”

  “Wait until after the next set of elections.” Dorrance signaled for refills. “It’ll be safer for you then.”

  “Whatever.” She looked at the admiral. “Do you have something for me?”

  “Not right now,” the admiral shrugged. “Nothing you can do about Crimea or Ukraine.” He shook his head. “Too late for that.”

  “What the hell happened there?”

  “CIA underestimated Putin and nothing we could say would change their ‘analysis.’” He picked up his newly filled glass. “Nothing we said made any difference to the higher-ups.” He emptied the glass. “They were too busy figuring ways to shore up the damned ACA!”

  “I may have something to work on for now.” Dana sipped her own drink. “Eric Forrest, the CFO of JPMorgan Chase, got around to watching that Jack Ryan, Shadow Recruit film with his wife last week. It gave him ideas and he wants to talk to me about checking out the accounts his various subordinates oversee.” She shrugged. “I’m meeting him tomorrow. I know it’s a nothing job but it’ll give me a chance to get our new hardware up and running and check Eric out on our procedures.”

  “You’re sure you can trust him?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “All right.” The admiral upended his glass signaling that he was done. “I’ll leave you to it.” He smiled. “Give Flame my congratulations.”

  “I will, sir.”

  “And let me know if you come across anything interesting.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “See you next week, then.”

  “Look forward to it, sir.” Dana watched as the admiral walked out of the bar, back straight, no sign of unsteadiness in his gait. I wish I could hold my liquor that well. She shook her head. They must teach it at the War College. She finished her own drink and headed for the door, making a mental note not to get stopped by the police—at least, not until she had something to eat.

  Despite the two drinks she had downed—and the difference in weight between her and the admiral—Dana’s gait was as steady as that of the older man.

  She had spent not a single hour at the War College.

  ***

  Eric Bevins was working hard to reconfigure the computers in Dana’s office to handle the new software the admiral had "liberated" from NSA. He knew that if he got everything set up just right he could access the mammoth telephone and email files that the agency had stockpiled over the past four or five years. Such information could mean the difference between success and failure in any future operation—and he was going to do everything and anything he could to ensure that Dana would always be able to succeed.

  He owed her that—and more.

  Tossed out of NSA for his trumped-up "security breach," naïve and unconnected politically, Eric had quickly discovered that he was going to have a very difficult time succeeding in the outside world. Companies that would have jumped to hire him a few months earlier now turned him down without even an interview. Start-ups wanted nothing to do with him.

  The loss of a security clearance made him poison to any top-drawer data analysis organization.

  He’d finally found a spot working back office for a large department store. The hours sucked and the pay was nothing to brag about, but at least he was eating and able to keep a roof over his head.

  He might have stayed in that job for years had Dana not contacted him. Dana whose own career he had been responsible for derailing. She gave me another chance, he knew. And I won’t let her down.

  He attacked the computer systems with renewed vigor. No matter what, he would do his best to have everything up and running perfectly when his new/old boss arrived in the morning.

  It was the least he could do.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Katelyn was cold. She’d been cold for days—ever since she’d been scooped up outside a coffee shop in Seattle.

  We seemed to travel for days, she told herself. With me tied up and gagged all jammed up in a small space.

  She thought she’d been in a car’s trunk—but she couldn’t be sure. The men who had taken her had injected something into her thigh after they’d tied her up—things got fuzzy after that, not becoming clear until she woke up here.

  Wherever here was.

  All she knew for sure was that there were five of them—five girls, all around the same age, all from different parts of the world. They had been given similar neck-to-ankle robes to wear and locked into a long dormitory-sized room. They seldom saw their captors—although they occasionally heard them talking outside the long room.