No one figured there were ground mines in the clear zone around the fence. One of the bad guys mowed it yesterday and didn't go boom. But there was every reason to expect they might have the forest trails closer to the perimeter tricked out. Flame's plan was to make it down to just inside the cover around the chopped down area and scope the trails for motion detectors, snag lines, and explosives.

  He wasn't disappointed. There were no motion detectors anywhere around. The guys in Tombstone were either too low-tech or just didn't want to be bothered with all the false alarms a woods full of critters would cause. But there were a few low-tech alternatives that Flame had to admire for their simple elegance. Stretched across some of the trails, just below the tangle of vines that carpeted every open area, there were wires strung tight at ankle height. Most animals would leap them. Only a man walking unaware would trip over them. Crawling through the muck on his belly, Flame picked them out. He would have missed one except for the dripping raindrops gleaming off it for just a second.

  Some of the traps were alarms. Some, more deadly.

  In three instances, a wire strung between trees was run up the bole of the tree to the trigger of a shotgun wrapped in plastic, and secured firmly to an upper branch with camo-patterned duct tape. The shotgun was aimed skyward. The concept was simple but effective. Anyone coming for a lookie-loo would snag on the wire which would pull the trigger and fire a round through the shotgun and wake up everyone in Tombstone.

  Other traps were nastier. Again they were wire detonated, but this time the wires led to mortar rounds rusting away under piles of wet leaves. The cables were red with rust as well, so these had been here for a few weeks at least. Maybe more. Whoever set these would have to replace the cables occasionally, as this wet climate ate them up. Dumbasses should use fishing line. This was not the first time Flame was unimpressed with the learning curve of Al Qaeda and its types.

  He came upon evidence that the IEDs worked. The rotting corpse of a large, antlered deer lay in the brush at the base of a tree pock-marked with shrapnel. Nearly torn in half, the corpse was a living heap of land crabs, ants, and centipedes as long as Flame's arm. This was less than a week old. He skirted around the repulsive mess and found boot and sandal prints still visible all around. The bad guys came out to see what went boom. So they weren't quite as complacent as Freeman's first briefings indicated. Out of habit or anxiety, the residents of Tombstone had prepared the ground around them for a possible raid.

  Flame covered a broad arc around the perimeter that they could use for an approach. There was no need at the moment to check the entire circumference and risk any extra exposure. He left each alarm and IED intact in case these goons checked them on some kind of schedule. He rejoined Pig up the hill, and sat and made a rough diagram of the trails and traps on one of Chili's Spider-Man pads. He was soaked through and exhausted. His slow and thorough canvass of the AO took over four hours to complete and much of it immersed in muck. Flame was chilled from the mud even though the air was like an oven. He needed to get into dry clothes. He slung his M4 and left Pig in place, and returned to their base.

  It was pre-arranged that one half of each two-man sit would make his way back to base leaving his partner on post. The three would compare notes and then switch partners to keep everyone informed of each team's intel. It was a simple and effective manner of keeping everyone on the same page, and it didn't require radio transmissions.

  Manny and Re-Pete were already at base camp when Flame joined them. Manny was sending a text burst out on their sat phone. Re-Pete took the Spider-Man pad from Flame and studied the location of the traps. Flame skinned off the wet BDUs, boots, and socks and rubbed down with a towel before putting on dry clothes.

  "I sent an update," Manny said. "Told them we're in position with a total of thirteen unfriendlies on scene. We go on their word."

  They waited for the reply from the Jackson before splitting up to change sit partners. The text reply showed up on a tablet monitor connected to the sat phone. It was unreadable gibberish until Manny unencrypted it.

  OP BR

  CLOSE TOMBSTONE AT YOUR DISCRETION

  SOONER THAN LATER

  NEW ATTACK HOMELAND

  EAGLE SANCTION

  BREAKING CONTACT

  D

  It was signed off by Dana Morton, whom they only knew by reputation as one of Waylon Griggs' trusted deputies. More important was the sanction from the highest level. The White House signed off on this one. Big mojo.

