Chapters (39)
- Title Page
- Copyright Page
- Acknowledgements
- Epigraph
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
It would all happen in gasps and whispers, fingers of mist pulling triggers and hearts stopping. They would float in and float out with their package, leaving cold, still death in their wake.
That dog in the valley howled again.
Mitchell braced himself. "Ghost Team, attack!"
ELEVEN
ELEVEN
NORTHWEST WAZIRISTAN
AFGHANISTAN-PAKISTAN BORDER
JANUARY 2009
Picking the lock was one thing. Getting the door to swing open quietly was another, and Mitchell flinched as Brown placed his gloved hand on the icy wood and drove the door forward.
Ramirez wore a smirk of confidence, thoroughly convinced that their entry would be smooth and soundless. After picking the lock, he had sprayed the corners of the door with his own custom blend of lubricants that he insisted would seep down, get into the metal, and eliminate what he called those "Haunted-house-Michael-Jackson-'Thriller'-type door squeaks."
The hinges, of course, were located on the inside of the door, so Mitchell remained dubious about the amount of lubricant that had actually reached them from the outside. But lo and behold, the door glided open. However, the cold wind rushed in, a wind they had no control over. The two men lying in small wooden beds on either side of the fireplace stirred, and one lifted his head.
Before Mitchell could fire, Ramirez and Brown put their pistols to work, sending both men back to eternal rest, blood pooling on their pillows.
Mitchell bolted to his feet and moved inside, closing the door behind them.
A voice came from the other room: a guy complaining in Pashto about the door being open.
Mitchell shifted around the partitioning wall toward the voice and took in the scene at once: another two beds, two guys, hostages in the corner. One guy rolling over.
Mitchell directed his own silenced pistol at the first guy and cut loose a round, hammering him in the chest.
Continuing in one fluid motion, he turned to his right and targeted the second guy, who was reaching for the rifle propped beside him. The guy's head twisted as Mitchell shot him.
But now the first guy was moving again. Mitchell rushed up to the bed and finished him with two more rounds. One would have been enough, but his frustration got the best of him. "Clear," he grunted into the radio.
"Who are you?" someone called.
Mitchell stepped around a beat-up dresser, piles of wool blankets, and a half dozen or so crates of ammo to reach the man who had called out to him.
Agent Thomas Saenz, code name Mongoose, was a longtime field operative for the CIA who had spent the past eight years in Afghanistan. With a ruddy complexion, long beard, and matted, shoulder-length hair, Mitchell could barely distinguish him from his Taliban captors. His hands were bound behind his back with a pair of heavy police cuffs.