“Don’t they all? Sometimes wives and children die too.”

Moisture beaded the Arab’s upper lip and glistened under the ceiling bulb. Casius felt his own sweat trickle past his right temple. His vision clouded with that familiar black fog and then cleared.

“You yourself are a killer,” Abdullah said. A fleck of spittle stuck to his curled pink lip. “The world seems to be full of monsters. Some of them kill for God. Others drop bombs from ten thousand feet and kill for oil. Both kill women and children. Which kind are you?”

A small voice whispered in his mind. You are the same as he, it said. You are both monsters.

Casius said the name slowly, before he realized he was saying it. He felt a tremor take to his bones, and he fought for control.

When he spoke, he could not stop the anger that tightened his voice. “You, Abdullah Amir, are a monster of the worst kind. How many have you killed in your eight years on this plantation?”

A SMALL warning bell was ringing in the dark, Abdullah thought. Set off by the agent’s last statement. But he could not place it. What he could place was the simple fact that the CIA must now suspect his extracurricular activities. It was why they had sent this reconnaissance. Maybe his brother had talked under this assassin’s knife. Either way, the operation was now in jeopardy.

Jamal’s order had new meaning now.

The dark-haired man reminded him of a warrior, displaced in time, stripped of his clothing for some ungodly reason, still covered in his war paint. They had found only a knife on him. Well, then, he would have this man killed with a blade. Across the neck, perhaps. Then he would have his gut ripped out. Or maybe in the reverse order.

“According to the CIA’s records you put a few people down, coming to this valley,” the man said to Abdullah. “This was once a coffee plantation and there was a mission station nearby—both of which had to go. But it seems that fact bothered the CIA as little as it did you.”

The last statement made Abdullah blink. This agent knew about the CIA’s involvement? And by the flicker of the man’s eye, he obviously did not approve.

“But that’s not my concern,” the assassin said, holding his gaze. “Jamal, on the other hand, is my concern.”

Jamal? This man knew of Jamal! “What is your name?” Abdullah asked again.

“Casius. You know of Jamal.”

Abdullah felt his pulse pound. He did not respond.

“I’m not sure you realize what kind of trouble has just landed on your doorstep, my friend, but trust me—your world is about to change.”

“Perhaps,” Abdullah said evenly. “But if so, then yours as well.”