At least my sea-bag had arrived, which was good. I had to rummage through the baggage cart to find my Dress Blues—if they’d gone missing, they were a bitch to replace.

I strode toward the exit, stopping at the helpfully named information desk, only to find that the car that should have been waiting for me was nowhere to be seen and no one knew fuck-all about it. The US Army clerk couldn’t have cared less, shrugging when I asked him how the fuck I was supposed to get to Kabul. Fucking ground-pounder.

In the end, I caught a ride with a Lieutenant Colonel from the 10th Mountain Division, who bored me to death for 35 minutes about being in Eye-raq for the first Gulf War. At least his transport was an armored air-conditioned SUV.

As we got closer to the city, we were passed several times by kids on motorcycles, customized with carpet over the saddles—the Afghan version of pimp-my-ride. At least something here made me smile.

Because I was working for military spooks, I was billeted next to the Embassy. The colonel raised his eyebrows as he dropped me off, but didn’t ask any questions—not that I would have answered him anyway.

A bored-looking private checked my ID and waved me through security. It was checked again before I was let through the steel and concrete barrier and into the main compound.

For guys who were arriving solo like me, the Embassy’s other role was liaison. I needed to contact my chain of command to schedule the deployment briefs.

I waited while my name was passed up, and helped myself to a cup of water from the dispenser. It was chilled. Nice.

“Hunter, I’m John Nash. Welcome to Kabul.”

A tall thin guy in the uniform of a Captain of Marines stood in front of me. I slammed a salute and then followed him up the stairs.

His office was a tiny room, crammed with filing cabinets and a bank of computer screens. He made sure I sat facing away from them.

“Your last CO thinks you’re a waste of fucking oxygen, Hunter.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your present CO thinks you’re redeemable.”

“Good to know, sir.”

I thought I saw a hint of a smile, but since I couldn’t be sure, I stayed standing at attention.

“Take a seat.”

I sat down and tried to look intelligent.

“How’s your Pashto?”

“Rusty, sir.”

“You’ve got eight hours to get it shipshape. The UN is hosting a function tonight for local military, Press, and important Afghan government officials. I want you there, ears to the ground. See what you can pick up, but don’t let it be known you speak the language. You’ll meet your team leader, Ryan Grant, and he’ll go over the fine print. Fact is we want Gal Agha. We need him on our side. We’ve already made him our offer, but he wants to meet face-to-face. Find him, talk to him, impress the fuck out of him, and Helmand will be one degree safer for ISAF forces. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Helmand is the most kinetic province in Afghanistan.”

I kept a straight face. ‘Kinetic’ just meant more shooting.

“Here’s the file—everything you need to know on Gal Agha. Read it, memorize it, fucking inhale it, if you have to. Learn it, so that it’s in your gut and you’re ready to shit facts. Be at UN HQ at 1900 tonight—a driver has been requisitioned for you. Your billet is down the hall, third door on the left. And you’ll be deploying with Grant at oh-five-hundred tomorrow. This isn’t fucking Cuckoo-clock land, and you’re not on the block now. Any questions?”

“No, sir.”

I saluted, scooped up the file, along with my sea-bag, weapon and the rest of my shit, and situated myself in my billet to read. I was hot, sweaty and longing for a shower, but I had a file to memorize first.

I stretched out on the cot, wondering where Caro was right now. Fuck, if I hadn’t screwed up her papers, chances were that she’d have been at the UN event tonight. It would be fucking ironic if I’d cockblocked myself. No, I had to stop thinking about that shit. I had a job to do.

Stay safe, Caro. For fuck’s sake, stay safe.

Two hours later, I’d read and absorbed as much as I could. I closed the file, deciding I’d test myself later, and stretched out on the cot, setting my phone to wake me at six. Fuck, I was tired.

I woke up bleary-eyed and short-tempered. Being here brought back some of the nightmares. Anyone who’d served had them. We all saw shit that never left our brains. Caro had nightmares. She wouldn’t tell me what they were about, but I could guess. I hoped I was wrong—I didn’t want that for her.

I shook it off, did some stretches and crunches to get the blood flowing, then staggered off to find somewhere to shower. I ran my hand over my light stubble. Yep, definitely needed a shave. That was one thing I hated about being a Marine: it got old having to shave every day—some days I just wanted to let the scruff build up and grow my hair longer than a quarter of an inch. One day, when I was out, when I had a home with Caro. Maybe only two years from now. Being back in theater, it felt more like an impossible dream than ever. My stomach turned over and I hoped like fuck that she wouldn’t change her mind now that we were apart again.

I showered quickly, scraped a razor across my chin, cheeks and upper lip, then pulled on the Blues. The standing collar always rubbed. Bastard. The coat was midnight blue with red trim and a white web belt with my rank of Warrant Officer denoted by the gold waist plate. The pants were sky blue, worn with black socks and black dress shoes. White barracks cover and white gloves finished my outfit. I pinned my medals on the left chest of my coat; it was the only time I ever looked at them.

But I was proud of my uniform, I’d earned it, but yeah—it wasn’t the most comfortable thing to wear, especially in the Afghan heat.

My driver was a Lance Corporal who looked about 15 but must have been in his early twenties, and drove the armored SUV like he’d graduated from NASCAR instead of boot camp.

I half-listened to a monologue about the highlights of his tour and stared out the window. There were more men dressed in Western clothes on the streets than I remembered. The women still looked the same, all covered by flowing blue burqas, their faces and figures hidden as they haggled at the markets. Barefoot kids tried to earn a few bucks washing cars or selling whatever crap they could get their hands on.

There were a lot more Mercedes than there used to be. It’s like that here—Rolexes on guys whose fathers herd goats. It was heart-warming to see all those aid dollars being put to good to use.

Kabul was more prosperous, but that only highlighted the signs of war: bomb-blasted buildings, walls with bullet holes, and burned out patches where cars had been turned into bombs.

My driver skidded to a halt in a cloud of yellow dust and grit outside the Intercontinental, Kabul’s premier hotel for Westerners; an ugly building of white blocks that looked like something out of the Soviet era.

The kid said he’d be waiting for me, and went off to hunt down some chow. A uniformed doorman held the door, looking for all the world like he could be outside the Four Seasons and not in one of the most dangerous cities on earth.

I was directed to the ballroom where the dinner was being held. I kept an eye open for any Marine Captain—chances were he’d be my new skipper.

It quickly became apparent that I was the lowest ranking person around; everyone else was a commissioned officer. No skin off my back, but it sure reminded me of my place in the food chain.

A splash of bright green caught my eye. It was unusual to see that color in a Muslim country because green was supposed to be Mohammed’s favorite color and mentioned in the Qur’an. I cursed under my breath when I realized I recognized the woman. Shit, a ghost of past fucks: Natalie Arnaud. I dodged behind a pillar and wondered if I’d manage to avoid her for the entire evening. Smart money said no.