When he got near, there were no hostiles, just a single body lying in the snow. He ran to the body, and the man wore the same sheepskin coat as him. He carried the same weapons, and his face was identical to Kamal Khan. He bent down to examine him.

  “It’s your brother. It’s Javed.”

  Khan gave a sharp intake of breath. “I can’t believe it.” Unsurprisingly, he sounded shocked, and Nolan had mixed feelings.

  Javed was the twin who’d given me most cause for concern, as if he was holding something back. Now he’s dead. I’d have wished a broken leg on the bastard, but not this.

  “I’m sorry, Kamal. We’ll nail the bastard who did this, just as soon as we’ve done what we came here to do.”

  The other three SEALs appeared from the snowstorm where they’d been hunting the gunman, without success.

  “You can’t see you hand in front of your face,” Bryce raged, “We could have walked past the shooter and not seen him.”

  “Which means he can’t see us. It works both ways.”

  “Except we don’t know what happened to Javed,” Will pointed out, “The shooter has to be out there somewhere, and we don’t want him in our rear.”

  “It could have been a simple mistake, some irate Pakistani out looking for a guy who’d slept with his wife. What do you think, Kamal, is it possible?”

  He turned his face to Nolan. “It’s possible, yes. He could have mistaken him for a local, some guy he had a grudge with.”

  Will shrugged, not believing a word of it, but he didn’t argue the point. They assembled the little gear they carried, pulled the rancid coats tighter against the swirling snow and freezing winds, and began walking. Slipping and sliding would be a better description, and it took most of the night to reach the outskirts of the village. Looking behind every few seconds, to make sure the mystery shooter wasn’t tracking them. They saw nothing.

  * * *

  She slowly emerged from the snowdrift after they’d gone. She’d heard the shots, but stayed behind cover when they came to investigate. The identity of the dead man was a puzzle. One of the Khan twins, and she’d heard them say it was Javed Khan.

  Her orders were to shadow Nolan’s squad, stay at a distance, and watch their backs. They said she could make contact with the SEALs if it proved necessary, but not the Khans. ‘If necessary’ meant if they hit trouble, or if she saw hard evidence of an Afghan double-cross, in which case her orders were to act in the appropriate manner. She was a good shot, and she’d trained to use the weapon she carried beneath her robe. Appropriate when behind the lines had a single meaning. Kill them.

  Why involve the Afghans? It’s an unnecessary risk, yet the answer likely the maze politics that entangles the Islamic nations. Questions of honor are at stake, stuff like diplomatic niceties. A crock of shit.

  More snow was falling. She kept her robe pulled tight around her; thankful for the thick sheepskin coat she wore underneath the thin cotton. She’d follow them to the village, where she’d already made a brief reconnaissance, masquerading as a local. She was fluent in Urdu, the local dialect, and so she could pass as a Pakistani.

  Her dark skin was a legacy of her Hispanic parents. As she plodded through the snow, she reflected at least the temperature would soon be above minus ten. Several times she tripped and fell. Each time her robe became heavier with wet snow, but she got up again. It was going to be a long, cold, hard night. If things went badly, the next day would be even harder.

  Chapter Two

  They slid down the last few hundred meters and crept past a garbage tip that scarred the otherwise pristine surface of the snow. The stench was terrible, the sole consolation it would be a hundred times worse when the weather warmed and the snow melted. The fortress was high above them. Hisnul ibn-Jannah, like a giant spider above a white web, and he tried to imagine how they’d built the place.

  There’s a single answer, slave labor. How many poor wretches died constructing the giant fortress in the sky? Too many. Hundreds, probably thousands. The stone bastion stands as a mute testament to yet another period in the annals of Islamic cruelty.

  A donkey train was making its slow passage up to the main gate of the fortress. Carrying supplies, no doubt, for the village existed for no other reason than to serve the fort. Bryce touched him on the shoulder and pointed.

  “How’re we planning to get up to that place, Boss? Look at that donkey train. It just reached the gate, and they’re giving it a good going over. I mean, a real thorough search.”

