"No, but come on, bro, you know my parents. Dad wanted me to be a rocket scientist. And they're both still mad about the whole college thing. But I have my own life now."

"And the army's that much better? You never thought about quitting?"

Smith shrugged. There had been a time, near the end of his fourth year as an infantryman. The service hadn't been as glamorous or challenging as he'd thought. He'd spent the better part of his life outdoors, hunting and fishing. He was a bushman at heart, and a lot of guys from the city used to say he had a sixth sense. They always put him on point, like a bloodhound. And that was great, but he'd grown bored.

"There was a time when I wasn't going to re-up," he told Hernando. "But then I met this Special Forces officer, and things changed."

"He gave you the sales pitch."

"No, he just came in to do some combatives and martial arts training. The guy was amazing. He told it like it was, and to this day I still remember his training philosophy."

"Which was?"

"Well, he thought the mental advantage was just as important as firepower. He told us our training should always be mission-specific. It had to be short, and it shouldn't require us to be flexible like gymnasts. And even though he was shorter and lighter, he dropped me like a bad transmission every time. He was the most professional soldier I'd ever met."

"No kidding. You never told me this story. I thought you just did it. But I was right. He convinced you to re-up."

Smith nodded. "After working with me, he said I was Special Forces material. What he didn't tell me was how the Q-Course would kick my ass, especially Robin Sage at the end. I thought I would die out there."

"What was the guy's name?"

"Captain Scott Mitchell." Smith's cell phone began to ring. He set down his next bale of hay and checked the screen. "Sorry, buddy, I need to take this."

7-ELEVEN CONVENIENCE STORE
DETROIT, MICHIGAN
APRIL 2012

Deciding to pick up a newspaper and a cup of coffee, Master Sergeant Matt Beasley, proudly sporting his dark blue Pistons jacket, climbed off his Harley Sportster and started across the rain-slick pavement.

It had been two years since he'd visited the old neighborhood, and he remembered hanging out at this very store, keeping tabs on the motley crew of characters with nicknames like Old Man Freddy, Busted Head Bob, and Wayne the Wimp.