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“We’re moving out now.”

King consulted his mental map of the area in which his team would execute the raid — an image that had been burned into his brain during the hours spent planning the op — and visualized Parker’s vehicle concealed a hundred meters or so off the main road, about five miles southeast of the objective. “Roger. Radio checks every half hour. King out.”

In his mind’s eye, he saw Parker and the two snipers—‘Dark’ Meyers and ‘Race’ Banion — moving like dots across the terrain map. Their job was to rendezvous with Shin Dae-jung and establish over-watch positions around the compound. King would be leading the main assault force up the single road that connected the compound with the main highway.

He’d felt a twinge of regret at assigning his friend to lead the recon team. He and Parker had been working together for a long time. They were like brothers, and it felt strange to be going into a potentially hairy situation without Parker at his side, especially on a mission like this, where they were practically flying by the seat of their pants. But recon and over-watch was just as important to success as the assault, and there wasn’t anyone he’d rather have watching his back. Besides, it was a foregone conclusion that Parker would be his top NCO in the new team, and this was a chance for his friend to show his abilities as a leader. King had no doubt that Parker was up to the challenge.

He was less certain about his own ability to take the reins of command, especially with the motley group crammed into the Galaxy that now sped along the main highway out of Mandalay, traveling east into the deepening dusk. Zelda Baker — who thanks to their ‘sparring match’ now looked like a supermodel on her way to a domestic violence shelter — was at the wheel, a logical choice given her familiarity with the country and its roads. King sensed that she was secretly pleased by the invitation to join the new team, but it was just as obvious that she didn’t yet trust him. She wasn’t happy to have been handed over to him like a trophy of war.

Behind him, Tremblay chattered away easily, bemoaning the fact that he had been unable to find replacement ammunition for his recently acquired Desert Eagle pistols, and generally throwing out observations about the scenery and one-liners that weren’t nearly as funny as he seemed to believe.

King liked the solid Delta shooter and his ability to shrug off the uncertain and ever-changing circumstances in which they all now found themselves — that kind of adaptability was essential to special ops, but he wondered if Tremblay was bottling up negative emotions deep inside, hiding the grief at having lost two of his teammates behind a façade of humor. He worried about what might happen if and when that bottle finally overflowed.

Still, he preferred Tremblay’s near-constant monologue to the implacable silence of the other three men in the van. He’d served with Casey Bellows for over a year, so he was used to the man’s reserved nature, but he couldn’t say the same for the other two: Travis “Silent Bob” Roberts, Tremblay’s teammate from Alpha team, and Erik Somers.

Somers, in particular, concerned King. Although King had personally witnessed Somers’s extraordinary strength and unwavering dedication in the face of enemy fire, there was something unsettling about the big man. It wasn’t just that he was quiet. Silent Bob was a regular chatterbox next to Somers. There was an intensity to Somers. There was some unspoken passion or rage, smoldering just below the surface, like hot coals under a crust of ash, waiting for a stiff breeze to fan them into a full-blown wildfire.

King had briefly considered assigning Somers the callsign of “Terminator,” but he figured the big guy had probably had his fill of comparisons to ‘Ahnold.’ Instead, he pulled a different iconic name from the well of Hollywood inspiration; Somers was now ‘Eastwood,’ and given his personality, that seemed even more apropos.

It didn’t surprise King at all that Somers hadn’t been selected to a Delta unit. Operators tended to be extroverts by nature, able to kick back over a brew with their teammates after a mission, shedding the stress of combat as easily as dropping their gear. He couldn’t imagine what ‘kicking back’ would look like to Erik Somers.

Parker had recommended Somers, and that counted for a lot, but whether or not the big man found a place on King’s new team would depend on how tonight’s mission went.

I suppose that’s true for all of us, he thought morosely.

They passed through a small town, and King spied a billboard written in several languages, including English, indicating the National Botanical Gardens lay just ahead.

“Almost there,” Zelda announced. “Shin says it’s just a couple miles past Pyin Oo Lwin.”

Tremblay’s face appeared at her shoulder. “What a coincidence; that’s the name of my favorite noodle dish at PF Chang’s. Speaking of which, I’m famished. Is there a Mickey D’s hereabouts?”

Zelda purposefully ignored him, as did King. “All right. Let’s find a good place to park.”

A few minutes later, she pulled the van off road and threaded it into the woods, where it wouldn’t be readily visible from the highway. The trees shut out the last few rays of daylight, plunging them into a world of shadows. They would be making their final approach to the objective on the dirt road, but before they could begin that journey, they had to deal with the gate guard.

King, Bellows and Silent Bob left the van behind and hiked through the woods toward the guard shack. There was no sign of the old man Shin had reported meeting the previous day, but the windows of the small structure glowed with artificial light — probably from a television set. Bellows crept to one of the windows, cautiously peered inside and then used hand signals to relay what he had seen: one man, sitting near the wall, facing east.

Silent Bob nodded, and then, with the stealthy swiftness that had earned him his nickname, he swept through the door. King, half a step behind, glimpsed movement in the dark interior room — the guard reached for his rifle but Silent Bob’s suppressed MP5 coughed twice, and all motion ceased.

King scanned the small room, noting the old television set and a radio transmitter station that looked like little more than an off-the-shelf citizen’s band radio. He decided that was a good sign; the triad, or whoever was running this little operation, evidently didn’t think it warranted more aggressive security measures. He keyed his mic. “Legend, this is King. We have the gate. Move up now.”

Zelda, who had made her displeasure at the callsign he’d chose for her abundantly clear, answered with a terse: “Roger, out.”

King backed through the door and turned to Bellows. “Casey. You’re staying here. Set up an observation post and watch the door.”

Surprise and dismay flickered across his teammate’s face, but Bellows was too much of a professional to protest. Deep down, the man was probably relieved to be sitting on the bench for this raid. They had all used up a lifetime’s worth of luck, but Casey Bellows had a pretty wife and a newborn baby waiting for him back home. Every Delta shooter knew the risks that came with the job, even those with families, but King believed there were already too many kids without fathers in the world, and he didn’t want to be responsible for one more.

Bellows assented with a nod and melted into the woods behind the shack, while King and Silent Bob headed for road where Zelda and others were waiting.

TWENTY-TWO

The compound glowed brightly over the hilltops, or at least appeared to when viewed through night-vision goggles. It had been visible even from the road where they had parked their rented vehicle, but Parker had nonetheless let his Garman GPS guide him rather than relying on the distant source of illumination. The most direct route to their goal — a straight line — would have required them to climb hills and traverse the valleys in between, where the forest cover was thickest and the uneven terrain in between could easily cause injuries that would jeopardize the mission. Instead, they had programmed a more circuitous route into the GPS, one that kept them mostly on the high ground, at the expense of adding a couple of miles to the cross-country trek. The compound was still about five hundred meters away, but according to the GPS, they had reached the last waypoint marker, the place where they were to rendezvous with the forward observer.