The two had had many similar discussions. Moreno had long ago accepted that Abayon had a much larger vision than he did. Moreno had always been the practical one, while Abayon was the great thinker. They had made a formidable team over the years, surviving despite large bounties being put on their heads. They'd also survived several attempted coups by younger members of the Abu Sayef.

It bothered Moreno at times that his old friend did not simply concern himself with their goal of an independent Muslim state among the islands surrounding Jolo. Abayon's vision had always extended far beyond the borders of the Philippines and beyond the stretch of the immediate future.

"You are ready?" Abayon asked.

Moreno nodded even though the question was mainly rhetorical.

"The last repairs were completed three days ago. I would have liked to do a practice cruise, but it is too dangerous."

He smiled.

"Let us hope everything works, or I might submerge and never come back up."

"You will come back up, my old friend. And when you do, our enemies will howl from the pain you will inflict."

Abayon lifted his hand, gesturing for Moreno to come close. When Moreno did so, Abayon half lifted himself out of the wheelchair, wrapping his still strong arms around Moreno.

"You are my secret weapon," Abayon whispered.

"I will never forget you no matter what happens. I will miss you, my friend."

Royce had stopped the Land Rover in the shadows of one of the hangars and watched the Learjet carrying Vaughn take off. He checked his watch impatiently, then nodded as a similar jet came in from the west and landed. He waited until the door opened and a short, stocky man got off, a duffel bag hoisted over one shoulder.

Royce drove the Rover up to the man, who threw the duffel in the back and got in the passenger seat. The two exchanged nods but not a word. Royce drove to the same spot he'd been in and parked. The other man finally spoke as Royce turned off the engine.

"Who are we waiting on?"

"A member of your new team."

Royce pulled a file out of his case and passed it to the other man.

"Fuck," the man muttered as he opened it and saw the black and white photo on top of the military personnel file.

"A woman?"

"She's good, Orson," Royce said.

"Since we're waiting on her," Orson said, "I assume she passed her test."

Royce nodded.

"Six hours ago in Bangkok."

Orson checked the file.

"Captain Layla Tai. Weird name. She a keeper?" Royce turned and looked at Orson.

"That's to be determined."

Orson laughed.

"As always."

A third jet came in for a landing, and Royce turned his attention to it, ignoring Orson. If there was one thing that had impressed him in all the years he'd been working for the Organization – the title he had made up for the unnamed entity that issued him his orders – it was that it never lacked for money or resources.

The plane pulled up to the stairs and the door opened. The woman whose file Orson had been perusing stepped out. She had a white bandage taped to the left side of her forehead and looked disoriented. She was a slender, tall woman with dark hair cut very short. Her eyes had a slight angle to them, indicating Asian genes in her bloodline.

"The test was a little rough?" Orson commented, glancing up from the file as Royce started the truck.

"Looks like," Royce said.

"But she's still breathing and mostly in one piece. She'll do. You bring her in. I have to go to Hawaii on that plane to get support for your team's mission rolling."

Orson frowned as he flipped a couple of pages.

"Captain Tai was Military Intelligence?"

Royce didn't reply, since the answer was on the printed page.

"What's our leverage on her?"

"Her sister. And prisoner abuse in Iraq."

Orson flipped through and read.

"I don't think that's good enough. I don't think she'll be a keeper."

He snapped the file shut as Royce brought the SUV to a halt at the base of the stairs.

Ruiz came out of the jetway into the vast expanse of Hong Kong International Airport. The other passengers on his flight gave him a wide berth as he walked up to two men wearing long black leather coats and sunglasses – despite the temperate climate inside the terminal and the fact that it was night outside. Ruiz had to assume these agents of the government had watched too many western videos and adopted their attire based on those images. It was a problem he saw everywhere he went – the American way of life was corrupting the world in ways most people didn't even notice. On the other hand, he also realized that it was a very nice way of life if one was on top of the pyramid of power.

"Ruiz," one of the men barked, holding up a badge.

"Yes."

"We are your escorts," the man said, snapping the badge shut and sliding it into his pocket.

"Come with us."

"My luggage – " Ruiz began, but the men got on either side of him and by sheer momentum began moving him.

"It will be taken care of."

The two moved him along, walking in step. They bypassed customs with a flurry of badge-waving. By the way everyone deferred to the two guards, Ruiz had to assume they were not merely underlings sent to escort him. Perhaps the leather coats and sunglasses were more than just an affectation, he thought as they exited the terminal and the man who had shown the badge gestured for him to get into a waiting limousine.

Ruiz noticed there was someone already in the back as he slid in, trying to let his eyes adjust to the dim lighting inside. The two escorts got in the front, separated from the rear by a thick plate of what Ruiz assumed was bulletproof glass. The limousine moved away from the curb.

"I have been to the holding area," the man in the shadows said.

Ruiz waited.

"It is as you said it would be," the man continued.

"Very impressive."

"Then we are set?" Ruiz said.

The man nodded.

"Yes. I don't suppose you will tell me how your group came into possession of these articles?"

"That is not a story I am authorized to tell," Ruiz said.

"As I informed you earlier, we were not the ones who stole them initially. We appropriated them from the original thieves. And now we are trying to make things right."

"And make money."

"For our trouble, yes."

"Let us hope there will be no trouble."

A limousine was waiting outside the Learjet. Vaughn was dressed in black slacks, black T-shirt, black leather jacket, and in his right hand had a metal case hiding a sniper rifle. All had been waiting inside the plane. He felt overwhelmed, but impressed with the efficiency of Section 8.

He'd thought when he went into Delta Force that he had gone as deep into the world of covert operations as one could go. Now he knew he'd just seen the tip of the iceberg. He – and his teammates – always suspected there was more out there. They'd seen too many things, too much that was unexplained, to accept that they were as deep as it went.

The driver got out of the limo and went around the near side near the foot of the stairs, opened the door and waited, still as a statue. Vaughn went down the stairs and inside. The door slammed shut and they were off.

Vaughn leaned back in the plush comfort of the limo. Between the Learjet and the limousine, there could be no more startling contrast between this and the way he had always gone on missions for Delta Force, via military cargo planes, helicopters, and parachuting.