Carr's Purple Hearts could not be denied him because the wounds alone were proof enough. All told, he received four of them, counting injuries received in other battles. Then there had been talk of awarding him a Bronze Star, but the date of this document was long after the fact of Carr's miraculous actions in the field. And the Bronze Star-while certainly prestigious-didn't come close to recognizing what the man had done, Knox felt. The Bronze was a bit of a hybrid in Knox's mind. It could be given out for bravery in battle with a Valor device attached, but also for acts of merit or meritorious service. The Silver Star, Distinguished Service Cross, and Medal of Honor, the acknowledged triumvirate of recognition for the fighting soldier, were for bravery and heroism in combat, pure and simple.

He finally found a sheaf of documents showing that Carr's immediate superior had recommended Stone for the Medal of Honor. The man had filled out all the requisite documents and assembled all the required proofs and eyewitness accounts. He'd then sent it up the chain of command. The date on the documents showed it to be shortly after Carr's actions in the field, long before the documents talking about awarding him the Bronze Star. What the hell was going on?

And nothing had happened. It apparently had stalled out at that point. Knox could find no other documents that touched on it. But why? It was a perfect story. The man was a hero. Instead Carr had disappeared from the ranks shortly thereafter. Knox thought he knew why. That's when he'd been enlisted by the CIA for its Triple Six Division. The spooks, Knox was aware, often trolled for their assassins in the ranks of the military's best.

He put the documents back in the box. And that's when he noticed it. Two pieces of paper stapled together that had slid down in between the interior flap of the box and the exterior cardboard wall. Knox almost didn't read it, so disgusted was he at the military's injustice to a man who should have been one of the most legendary recipients of its highest award.

But Knox did reach for the papers.

It was an order, a simple one. It shut off any further consideration of John Carr receiving the Medal of Honor or any other commendation. As Knox read through the document it was filled with official mumbo jumbo about unreliable evidence and inconsistent eyewitness accounts and conflicting background documentation. It made no sense at all until Knox's gaze reached the signature line where the name of the officer appeared.

Major Macklin D. Hayes.

KNOX SLOWLY DROVE his Range Rover into the garage of his town house. Before he hit the button on his remote to close the door, he scanned the street in his rearview mirror. They were out there, he was pretty sure, watching him. Hayes typically covered all the bases.

The former general trusts me about as much as I trust him.

There might come a time when Knox would have to give those boys the slip, and when and if the time came, he hoped he was up for the challenge.

It might seem bizarre to ordinary citizens that a government agent like Knox would be nearly as fearful of his employer as he was his quarry. Yet Knox was only called in when things had gone to hell and people were already pointing fingers at each other and essentially building their "blame" strategies. He sometimes compared his job to that of an internal affairs officer in a police department. No matter what you did, someone was going to be pissed at you. And being pissed off and taking somebody's life as payback did not require a great leap of thought. Sometimes, it simply needed a walk across the street, a decisive trigger pull and a good cover strategy.

And from what Knox had learned about John Carr's military past, Hayes was definitely playing his own agenda on this one. He had clearly lied to Knox already. He'd commented on what an honor it would have been to command a killing machine like Carr. Well, the man had commanded him. In his murderous prime. And denied him the honor that was surely his. What had Carr done to tick the man off? Hayes was known to hold grudges for decades, and it seemed like that reputation was proving true here.

Knox had spent several more hours in the records room trying to find an answer to that question, but had come away with nothing more than speculation.

The dark thoughts going through his mind right now were nearly as numbing as what he'd experienced in his last nights in a Vietnam jungle before his country had called it a war and gone home. Knox's battalion had been one of the last to be sent to Southeast Asia. He'd been there all of eleven months and it had felt like eleven years. When he'd gotten back with a piece of shrapnel in his left thigh and a truck load of recurring nightmares as reminders of his time there, he'd decided that war was not a particularly smart way to decide global issues, especially when politicians rather than the grunts on the ground were calling the shots. That's when he'd worked his way to the Defense Intelligence Agency and from there to the civilian side and CIA.

Now his official home was a specialized piece of that agency that John Q. Public had never heard of and never would. He had two sets of creds: one for the public that showed him to be with Homeland Security and was suitably intimidating; and another set that he showed only to certain fellow federal agents. That evidenced his association with OSM, the Office of Special Matters. It was made up of personnel from five of the major intelligence agencies, though it was controlled by a handful of folks at Langley. "Office of Special Matters" sounded a little hokey, Knox thought, but what they did was far from it. Knox had been up to his ass in "special matters" for years, often handling six crises of international meltdown range at once.

In fact he'd been involved in every major op OSM had been handed over the last decade, including some paramilitary action that had gotten him back into the field with a gun and lives to take care of, and others simply to take. He'd narrowly avoided the "WMDs that never were" fiasco and then had spent six years in the Middle East doing things he would never write down and had done his best to forget about since.

He'd been thousands of miles away when his wife had died from a brain hemorrhage. He got back just in time for the funeral to say a hurried, mumbled good-bye to his life partner, the only woman he'd ever loved. To this day he felt like he had cheated her.

Twenty-four hours after burying her, he was back in Iraq trying to figure out where the next suicide blast was coming from and paying yesterday's enemies with good American cash so they'd kill extremists instead of U.S. troops. When the money eventually ran out Knox knew he didn't want to be within five time zones of the place. Then he'd gone back to his safe room in the Green Zone and wept for the love of his life in the privacy of his own nightmares.

It had been more than a challenge and in the last year Knox had seriously contemplated retirement after talking his way out of the Middle East where no Muslim trusted anyone with light skin who held a firm belief in the supreme holiness of the Lord Jesus Christ. He'd pulled enough time. He could go out on his terms. He was actually on a short sabbatical when Hayes had called. And now look at him. And the same old question had raised its ugly head once more:

Will the sun come up for me tomorrow?

He walked into his kitchen, tossed his keys on the counter, opened the fridge and popped a beer. He sat down in his small study and considered what he did and didn't know, the latter unfortunately being far more voluminous than the former. He slipped the pages from his pocket. He'd taken the two-page order with Macklin Hayes' signature on it. It was probably a felony stealing government property but Knox really didn't care at this point. He looked at the precise signature of the man.