  He’d been thinking the same thing. The plan was for the two Afghans to talk their way inside. Persuade or bribe the guards to let them pass, but now one was dead, and the other, Kamal, was an unknown factor. The question loomed large in Nolan’s mind.

  Who killed Javed? Kamal is unlikely, but can I trust him?

  “We’ll have to hijack one of those supply trains. When we reach the gates, we’ll play it by ear. Force our way in, is my guess.”

  “Kill the bastards,” Ryder muttered. His face was blue with cold, and he looked more miserable than they’d ever seen him. Ready to murder the first person he came into contact with. “The Lord said, ‘Whoever sacrifices to any god, except the Lord alone, shall be doomed.’ That about covers every single one of ‘em.”

  “We’ll kill the guards. We won’t have a choice,” Nolan said, “But don’t forget why we’re here. For the warhead, and for Sammy Borowski. Let’s take a look around and locate what we came for before we do any killing.”

  “And to kill that other bastard, Firooz, and al-Aziz.”

  “Them, too.”

  They strolled along the main street. Past a café that looked ready to collapse in anything stronger than a light wind and reached the end nearest the fort. Around fifty dwellings were built twenty-five on either side of the mud and snow-surfaced street. They sat on a stone wall, acting natural, pretending to chat to each other while watching the target that soared above them. Will even lit a pipe and puffed away, looking for all the world like a Northern Pakistani tribesman. It was good cover, although his skin a little darker than most. Finally, they started walking again and returned to the café.

  A woman beggar was sitting outside the squalid building, dressed head to foot in a blue burqa, her face hidden, anonymous behind the dense mesh. Without thinking, Nolan dug into the pocket of his coat, extracted a few rupees, and tossed them into her bowl. She mumbled something inaudible. He gave her a polite nod, and she stared up at him for several uncomfortable seconds.

  It’s almost as if she knows who I am.

  He dismissed the thought, and they went inside the rank, fetid interior. The coffee house was a shithole. A single room, thick with smoke swirling around and a stench that was stomach-turning. The customers were no more and no less than they’d have expected for such an establishment. Locals, men, all dressed the same as them in an assortment of ragged robes and filthy, rancid sheepskins. The new arrivals attracted a few stares, but they fitted in. Same clothes, same stink.

  No one asked any awkward questions, and they were ignored. They found a rickety table, seated themselves, and Kamal ordered coffee. The waitress, a black-veiled woman with just her eyes visible, brought five chipped mugs several minutes later. As she placed them on the table, Kamal asked her about food. She shrugged, muttered a few words, and walked away.

  The Afghan looked at them. "She said they do not sell food here. Coffee and hashish are all they have."

  Nolan nodded. “We’ll pass on the hashish.”

  They should have recognized the sweet, slightly sickly odor that hung over the room. Opium, the drug these men used to forget the misery of their existence, until the effect wore off, and grinding reality set back in. The waitress in the veil hurried toward a nearby table where two men were banging their mugs, shouting for refills. She poured the Java, plainly terrified, and her hands shook so much she spilled some on the robe of her customer. He snarled a curse and backhanded her so hard she tumbled to the floor in a welter of broken mugs and spilled coffee.

  It was too much for John-Wesley Ryder. The Louisianan had quaint ideas about the way a man should treat a woman. This didn’t fit with those ideas, and he started to get up.

  "Ryder!" Nolan snapped.

  He glared at the Lieutenant, but he backed down. Nolan breathed a sigh of relief and glanced at Kamal. "We still have to find a way up to the fortress. Find out about the donkey trains, how often they travel up there. We’ll find something suitable and take over.” He grinned, “Give the owners a rest.”

  He nodded. "I'll ask around, see what I can find. Wait here, and stay out of trouble.” He glared at Ryder, “Keep him under control. If he starts a fight in this place, it’ll bring the enemy faster than you could believe.”

  “Just find a way up to the fortress, Kamal. I’ll handle Ryder.”

