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Rapp found this amusing.

He and CYCLONE were sitting cross-legged on small cushions, eating food scooped from their individual bowls with chunks of bread. As was typical with Afghani meals, no utensils were offered, and Rapp found himself fervently hoping that the round of vaccines he’d received before heading to Pakistan were up to defeating whatever might be lurking beneath the dirty fingernails of the man who’d prepared the meal. But while a bout of dysentery might be funny in a gallows-humor sort of way, this was not why Rapp was amused.

Rapp was currently in the inner room of a compound that had been sunk into the side of a mountain. He was surrounded by armed men, himself weaponless, and seated on the floor. His only salvation lay with an unseen drone that was hopefully orbiting somewhere overhead. CYCLONE should have more to worry about from his undercooked food than Rapp, but somehow his guards knew differently.

The good ones always did.

As if sensing his thoughts, the fighter closest to Rapp fingered the scarred wooden stock of his AK-47. The man’s pinched features reminded Rapp of a weasel, but his dark eyes radiated intelligence. His companion wasn’t so much thin as emaciated. He looked like a fence post, but the gunman held his rifle with a shooter’s familiar, easy manner.

Rapp had a rule about guns—he didn’t let people point them in his direction. Neither guard had violated this ironclad tenet yet, but Ferret Face was getting close.

If things went sideways, he would die first.

In contrast to the guards, Rapp’s implied threat seemed to wash over CYCLONE like rain running off a boulder. “Please don’t take this the wrong way,” CYCLONE said with a smile, “but your identity is very much my business. These are my mountains and I’ve lived among them for decades without once fearing the Americans. Now, in the space of twenty-four hours, I’ve been captured by commandos, interrogated, and then freed by a mysterious fighting force. A force I knew nothing about. These mountains and everything in them belong to me. Nothing exists in my territory without my knowledge. Nothing except you.”

Rapp tore off another piece of flatbread, stuck it in his mouth, and chewed. The dry texture sucked away his saliva like a sponge. Rapp gazed longingly at the cup of tea situated within easy reach of his left hand, but he refrained. For the time being, he needed to manage his fluid intake carefully.

Very carefully.

“Have you no answer?” CYCLONE said.

There were two ways to play this.

One, Rapp could attempt to stroke the HIG warlord’s ego.

Two, he could go for the jugular.

Rapp wasn’t much for stroking egos.

“Listen to me, you backwoods fuck,” Rapp said, dusting bread crumbs from his hands. “I am in this godforsaken land for one reason—to meet with an Iranian intelligence officer. You are not him. Since your memory apparently needs refreshing, the men who died attacking that convoy were from my organization, not yours. They were rescuing me, not you. Outside of this miserable valley and the inbred goat herders who call it home, nobody gives a rat’s ass about you. Nobody. You begged for my help, not the other way around. You promised to settle your debt to me with interest if I saved you from the Americans. Payment is now due.”

Rapp had tailored his speech to provoke a reaction.

He got one.

CYCLONE’s smile grew even wider.

The warlord’s guards didn’t seem to share their employer’s amusement.

Fence Post leaned over to whisper into CYCLONE’s ear, while Ferret Face’s index finger slid ever closer to his rifle’s trigger guard. Rapp had never attended a Taliban weapons safety course, but he did know that the jihadis were notorious for suffering accidental weapons discharges. The odds were better than even that Ferret Face’s rifle had a round in the chamber and that the weapon’s selector switch was set to fire. Rapp was willing to give the scruffy fighter one inch. If the man’s index finger moved even a centimeter farther, Rapp would consider the man a threat.

Ferret Face would not enjoy what happened next.

“Peace,” CYCLONE said, holding up his hands. “My countrymen have been at war our entire lives—first with the Russians, then with each other, and now with the Americans. I’ve seen many people I thought friends become enemies and I’ve fought alongside men I’d once sworn to kill. In Afghanistan, you either become a crafty fox or die a trusting hare. There is no middle ground.”

Rapp believed the HIG warlord, but he didn’t give two shits about his martial philosophy. Perhaps when this dumpster fire of a war was finally over there’d be a market for a mujahideen version of Sun Tzu’s Art of War. Until then, CYCLONE could save his philosophical musings for his henchman.

But Rapp didn’t say that.

Contrary to what Irene might believe, he actually was capable of practicing restraint when the situation merited. And while CYCLONE hadn’t explicitly said the words I’m sorry, Rapp could recognize an apology when he heard one. But apology or not, Rapp was of half a mind to just slay this douchebag and move on.

The clock was ticking.

After carrying the HIG warlord into the forest, Rapp had followed the gravel path CYCLONE had indicated for about three kilometers. Just when he was beginning to wonder if the jihadi had chosen the wrong goat trail, the foliage opened to reveal a village nestled in a small valley.

True to his word, CYCLONE did have people loyal to him in the village.

People in the form of armed men who were only too willing to pile Rapp and the HIG commander into the bed of a Hilux truck and cover them with sacks of corn, barley, and rice. Rapp glimpsed the sun long enough to confirm that the truck was heading generally south before the coarse fabric blotted out the sky.

With nothing else to do, Rapp settled in for the ride and tried to mark the time.

About an hour or so later, the truck came to a stop.

Unseen hands removed the burlap sacks and Rapp found himself eyeball to eyeball with Ferret Face and Fence Post. The two gunmen seemed indifferent to his presence, but the sight of CYCLONE provoked a much different reaction. They didn’t salute, but the deference the pair showed the HIG warlord was obvious.

While the men were conversing in Pashtu, Rapp hopped out of the truck and stretched his kinked muscles. The Hilux was parked in front of yet another compound, but this one was different from the typical mud-brick construction in several important ways. One, the walls were made of much stronger concrete and the gate was constructed of interlocking steel slats. Two, the structure was embedded in the surrounding rocky cliff face, and its concrete exterior perfectly matched the dirty white shale sprouting from the ground.

Rather than a traditional gravel driveway, access to the compound required an off-road vehicle capable of navigating the scree-covered slope leading to the structure. Bits of stone were haphazardly stacked in front of the outer walls, obscuring their straight lines while strategically placed vegetation did the rest. Taken in sum, the natural camouflage rendered the structure difficult to detect from the ground and probably impossible to see from the air.

Rapp’s gaze traveled from the compound to the jagged cliff faces on either side of the structure. Unless he missed his guess, he was looking at the foothills leading to the Spin Ghar mountains.

Success.

At least this is what Rapp had thought about an hour ago when he’d first arrived.

Now he wasn’t so sure.

He’d hoped that the compound might hold the missing Ranger, but this did not seem to be the case. To make matters worse, CYCLONE was entirely too smart for his own good, and Rapp still did not like the vibe he was getting from the warlord’s bodyguards.

Are sens

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