  "So we shut him down?" Flame asked, as he squatted and ran a cloth over his Beretta, working the action a few times before putting in a fresh magazine and jacking a new round up the spout.

  "Cowboy and all his buckaroos," Manny said. "We bring them down tonight when the lights go down. You'll mark our path and take point, Flame."

  "You sure on that count?" Flame asked.

  "Thirteen," Manny said. "And not much chance there'll be any more coming along this late."

  "New attack homeland?" Re-Pete asked. "New attack?"

  CHAPTER 34

  CHICAGO DIVISION STREET STATION, BLUELINE METRO

  The blast was strong enough to crack the sidewalks and throw pedestrians off their feet on the street above.

  The earliest picture of the event was a sketchy one. Witnesses who left the station just before the device was detonated recalled seeing a CTA maintenance cart parked in front of a Dunkin' Donuts store near the subway platform. Estimated force of the explosion would have required at least 150 kilos of military or commercial grade explosives to create that level of destruction and carnage in the closely packed morning rush hour crowd. The force was greatly magnified by the enclosed environment.

  First responders made their way through panicked commuters and choking smoke to find a horrific scene of blood-spattered tile walls and still-smoldering body parts strewn on platforms across both sides of the Blue Line tracks. The local hospitals filled their emergency rooms beyond capacity as the wounded were brought to their doors by ambulances, fire rescue vehicles, and even taxis commandeered by the police.

  Earliest estimates placed the death toll at two hundred, with many more times that facing life-altering and life-ending injuries.

  Noon time calls were placed to all of the city's papers and local TV stations from what turned out later to be untraceable, one-time use cell-phones. Each call was a recorded message in a female voice.

  "We pray humbly and invoke the curse of God upon the liars."

  CHAPTER 35

  TOMBSTONE

  Heath watched the encampment over the open sights of the Winchester. He peered through the EMFV and watched through the surface of the metal roof of the largest building. In the scope he could see digitally enhanced ghost images of the occupants of Tombstone walking from place to place, lying idle, and sitting at a table talking or maybe playing cards.

  He and Manny had set up a highly sensitive directional mike as well, and he listened through earbuds at the sounds from within. They were speaking mostly Malay which he didn't understand, but from the pattern of the exchanges it sounded like guys bullshitting. Heath confirmed they were playing cards as the EMFV images matched up with someone cursing in Malay, which he could understand. Obscenity was a second language for Heath and he could shock listeners in over a dozen languages. Somebody at the table was a poor loser and letting fly with staccato rants that called into question his fellow players' intelligence, diet, and choice of sex partners. His particular favorite was one guy who suggested his opponents enjoyed close relationships with their sisters. Fucker had a tongue on him.

  The only time they came together was in prayer. Once during his watch he saw them kneel toward the west wall of the building, heads down, murmured prayers audible through his earbuds.

  At least two of the Tombstoners spoke Farsi; Heath was a lot more familiar with that language. The conversations were brief and he listened with interest each time he heard those voices. One of them was trying to sleep and asked that the music be turned down. They were listening to some kind of Sufi pop with repetitive percussion. The speakers were Iranians or Afghans, as that's where that dialect of Persian was spoken most. Taliban maybe. Al Qaeda for sure. A second voice told the sleeper that he'd need to get up soon anyway.

  Why? What did the napper need to do?

  Heath strained to listen for any hint of names used and for snatches of English. If he could only hear that voice he'd come to hate from all those hours of listening to it. He only needed a phrase or two, and he could pick up the stops and pronunciation of the same accent he'd heard every day for most of his life.

  He swept the building with the EMFV to determine who the Farsi speakers were. Prayers were over. Three were lying down. Four were playing cards. Three more were in what looked like a kitchen area and another three...

  That's all.

  Only ten occupants.

