Gerhardt Krieger used to say a lot of things: “Never burn a bridge.” “Never trust a man with a mustache.” “Lips that touch liquor shall never touch mine.” “Clean your fuckin’ rifle, boy.” His grandfather had been a gem, the multimillionaire inventor of the Krieger Strip. “God gave me the idea while I sitting on the can,” he liked to say. “I guess he knew he couldn’t trust me with much, but it was a good one.” The Krieger Strip was about as simple an idea as a person could come up with, except no one ever had: aluminum trim to protect the edge of a car door. It was enough to make the Krieger family rich for generations. “Because Detroit produces a lot of cars with doors on them,” his grandfather said.

Krieger’s father, the Colonel, had been an entrepreneur, too. He invented a synthetic shoe sole that was lighter and lasted longer than Vibram. Madison Avenue hated the material, but the US Army loved it and the Krieger Boot Company further compounded the family’s considerable wealth. “Because,” as the Colonel said, “the Army produces a lot of soldiers with two feet.”

Krieger was not invited to work for either of his family’s businesses. It was a family rule, started by his puritanical grandfather and passed down: Kriegers accept no charity. You make your own way or you get nothing. After the Academy and the Marines, Krieger’s first invention was Raptor Systems, a privatized army to fill the gap between what Washington politicians promise and what they do. Raptor Systems had been an extraordinary success. “Because,” as Krieger liked to say, “Washington produces a lot of politicians with two moving lips.”

Then came Iraq.

“I said, beautiful ship you have here, Terry . . .” Tighe held up a cigar. “You mind?”

“You’re my guest,” Krieger said.

Mapes returned with a silver pot on a tray and poured Tighe’s coffee. Krieger watched, expressionless, as Tighe cut his cigar.

“Here you are.” Tighe dropped his cigar cap into Mapes’s open palm. She accepted it, but glanced at Krieger deliberately. Krieger smiled, knowing what she could do to Tighe with that open palm.

“Let’s get down to business, shall we, Admiral?”

Tighe chuckled and considered his cigar. “This is just a passex, Terry. A courtesy call out of respect for all you’ve done for the services.”

Krieger caught the condescension in Tighe’s voice. It was brass like Tighe who’d torpedoed Raptor Systems. Raptor Systems had gone in when the US military wouldn’t, protected Americans when the government couldn’t, given diplomatic cover to their military and military cover to their diplomats, and had gotten them out alive. Not some of them out. All of them. Not a single American client was lost on Raptor Systems’ watch.