"With all due respect, I prefer to wait."

"Don't wait too long. There's talk of restructuring, and people like you can advance faster than anyone else who's ever come through the military."

"That's good to know. I'm just not ready to leave the field."

"Neither was I."

"All right, boys, come on down," called a female voice from behind them.

"Yes, dear," answered Keating. He cocked a brow at Mitchell. "On your feet, soldier. Chow time."

MITCHELL RESIDENCE
FIFTH AVENUE
YOUNGSTOWN, OHIO
MAY 2012

Mitchell stood in his father's workshop, breathing in the heavenly scent of sawdust and longing to get back to some of his own woodworking projects. At the same time, though, he couldn't wait to get out of there because Dad had insisted upon showing him his recently finished coffin, which was propped up on a pair of saw-horses, its waxed surfaces gleaming in the light.

Dad lifted the smaller, left-side door. "She's a beauty, eh, Scott? I used both mahogany and cherry. Look at these inlays."

Mitchell shook his head and sighed. "Dad, I think we should talk about this. I mean, are you all right?"

"I feel great."

"You know what I mean. Jenn told me about all those new appointments. One of my men just lost his father."

It was Dad's turn to sigh. Then a thought took hold, and he grinned and wiggled his brows. "Let's just say I wouldn't trade that secret for all the tea in China."

Mitchell stiffened. "That's an interesting choice of words."

"They had a special on CNN last night about all those Chinese big shots who got whacked."

"Here we go again. You think I had something to do with that?"

He shrugged. "I'm just saying I can keep secrets, too, if I want."

"But if you're sick, we have a right to know."

"It ain't the big C word, if that's what you're thinking. C'mon, you're taking me out to lunch."

Mitchell frowned. "You're a stubborn old bastard."

"And this is news?" He threw his arm over Mitchell's shoulder and led him out of the workshop.

THE LIBERATOR SPORTS BAR AND GRILLE
NEAR FORT BRAGG, NORTH CAROLINA
MAY 2012

Major Harry Hogan was a former Special Forces operator from Boston, Massachusetts, who had been running the Liberator for over twenty years. The bar's name was inspired by the Special Forces motto: to liberate the oppressed, but by no small coincidence back in 1831 another Bostonian by the name of William Lloyd Garrison founded an abolitionist newspaper aptly titled the Liberator.

With clusters of plasma TVs suspended from the ceiling and sports and military memorabilia adorning the walls, the place was a requisite hangout for those who fought hard and played even harder. Interestingly enough, near the front doors stood two mannequins in full combat gear and armed with rubber rifles. They often startled newcomers.

Consequently, Mitchell watched with a grin as SEAL Chief Tanner stepped anxiously into the bar and raised his brows at the sentries who never got tired, hungry, or thirsty.