  But they counted thirteen earlier in the day. Where were the other three? No one had left. Maybe the one he'd come to know as the Shitter was in the head and he missed him somehow. He glassed the leaning shack by the fence and saw it was empty, the door lying wide open. No one on the latrine.

  Did they miscount earlier? There was no way. He and Manny made hash marks on one of the Spider-Man pads and checked and double-checked each other's figures. Going into a gunfight they had to know the precise odds so they could do their deadly inventory to make sure they got all their targets.

  There were thirteen and now there were ten. Where were the other three?

  "Shit," Heath hissed through clenched teeth. And they were radio silent. He couldn't move from his post. He'd just have to wait for his new sit partner, and then go find Manny and let him know their mission profile was shifting. Heath renewed his attention on the voices inside the building.

  The sleepyhead Farsi speaker was up and moving around while muttering a string of curses. Heath could match his movement and gestures with his voice now. A ghost figure in the scope leapt from a bunk and waved his hands as he crossed the broad main room of the building. He was saying that he was tired of the other Farsi speaker bitching at him. Farsi 2 told him that he needed to do what he was assigned to do before it got much later.

  FARSI 1: I was waiting for the rain to stop.

  FARSI 2: It is the rainy season, stupid. It will not stop for weeks.

  FARSI 1: I hate to go in the rain. It is dangerous.

  Go? Go where? Why was it dangerous? Was Farsi 1 going to leave the compound?

  FARSI 2: You are afraid of getting lost again. Like a little boy. Talib is going with you. He will not allow you to get lost.

  FARSI 1: Why can't Talib go on his own if he knows the way so well?

  FARSI 2: You know the reason. Yusef does not know him. Contact can't be made if Yusef does not even know what Talib looks like. I will get you the package.

  At least two of them were leaving, or at least thinking of leaving. They were going to ride out or walk out and find the road down to Serian. This was a run to carry out flash drives or CDs or whatever. This was the start of the chain that brought Young-El's hate to the world and turned his rage into fearful reality for his innocent victims.

  FARSI 1: After I have eaten then I will go.

  FARSI 2: (in English) What the fuck, Sab? You'll go now and stop wasting everybody's fucking time!

  Or, to Heath's ear, more like, "Wha' the fuck? You'll go now and stop wastin' ever'body's fuckin' time."

  It was Young-El. He was here.

  CHAPTER 36

  The dirt bikes were fun at first but now Sabeeh ibn Awar hated them.

  He looked forward to the trips away from their jungle retreat. A chance to get out of the stinking shacks where the Malays smelled of garlic so thick it made his head swim. The ride was pleasant once he hit the highway, and though Serian wasn't much more than a shitty little town with one street of stores and a market square, there were some distractions there like an outdoor movie theater that showed Chinese and Thai action movies; the bloody kind that Sabeeh liked.

  But when it was raining, the curving switchback path down the highway from the retreat was a nightmare of mud and marsh. He lost the trail the last trip and rode the bike into a deep pond where the motor stalled and would not start again. Two Malays from the retreat found him sitting by the overturned and useless bike. He was sobbing in the woods after a day and a half of a hopeless search to find the road. The Malays laughed at him and cleared the fouled plug in the bike and led him down to the road and into Serian.

  Sabeeh was soaked to the skin by the time he and Talib got the bikes started and exited through the retreat's main gate. He hunched his shoulders and wiped rainwater from his helmet visor. With only one hand on the bars, the tires slid and shifted under him and he jerked to the right to maintain his balance. Talib was already far ahead. The young Malay and the hot-running Kawasaki were like one single being; sure-footed and fast. Sabeeh struggled to keep him in sight. He did not wish to get lost again.

  The Malays were members of an Al Qaeda branch here, and shared in the holy mission to bring violence to the enemies of the Faith. But Malays like Talib failed to be as serious as Sabeeh and his American cousin. They laughed and joked and played cards all day in a haze of cigarette smoke. They were willing, even fanatical, and had proven their courage and devotion again and again. But to Sabeeh they lacked an air of godliness or piety. Perhaps because they were raised as Manhaj Islam Hadhari; a bastard sect of the One Faith practiced in their homeland.