  He glared back at them, then stood up, and left the bar. They continued drinking their coffee, pretending to be relaxed, although each man felt a growing sense of unease. The man who’d knocked the woman to the ground kept staring at Ryder, and they knew he was itching to come over, relishing the idea of a fight and a chance to pummel his brains into the ground. He didn’t know Ryder.

  Ten minutes later they were starting to relax when the door from the street crashed open. Four men rushed inside, assault rifles leveled. Black robes, long, unkempt beards, ragged black turbans. Lashkar-e-Taiba guards from the fortress, searching the village, and they’d come to the coffee bar first. The enemy knew they were there.

  The SEALs had one thing going for them, the smoke, so thick it was difficult to see clearly across the room. Besides, the street door was open, and it was still snowing heavily. Big white flakes swirled inside the room. As the icy air hit the warmer air of the room, it formed a light mist that shrouded the interior with a cloud of fog to blend with the smoke of opium and tobacco. Nolan motioned toward the rear door.

  "We're leaving that way. Move it.”

  Behind them, the shouting mass of protesting customers mingled in chaos with the Lashkar fighters. A few went down under fists and blows from rifle butts. Others tripped and fell over the prostrate bodies. They crept out the back way and emerged into the snow. Merano closed the door on the racket behind them.

  They weren’t clear of trouble. At least one gunman had seen them leave. In a few moments, they’d come pouring out and start shooting. Nolan was looking around for somewhere to hide when a woman grabbed his arm. She was standing next to him, and he hadn’t noticed her in the dark doorway of the adjacent building. "Nolan, get in here, all of you. Hurry! They’ve already captured your other man."

  Nolan? Who is this?

  She’d spoken in English and called him by name. With a shock, he recognized the woman in the blue burqa. The beggar he'd given money to when they entered the bar. His first instinct was to throw her off and move on, except not only had she spoken English, but English with an American accent. He made a snap decision and glanced around at the men.

  "Do as she says, men.” He stared at the mesh-covered face, “Where do we go?”

  She hustled them through a doorway, and they peered into the gloom as she closed the door behind them. They were inside a washhouse of some kind. Empty stone basins, and to one side, lines that held drying clothes. Someone banged on the door, and the mesh-covered face stared at them in alarm.

  “Help me bolt the door. Quickly.”

  She was too late. The heavy timbers crashed open, and two men leapt into the room. One was a fighter from the fortress. Well armed with a modern AK assault rifle, and on his head the black turban sported by most Lashkar-e-Taiba forces. The other man was the one from the bar. The guy who’d knocked the waitress to the ground, and he balled his fist and went to slam it into the woman’s belly.

  With a snarl of, “Not this time, motherfucker,” Ryder reacted. The wiry SEAL leapt at the attacker, planting a hard fist in the center of his face. The heavy blow sent the Pakistani sprawling to the floor with a broken, bleeding nose. He howled with rage, and his companion raised his assault rifle to open fire. The barrel swung around, about to fill Ryder's belly full of holes, but when the shot cracked out of the barrel, he’d darted to one side. His hand flashed to the belt inside his coat, and before Nolan, Merano, and Bryce could intervene, his knife was out.

  The blade spun once in the air and embedded in the man's throat. Ryder turned back to first man he’d hit ready to handle him, but the guy knew when he was beat. With blood pouring down his face, he held his hands out, palms up. The inference was obvious. ‘I don't have any argument with you.’

  John-Wesley bent down and plucked out the knife. He wiped the blade on the dead man’s robe and moved back to the man he’d hit. He’d climbed to his feet, and John-Wesley’s hand snaked out. In a move that was almost invisible to the naked eye, the blade sliced across his throat. He sank to the ground with a final sigh of escaping breath.

  Ryder’s face was stony. "They didn’t give me a choice, Boss. Sorry." He didn’t sound sorry, “If I’d left that sucker alive, he’d have ratted us out.”

  Nolan couldn’t argue with him. It was the reality of operating behind the lines, when every hand was turned against you. SEALs had no access to manacles or jails, no way of keeping a prisoner quiet. Save one.

  He nodded his agreement. “You didn’t have a choice,” he agreed, “But that shot could bring trouble. They may come looking for their pals.”

