The coolest part of Jenk's little subterfuge was that he had told Yusaf that he would be sending a radio message to the insurgents-an attempt to negotiate, aka stall for time, before the additional fictional American troops arrived.

Hence, it was a given that the insurgents would pick up the SEALs' radio signal on their DF equipment.

Izzy knew that Jenk was banking on the fact that the insurgents wouldn't know how to use that equipment as skillfully as he himself apparently did. An important but as of yet still unknown part of the plan depended on the insurgents failing to recognize that, while sending his "Prepare to surrender" message, Jenk would also be simultaneously calling for the aforementioned airstrike.

Which brought them to goatfuck factor one. Jenk had to convince the numbnuts at command to send an airstrike now, rather than three days from now. That was important.

Once Jenk made radio contact, much depended on his ability to connect with someone back at HQ who would forgo the red tape and paperwork and actually send the help they needed.

Nah, on second thought, the goatfuck factor was handled. Jenk knew everyone. And he knew how to charm, trick or mind-control them into getting exactly what he wanted. No human on earth was immune to Jenk's talent.

From his vantage point overlooking the enemy camp, Izzy scanned the area, searching for Yusaf. He was still back in the cave, no doubt deep in conference with the insurgent leaders, like a good little turncoat, helping to work out the details of their counterplan.

But the level of activity around the radio, the DF equipment, and an entire array of rocket launchers had increased. And, yes, slowly but surely the insurgents were moving-away from the trail down the mountain and into attack position.

Excellent.

Izzy looked at his watch.

Showtime.

Jenk sent the coordinates for the airstrike on the backup radio, then fired off his flare.

The other two flares lit the sky as he ran like hell.

Luck and the small-world factor were on their side. Jenk had gotten through to HQ, to an Air Farce colonel he'd actually met once at an airport bar. Dude was smart for an officer-he was a regular guy. He'd gotten the picture immediately.

He was getting them the air support they needed. And, instead of days or even hours, it was going to arrive in minutes.

Which meant they all had to haul ass out of this area.

Which also meant breaking radio silence.

"Seven minutes," he informed Jacquette and the rest of the SEALs over the headsets they all wore, as he scrambled down the mountainside.

"Get out of there," the lieutenant thundered.

"Working on it," Jenk replied.

Jenk's position was the most vulnerable. In working within the parameters of the worst-case scenario-the one where they'd had to be put on a waiting list for that airstrike-they'd had to make sure that Jenk was close to the radio that was sending the surrender demand-recorded and on a loop-to the insurgents. The theory was, if the baddies picked up the two different signals, maybe they'd think the second was some kind of shadow or reflection.

At least that was the theory as Jenk had described it when proposing his plan to the lieutenant.

At the time, though, he'd left out the maybe.

The possibility that the insurgents had a radioman who was as well trained as a Navy SEAL was still floating around out there, about number fifteen on the list with the heading "Ways that Mark Jenkins Could Die Tonight."

Possible but unlikely.

Of course, now "friendly fire" had been moved to the very top of that list.

As opposed to "Hudson River sailing accident," which was still down at about thirty thousand.

As Jenk slipped and slid in the dust and rocks, making his way toward the surer footing of the trail, he could hear distant shouting from the campground. Although languages weren't his particular strength, he could tell from the inflection and tone that the words he was hearing were military commands.

Yeah, that was definitely a "Ready, aim, fire!"

It was followed by the thump and hiss of rockets launching.

Thump. Thump, thump-thump, thump. Thump thump. Thump.

Shit, lots of them.

He'd misjudged the insurgents' bloodlust. He'd thought they'd have a hard-on for capturing a team of SEALs. Apparently, they preferred to blow the Americans off the face of the earth. Which made the next few minutes of Jenk's life both easier and harder.

He couldn't tell where the rockets were heading-there was never any way to know. Although if you heard the whine of one falling toward you, it was probably too late to duck.

Damnit, he hated artillery attacks most in the launch phase.

But then he changed his mind. He really hated them most as the bombs started to fall, exploding with a roar of noise and sprays of fire and dirt, shaking the earth.

The urge to hit the deck and crawl for cover was overcome by the need to move as quickly as possible, so he stayed on his feet.

Thump. Thump, thump. Thump-thump. Thump.

At least the trail was clear. It opened up ahead to a fork, and Jenk didn't hesitate. He went toward the river.

Bad choice.

He heard the rocket screaming and he knew he was dead. But survival instincts were hard to overcome, and he dove headfirst beneath an outcropping of rocks, even while thinking, too late, too late.

The pain was immediate as he scraped and bounced across the grit and dirt. It was like sandpapering the palms of his hands, his chin, his cheek.

And still he tried to go farther, to fit in a narrow little crack between the ground and a rock. He'd never been a quitter, not ever in his life, why should he start now during his impending death?

The noise of the explosion was deafening, and the force of the shock waves lifted him, pushing him even farther back.