  But they had all embraced Shi'a and its tenets and served the cause of jihad as faithfully as any others Sabeeh had met in his journey toward righteousness. They accomplished the difficult task of building the barracks house and generator shack and other structures, as well as installing the fence and the many booby traps that surrounded the little camp. He had known them over a year, and Talib and his brother Malays had shown no hesitation in killing in the name of the cause. A few months before, with broad-bladed machetes, they murdered some hikers who found the entrance of the retreat's hidden trail where it met the highway.

  Still, they lacked Taqwa; the purity of purpose God wished for in his believers.

  Sabeeh skidded around the first tight turn on the trail only to find Talib's bike lying on its side in the center of the narrow path. The rear wheel was spinning and steam was rising from the manifold where the rain struck the still-puttering motor.

  Drifting to a stop by the overturned Kawasaki, Sabeeh looked left and right, and saw Talib's motionless body lying on its back in a gully by the road; runoff water gushing over him. There was a neat hole in Talib's helmet just above the temple and dark red ooze swam behind his visor; one staring eye was visible.

  Sabeeh turned the accelerator hard and the back wheel spun under him throwing up a rooster tail of mud. Before he could right himself and take off down the path he felt a tremendous pressure in his right side, just below his armpit. His hands left the bike handles and the powerful little machine spun suddenly. He was thrown to the muck as the bike, released of the weight on its saddle, popped up on its rear wheel and tore into the vegetation along the road.

  A large black man trotted and slid down the hill along the road above the two riders. He wore clothing that made him appear to be one with the surrounding forest; as if, by the simple act of remaining motionless, he might blend back into the jungle gloom and become one with it. In his fists was a long-barreled rifle with a fat tubular scope atop it and long sound suppressor on the end of its barrel.

  The black man stepped onto the road with the rifle held tight to his shoulder, the barrel trained firmly on his second target, who lay face down in the pouring rain. He pumped another round through the helmeted head of the second rider.

  CHAPTER 37

  Pig left his hide when he saw Heath slip away from position and move out of sight, just as the two men pushed the dirt bikes from beneath the portico on the main shack. The big SAW in his gloved fists, he humped along as fast as he could and while still keeping the brush and terrain between him and Tombstone. He made first for Heath's post, and worked out the battle math.

  Heath made a command decision to intercept the bikers, and the most likely spot was to cross over a ridge to the north and line up on them where the narrow jungle trail looped back on itself, a half-klick from the compound. There was time to make the run over the hill and set up an ambush as the bikes snaked around the long curve. But only just enough time. And there were two targets and both had to go down if this was going to work. Pig's SAW might make the difference if Heath failed to kakk the second rider. It would be noisy, but they couldn't let anyone out of the kill box.

  The downhill run was slippery and Pig nearly lost footing twice, but finally burst out onto the narrow trail to see Heath crouch and turn, with his M4 trained on him. The sniper rifle was slung over Heath's back.

  "Jesus," Pig said.

  "Yeah, you almost got to meet him just then," Heath said, lowering his weapon.

  The bikes and bodies still lay visible. Heath was going through a saddle bag on one of the bikes. Some tools, a porno magazine in Chinese, an open carton of cigarettes. Pig covered the roadway in case anyone else came this way from Tombstone.

  "You took the initiative," Pig said.

  "You have a problem with that?" Heath asked. He moved to the second bike. The body lying by it wore a canvas shoulder bag.

  "It was the only move," Pig said. "We get these two as a bonus without moving up the mission clock. So, how many does that leave?"

  "Damned if I know," Heath said, as he cut the strap on the shoulder bag and pulled it off the body.

  "I thought you and Manny were supposed to make a headcount?"

  "The count keeps changing. We had thirteen and then ten. I was hoping to take one of these fuckers alive but couldn't take the risk of one of them flying. This one was bleeding out so I finished him."