  Seconds later, footsteps sounded in the snow outside, and they heard raised voices. The woman put a finger to the mesh that covered her lips. “Stay quiet."

  They stayed quiet, although he had to know more. He put his head close to hers and spoke in a barely audible whisper. "Who are you?"

  The reply was unexpected. "Don’t you recognize me, Lieutenant Nolan? Captain Amber Chase. 325th Military Intelligence Battalion, U.S. Army Reserve. The girl you walked out on all those years ago. The girl whose life you ruined.”

  His mind struggled to cope with the unexpected. “You’re shittin’ me!”

  “You don’t believe it? You want me to strip off my clothes, and show you the mole on my inner thigh?”

  If the men heard her, they kept their expressions neutral.

  He couldn’t take the look of stunned surprise off his face. “Amber, I don’t believe it. Jesus Christ, here of all places.”

  Her voice was as cool as the snow-covered ground. “Believe me, I’d sooner be anywhere else than near you.”

  “Look, that time in San Diego, it wasn’t my…”

  “Yes, it was. Forget it, it’s over. A pity you didn’t drown during some fool SEAL operation.”

  “Yeah, I can see you’re mad. How come you’re here?”

  “Your boss Vice-Admiral Jacks sent me to out to keep an eye on things for you. He was worried about the Afghans. He thought Javed Khan might be working for the enemy."

  He didn't reply at first, still struggling to come to terms with his astonishment.

  “You can't be serious. Jacks sent a woman to watch our backs? A woman dressed in a burqa?"

  "I'm a U.S. Army Officer," she snapped, her voice hard, "Forget the clothes, what did you think, I was going to come here dressed in my issue camos?"

  Someone made a low chuckle, and he looked around and glared. Will looked guilty. "I guess Jacks had his reasons," he murmured, “Boss, I doubt she’ll get in the way.”

  "You're damn right I won’t get in the way.” She looked each man in turn, "Now why don’t you all shut the fuck up and wait until they've gone?"

  The sound of the pursuit and search went on for almost a half hour. During that time, Nolan was conscious of the speculative looks his men were giving him. As well as the hard looks she darted at him. They’d briefly been an item many years before. It was so long ago he barely recognized her. He didn’t remember it as being anything serious between them. He’d just signed up for the Navy SEALs, and on the day he was to graduate after completing BUD/S training, they were due to go out and celebrate. Forty-five minutes before the dinner date, they called him out on his first operation.

  They flew straight out in a Sea Hawk sent to pick them up. A SEAL unit was under fire in Mexico, after the ambush they’d prepared for a bunch of psychotic drug smugglers went wrong. Now they were under fire themselves, with two men dead, and the rest of the unit was battling to make their way north with three more wounded. The plan was to send Nolan in with his unit to set up a covering position through which the beleaguered SEALs could fall back.

  It worked well. So well the Mexicans didn’t see it coming, and they lashed them with torrents of gunfire, forcing them to retreat, licking their wounds, and leaving plenty of bodies behind them. His squad returned to Coronado Base with the operation a success, until he called Amber.

  “It’s me.”

  “You fuck. You know how long I waited in that restaurant? Two hours.”

  She was weeping, and he did his best to make it right. “Amber, I would have called, but I couldn’t, you know how it is.”

  “Know how it is?” Her voice rose in pitch, and she was almost hysterical. “You made me look a laughing stock, and all for the sake of a fucking phone call. I don’t believe you. So who is she?”

  “What? There’s no one. Come on, let me make it up to you.”

  “Tie some weights around your neck, Nolan, and jump into the dock.”

  He tried to call several times after that, but she never answered. In the end he gave up and had forgotten all about her.

  Now she was here, in the most inhospitable, dangerous place on Earth. The hard attitude hadn’t mellowed. Not one bit.

  Maybe she was entitled to feel sore, although it’s been a long, long time. Women, who understands them? Not any man, that’s for sure.

  He looked up as a voice called from outside, and someone banged on the door. Several times they tried to open it, but the bolt held, and they gave up. Eventually, the sounds of the search faded, and there was silence from outside.