That bought him the impatient little “don’t be an idiot” look he’d had such a hard time getting used to but had learned not to take personally. “All evidence points to it. We fired the first shot. We went in hot when we should’ve tried to negotiate at the diner. And then we shot it, its host, and its host’s… whatever they were to each other.”

Young focused on his coffee, knowing it was useless to argue. They hadn’t known better. Still didn’t, really. They’d needed time to evaluate what evidence they had, time they hadn’t had before. So they’d gone with the worst-case scenario, because that’s what you did when dealing with a completely unknown potential threat. They weren’t diplomats. They were soldiers. Their first directive would always be to defend and protect their country and its people. Sometimes, that meant striking first and asking questions later. Sometimes, mistakes were made. Sometimes, you suspected mistakes might’ve been made, but couldn’t tell for sure.

“You’ll get your orders tomorrow,” he told her for lack of something more comforting to say. “I want you and Cabrera there to help pick the core team.” He hesitated for a moment, then reached into the inside pocket of his dress uniform and pulled out a piece of paper. “My personal number,” he explained as he handed it over. “The line is secure. Keep me posted, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir,” Butler muttered as she slipped the paper into her own uniform pocket. “I will.”

It was going to be fun to work with that one, he could already tell. For some reason, Young found he was looking forward to it. “You’re in this for

the long haul now,” he warned as they stood and watched the sun come up over the Washington Monument. “Life’s gonna get interesting from here on.”

And maybe he was thinking about a cowboy and a hit man facing down death when he said that and maybe he was thinking about their interlaced fingers, one hand bloody and the other covered in metal. Maybe Lee Butler was thinking about the same thing when she lifted her coffee cup toward the Three Soldiers in a quiet salute and said,

“Bring it.”

EPILOGUE

IT WAS a beautiful day in Fairview, New Jersey. Not too warm, not too chilly. Blue sky and green grass, the smell of warm earth and exhaust fumes in the air. Perfect funeral weather, as it happened. Vasiliy would’ve hated it.

He’d been the type of man who’d expected the heavens to cry when he was lowered into the ground, who’d have wanted rain and gloom and a sobbing, miserable crowd. He would’ve appreciated his widow’s performance, though. It was top-notch.