When Sanusi rose from his seat, every man and woman in the room bowed—not only his men, but the Republican Guards captured there as well. He exited the communications facility and stepped outside into the growing dawn, Sidi Salih, on the foothills of the Tarhuna Mountains of northwest Libya, was on a slight rise, so Muhammad as-Sanusi could see north past the wide expanse of desert all the way into Tripoli. The Tripoli International Airport, closed during the conflict, was slightly to the west; but the city itself, and even the Mediterranean Sea, could clearly be seen. It was a beautiful, awe-inspiring sight. He was about to put on his helmet, but he changed his mind, unwrapped the turban from the helmet, then wrapped it around his head. He had had enough of fighting.

But there was a sight even more beautiful than the sunrise over Al-Khums to the east or the view of the ancient city of Tripoli on the Mediterranean—the sight of thousands of cars, trucks, bicycles, and buses roaring south down the highway toward Sidi Salih. At first he thought it might be the Republican Guards; but before long he noticed that none of the flags he saw were the Socialist Arab Republic flags or Zuwayy’s bastardized imperial flag, but the old imperial flags with his family crest on them. Those flags had been outlawed since the revolution.

Muhammad Sanusi climbed into his desert vehicle and took his place in the gunner’s seat in the back—but then he unbolted the big twenty-three-millimeter machine gun from its pedestal and threw it to the ground. His driver then took him to meet his people so they could welcome him back to his capital, his country—and his true home.

EPILOGUE

OFF THE COAST NEAR SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA
 SEVERAL DAYS LATER

Even young Bradley realized right away that it wasn’t just another boat ride with his “uncles” Hal, Chris, and Dave. They had no fishing poles, no scuba gear—just the strange aluminum urn.

“Mommy is really dead, Daddy?” Bradley asked.

“Yes, son,” Patrick replied.

He touched the urn. “Is she in there?” A lump formed in Patrick’s throat—he couldn’t answer. “Those are Mommy’s ashes, aren’t they?” Patrick looked at the deck of the boat— how in hell do you answer something like that? “I remember in Star Wars, when Qui-Gon Jinn was killed by Darth Maul, they put him in a fire and prayed for him. Is that what we did with Mommy?”

The tears burst forth, despite every effort Patrick made to be strong. Through tear-streaked eyes, he looked at his son. “Is ... is that okay, son?”

“I... guess so.” He started to cry, and it tore into Patrick’s heart like a sword.