Dirt and dust and smoke filled his lungs and stung his eyes and he found himself thinking about his mother, his sister Ginny, his dad. He saw their faces clearly, like a slide show. It was not his life as he'd lived it that flashed through his mind, but rather the people he'd loved. Ex-girlfriends. Amanda. Christy. Heather. Even Shelly the perfectionist, who had annoyed the hell out of him whenever they weren't having sex.

Little Charlie Paoletti, with his big, drooly-chinned grin...

Jenk coughed, ears ringing, choking on both dust and regret. There was so much more he'd wanted to do, so much of life yet to live.

But then he realized the fact that he was choking meant that he still had lungs-that his head was still attached to his chest.

He moved his right leg. His right arm. His- Pain shot through him-proof along with the choking thing that he was still very much alive.

His entire left side was pinned. He shifted, trying to pull himself free, or at least to see how badly he was injured, and he heard himself howl.

He checked to make sure his microphone was turned off, and realized that his entire headset was broken. He couldn't hear his teammates, and they couldn't hear him.

His watch, however, was still ticking-and still counting down. There were two minutes and seventeen seconds before the enemy artillery-which was still coming-would be the least of his worries. Two minutes and seventeen-sixteen-seconds before the U.S. airstrike wiped 260 insurgents off the face of the planet.

And Jenk with them.

He was too close. And he had no idea how badly he was injured. There was no way he could crawl to safety in two minutes, even if he got himself out from underneath this rubble.

There was also no way that one of his teammates would find him in time since he was heading away from, not toward, the planned extraction point.

But his litany of no way's wasn't going to get him out of here. It hurt like hell, but he started to dig, twisting in a way that would have made his middle school gymnastics coach proud.

Another rocket fell, but this time Jenk was able to cover his mouth and nose, burying his face into the crook of his elbow.

And as the roar of the explosion turned to ringing in his ears, as he got back to work, he heard...

"Jenkins!"

Izzy?

"Over here!" Jenk shouted, and then, thank you Jesus, Izzy was there, helping to dig him out, tossing aside the smaller chunks of rock, rolling away larger pieces, pulling him free.

The pain was incredible as Izzy helped haul him to his feet-feet that were still attached to his legs, feet upon which he could miraculously still stand.

His left shoulder was a different story.

Of course, he didn't need his shoulder to run.

Or did he? Jesus, every step he took sent pain knifing through him.

Izzy seemed to know, and he looped Jenk's good arm over his shoulder. He was talking to the lieutenant over his radio headset, even as he pushed Jenk to move faster. "Got the radio. Oh, yeah, and bitsy little Jenkins, too. I almost couldn't find him. He's so tiny, he'd crawled beneath a rock. Don't tell the other guys, but I think he might've shit his pants."

"Fuck you, dickhead," Jenk gasped, laughing despite the pain, through the pain.

"It's going to be close," Izzy reported to Jacquette, "but we'll make it."

They were going to make it. It was a miracle-the most painful miracle of Jenk's life, but a miracle just the same.

And Izzy Zanella was his angel sent from heaven.

Somehow Iz had known where to find him. He'd known just where Jenk would be.

"I cut her down for you," Izzy said, talking now to Jenk, who realized they'd made it over to the bridge.

Sure enough, the bodies-Suhayla and the others-were lined up along the road, faces respectfully covered.

"I figured you'd be heading over here," Izzy told him. "When you didn't show, I did the job before heading back to fetch you. I hope you don't mind."

"No," Jenk managed. "Thanks, man."

"FYI, they shot her, Mark. In the head. It was quick. Before they, you know, strung her up. I know it doesn't make it better. Dead is dead. I just thought...you'd prolly want to know."

Izzy had known Jenk was headed here, to the bridge, to make sure that Suhalya's body was cut down. It didn't make it any less of a miracle-the idea of Izzy being that sensitive and perceptive was almost as absurd as the idea of Izzy-the-Omnipotent-Angel.

"We'll make sure she gets buried," Izzy promised him now, his voice quiet in his certainty.

There was no time to stop to pay his respects.

They were barely out of range when the first of the American bombs began to fall. Through the haze of pain, Jenk heard Izzy singing. "And the rockets' red glare! The bombs bursting in air..."

He sounded practically gleeful-more like the Izzy Jenk had thought he'd known and kept his careful distance from after hours. The Izzy that no one really called friend, but everyone wanted by their side when out on an op.

They paused on the mountain trail as the insurgents' ammo dump took a direct hit. The explosion was massive-all those weapons and ammunition and dynamite going up in smoke.

Weapons that would not be used to kill Americans-or innocent people like Suhayla, who had only wanted to live and work in her own country, free from oppression, free from fear.

As they started back up the trail, heading for the team's extraction point, Jenk knew that Izzy had been right.

It didn't help. As far as Suhalya was concerned, it was too little, too late.

But it sure as hell didn't hurt.

CHAPTER.

ONE.

TWO MONTHS LATER.

SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA.