A resolute look crept onto his face, and Urda said with confidence, "I'm in."

The concrete floor could be seen only in patches, mostly where it was cracked and heaved upward. The rest of the floor was covered with a matted layer of gummy brown dirt. The building was approximately thirty feet wide by eighty feet long with large doors at each end to accommodate vehicles pulling in to drop off and pick up product. In this case the product was opium, both the bane and blessing of the Afghani people. Great wealth was derived from the opium poppy, and with that wealth came tribal rivalries that made the infamous prohibition-era Chicago gangland wars seem infantile. These people didn't simply use machine guns to settle disputes, they used heavy armor, as was evidenced by the Soviet-made main battle tank parked outside.

The warlords who oversaw the growth, production, and distribution of opium were fabulously wealthy, ruthless men who had proven time and time again that they would use whatever force they had at their disposal to settle disputes. And that force was significant. Each had his own militia comprised of seasoned fighters, and almost endless funds to resupply his troops with the best that the former Soviet Union and her satellites had to offer, including guns, artillery, armor, and even helicopters in a few cases.

For now a partnership of sorts had been struck with the Americans. For their part, the warlords had agreed to join forces with the Americans to rout the Taliban and al-Qaeda. In return the Americans were to turn a blind eye to the once again burgeoning opium trade. As always the CIA had been asked to take the lead on making and maintaining this Faustian alliance. Kennedy felt that this arrangement would eventually bite the CIA in the ass, but for now it was the most reasonable course.

Despite the inevitable criticism and probable Congressional investigation that would someday be launched by political opportunists, the alliance had worked. The Taliban had been thrashed in just months, and with minimal loss of American lives, and the country, while still not safe by Western standards, was as secure as it had been in over twenty years.

As Rapp stood in the dark corner of the poorly lit warehouse, he had accepted all of this and more. He eyed the bags of opium stacked to the rafters and briefly wondered how much it was all worth. He quickly decided he didn't want to know the answer. The potential for corruption among government-salaried CIA operatives was enormous. They worked in an alluring world of opium, cash, spies, drug lords, illegal arms shipments, and blackmail. Simply being in this building could cause him problems he didn't need.

Rapp wondered if this was the right place to conduct the interrogation, but he knew he had neither the time nor the resources to do anything else. The job had to be done and done quickly. Immediate results were paramount. Any fallout, he would have to suffer later.

America was at a distinct disadvantage in this war. International aid groups and reporters were keen to jump on any story about Americans committing atrocities, while they were seemingly numb to the day-today horrors perpetrated by the holy warriors on the other side. In the safe and sterile newsrooms, in the marble halls of Congress, it was easy to second-guess decisions and find fault. Out here on the field of battle things were far less certain. Moral ambiguity, rather than clarity, was the norm. What Rapp was about to do would be seen as barbaric by many of the same people whose lives he was trying to save. This was the sad irony of his life-that he would have to kill to save.

At his request the five prisoners were lined up on their knees in the middle of the warehouse. They were still bound and gagged. Rapp asked Urda to tell the two guards to wait outside, then retrieved a pair of earplugs from his black bulletproof tactical vest. He compressed the soft foam and inserted one plug into his left ear. Then he stepped from the shadows.

As he approached the five kneeling men he wondered if any of them would recognize him. During Kennedy's confirmation hearing, Rapp's cover had been blown by a senator who was seeking to derail Kennedy's nomination by exposing Rapp as a freelancing assassin in the employ of the CIA. The president stepped in and let much more be known. For the first time, Rapp's role in several major counterterrorism operations was acknowledged, most notably one that had saved the lives of hundreds, including that of the president himself. The president had dubbed Rapp America's first line of defense in the war on terror, and the press bit hard, publishing and broadcasting countless stories, replete with photographs. The fanatical Muslim clerics in turn dubbed Rapp enemy number one and demanded that he be killed.

As Rapp stepped into the faint light, he could tell by the expression on one of the younger man's faces that he did indeed recognize him. Rapp removed the man's gag and in Arabic told him to tell the others who he was.

The prisoner looked to the ground, afraid to stare into the eyes of the man standing before him. Rapp repeated his order, this time more firmly.

The man vacillated and then after clearing his throat and gaining some courage said,"Malikul Mawt."

Rapp smiled. The man had just told the others that Rapp was the angel of death. "That is right. My name is Azra'il, and today isYaumud Deen." The day of judgment.

Urda had joined him in front of the five captives. Rapp pointed to one of the men and said, "Take his gag off."

Urda did so and then remained standing next to the gray-bearded man.

Having looked forward to this day for some time Rapp studied the grizzled face and said, "Ali Saed al-Houri, I have seen theSijjin and your name is on it." TheSijjin was a scroll where the names of all those who will be sent to Hell are recorded.

The weathered features twisted with defiant rage and let loose a gob of spit. Rapp had expected nothing less and stepped effortlessly out of its way.

"You are a liar," al-Houri yelled in Arabic. "You are not even a true believer. You are nothing more than an assassin."

Rapp shook his head sadly. It was all part of an act he planned for the other four men. The CIA had an extensive file on al-Houri, much of it compiled by the Egyptian secret police back in his days as a member of the Muslim Brotherhood. His faith was unshakable even then, and it was sure to have been strengthened over the years. That meant he would be exceptionally difficult to break, even if Rapp had all the time in the world to work on him.

"I am not a liar," Rapp replied without malice. "Allah does not hold in favor men who kill innocent women and children. Your name is on the list, and I am here to send you to Hell."

Al-Houri laughed in Rapp's face. "The tide is turning. We are about to strike a great blow for Allah, and you will pay dearly."

Rapp dropped to a squat so he could look al-Houri directly in the eye. "I found your little room under the house." Rapp paused to let this little surprise sink in. "Interesting plan...it's too bad it won't work."

The old man smiled. "You cannot stop us. There is not enough time."

Rapp could tell the smile was not false bravado. Out of fear, he almost asked a question, but stopped himself. There was no way the old man would answer it. No matter what Rapp said to al-Houri, his faith and confidence in his chosen path would remain unshaken. This made him dangerous. His conviction would give the others strength. He had to be removed to get the rest to talk.

Rapp stood and slowly walked around behind the prisoners. He approached Urda and whispered something in his ear. Urda nodded and handed over one of his Kimber .45-caliber pistols. Rapp took the heavy and exceptionally loud pistol and stood behind al-Houri who was trying to make eye contact with the other prisoners. With the weapon in his left hand he pulled the hammer back into the cocked position and covered his right ear with his free hand.