"Listen to me, bro. They'll come in here tomorrow, and they'll ask you a million questions. And can you do me a favor?"

"What?"

"Just don't be a wise guy. Answer the questions. The people I work for are not very patient."

"Who do you work for?"

"Those very impatient people."

Rutang rolled his eyes. "I won't embarrass you. And there is something I need to tell them. It's small, but you never know. When the captain's team got close to the arms dealers, they got out the big ear and eavesdropped on a conversation. They heard 'em say 'Pouncing Dragon' a couple of times."

"Well, that's something. Probably the code name for their operation. Maybe the intel people can trace it."

"I hope so. We died out there trying to stop those bastards."

"Your guys didn't die in vain--thanks to you."

"I ain't no hero, Scott."

"God, I hope not. You'd give us all a bad name."

Rutang shook his head. "Your cheering-up skills? You should work on those."

Mitchell smiled. "You work on getting better."

FOURTEEN

FOURTEEN

MITCHELL RESIDENCE
FIFTH AVENUE
YOUNGSTOWN, OHIO
OCTOBER 2011

Mitchell parked the rental car outside the old house, making sure he was at least six feet ahead of the mailbox. Then he got out and opened the trunk to fetch his duffel bag.

Dad's blood pressure would rise because Mitchell had rented a foreign car instead of a GM. Dad had spent thirty years at the General Motors Assembly Plant in Lordstown, working his way up to foreman. He had taught Mitchell his fierce sense of loyalty to people, products, and ideas.

But Mitchell had a coupon, and he was decidedly more loyal to his own wallet. While Ghosts did receive bonuses and special allowances for clothing and food, keeping the world safe from terror and destruction still paid less than 60K a year. Sure, he had few expenses and a nice nest egg and retirement, but being frugal in an unstable economy was just plain smart.

However, none of those arguments would work on Dad.

Mitchell shut the trunk and checked his watch: 16:30 hours. He was thirty minutes past his ETA. Blame it on the airline. He drew in a long breath through his nose. Clean air. It was good to be home.

He had made a quick stop back in '09 for the holidays, feeling good about seeing everyone and about his work in Eritrea, and then there had been Cuba in the following year, with missions against those narco-terrorist Colombians. Mitchell had earned himself yet another Silver Star and had chosen to remain a Ghost Team leader, despite being slated for promotion and the promise of more pay. He'd forgo the money and remain behind a weapon instead of a computer. And when it was time to step off the battlefield, he'd return to Fort Bragg to become an instructor. He'd already done a few stints of that, was scheduled to instruct again, and enjoyed paying it forward.