It was Lieutenant Colonel Harold "Buzz" Gordon himself, a member of one of the first Ghost teams and now a legend, who had rescued Ramirez from the world of simulated wood grain and stress balls. While some called Gordon "the old man," Ramirez was more fond of "O-G," not for "Original Gangsta" but for "Original Ghost." Lieutenant Colonel Gordon, the O-G, was a man of impeccable taste and unparalleled foresight, in Ramirez's humble opinion.

And Ramirez felt certain that Captain Mitchell had picked him for this mission because of Gordon's recommendation and because of his Ranger experiences in the region. Ramirez was intimately familiar with the people and the terrain. While his Dari and Pushtan weren't bad--never as good as Diaz's--his Arabic was pretty impressive. He even knew a little slang that could incite some folks.

He glanced over at Marcus Brown, who, despite being a burly African-American rising some six feet four inches, appeared lean and white, his face half obscured by his breath.

Seeing how intense Brown was made Ramirez want to lower his weapon and start unzipping his fly--but he thought better of trying to get a laugh now. Sometimes he took the humor too far.

The captain stole his way toward them, then hunkered down behind Ramirez as Diaz, with her mild Texas accent, cut in over the radio, "Ghost Lead. I'm in my secondary. Good to go. Waiting for you."

They were seconds away from initiating the raid, and in his mind's eye, Ramirez went over the interior of the house one more time.

The structure was rectangular, single-story, just a thousand square feet if that. The door was positioned on the left side, forcing them to move deep into the house, past a partitioning wall to get to their package.

Two of the four Taliban were lying in the forward room, near the fireplace, while the other two were in back, in the colder part of the house with the hostages.

This complicated things. They couldn't ram through the door, shoot the first two guys, and hope the guys in the back wouldn't kill the friendlies.

They had to get into the house quietly, dematerializing and walking through the walls, then returning to normal inside.

Damn, it'd be nice to have that power.

Instead it was up to Ramirez to kneel down, fish out his tool pouch, and begin picking the lock.

And no, the door was not unlocked. He always checked that first.

"Ghost Lead, this is Diaz. I got one coming out of the back house. He's stopping, lighting up a cigarette."

In five seconds that guy could round the corner and spot them. Ramirez almost had the lock.

"Diaz, can you take him out?" asked the captain.

"It's not clean. He's in a bad spot. And he seems a little weird now, might be getting ready to look for his buddy. I don't have a shot. No shot."

"Brown, go get him," ordered the captain.