Kurt thought, Holy Shit. He was ours.

“BOBCAT was a Kurd we’d recruited in Sulaymaniyah a long time ago, back when we were still in Iraq and still fighting against the Ba’athists and al Qaida. We activated him seven months ago, and he agreed to penetrate into Syria. We knew it was a risk, because he was a Kurd, but there have been several reports about Kurdish recruits, so much so that the Kurdistan administration is beginning to fear a second front, inside its territory. He made it in and began reporting, surprising the hell out of us. I mean, he was really reporting. Quality stuff. He was very good, and our biggest fear was that he’d be caught by a Kurdish PKK, YPG, or some other Peshmerga unit and skinned alive as a traitor. We never saw this coming.”

The secretary of defense said, “And the others? Are they in the picture as well?”

“No. We don’t know who they are. Probably poor saps just caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, or on the outside, reporting for one of the Gulf States or a rival militia. They aren’t ours.”

Kurt said, “You mentioned ‘quality stuff.’ What was he reporting?”

“You know our greatest fear is that a bunch of radicalized citizens come home or go to Europe to wreak havoc. With the FBI in the United States and the CIA’s liaison with European allies, we have a pretty tight handle on who’s gone overseas. Or at least we thought we did. Ninety-nine percent are ‘citizens’ of a country but are one step removed from the Middle East. Like the English rapper who beheaded James Foley. He’s a British citizen officially, but he’s of Egyptian descent and his father was extradited to the United States for the African embassy bombings in ’98. Which is to say, he had a background of terrorism to begin with.

“BOBCAT popped our comfortable bubble on our view of the threat. Six weeks ago he reported on a group called the ‘Lost Boys.’ He didn’t know what they were, only that they existed. It was included with a ton of other reporting from him. Four days ago, he sent an in-extremis message saying they were United States citizens, and they were ‘Americans.’ That was all. We don’t know what he meant, but we think it indicates that they’re not of Arabic descent. They’re pure, dyed-in-the-wool all-Americans. And they might be coming home.”

His words settled in the room like a foul stench and President Warren said, “So, the question is, what do we do about it?”

Secretary of State Billings opened his mouth, and, after the words spilled out, Kurt wondered if he’d forgotten every single Taskforce mission he’d ever been involved with. Or maybe he was just stupid. But then again, Kurt had grown a little biased against the man.

“Can’t the Taskforce get in there? Maybe send them to Damascus to start looking for these guys?”

Kurt waited for someone to describe how stupid that was, then realized it was on his shoulders. He said, “Sir, we are not a green-machine combat force. We operate within the fabric of sovereign nations, taking the fight to the terrorists who use the infrastructure of those nations either wittingly or unwittingly. Clandestinely.”

“Yeah? So what? Wasn’t Pike’s team in Damascus a few years ago?”

Kurt ground his teeth, looking at the president. Warren simply nodded at him to continue, but with a little bit of a glare, meaning, Don’t embarrass him.

“Okay, the ‘so what’ is that, for one, ISIS isn’t in Damascus. President Assad still owns that terrain. Even if we could get a team in—which we can’t now—it would do no good. Secondly, the damn country is a war zone. I don’t know if you’ve been watching the news, but we’re pummeling the shit out of them from the air. The Taskforce operates using plausible covers in otherwise unsuspecting countries. I can’t send a team of supposed agricultural engineers into Syria and expect that cover to last more than five minutes. There are no NGO gringos operating in the countryside. There’s no way to penetrate ISIS with the Taskforce. I mean, are you dumb enough to think they could drive into Raqqa, the heart of the Islamic State, wearing mirrored shades and hauling genetically altered wheat seeds and not expect them to end up on their own video?”

He saw President Warren scowl at the last statement and turned his own glare on the man who’d asked the question.

Billings snapped his head up at the harsh words, glancing toward President Warren for support. He wasn’t getting any. He said, “What about your vaunted walking disaster? Pike Logan? We pulled him back in against my vote, but maybe we can use him here. Surely he could do something. I thought he was Captain America.”

Kurt knew he was being baited. Pike was the best team leader he had, with a supernatural ability to solve problems. Which is to say he killed terrorists with an unbridled skill. He was also a trouble magnet—both on the enemy side and on the side of the Taskforce, causing massive headaches when he went off the reservation, using his own intuition instead of listening to the very council that was supposed to authorize his actions. Because of it, he’d been fired twice, and brought back into the fold each time due to his abilities. At the end of the day, no one could argue with success.

Kurt knew Billings was sick of being on the Oversight Council. Tired of the risk of being exposed for operating outside the law, leaving his long tenure in public service in tatters on the front page of the Washington Post. He was a career diplomat, and the very notion of the Taskforce assaulted his sensibilities. He didn’t like authorizing missions for a normal team, but was petrified of Pike. In his mind, Logan was a loose cannon who was going to cause the downfall of all of them. Pike’s past successes mattered little. Secretly, Kurt believed Billings would rather have a terrorist attack occur than sit on the Council for one second longer.

As much as he wanted to, Kurt didn’t need to get in a fight right now. He chose the better—and honest—answer.

He said, “Yeah, I’m with you. If anyone could do it, it would be Pike’s team. Unfortunately, he’s engaged right now in Africa. As a matter of fact, trying to shut off some Islamic State funding from a corrupt Saudi citizen.”

4

I felt a fingernail stroking my back, right between my shoulder blades, then a whisper. “Wake up, sleepyhead. I have to go. Before one of those early birds comes and knocks on the door.”

Meaning, Before someone finds out I’m here.

We’d been out very late the night before developing a pattern of life on our target, who wasn’t what one would call a pious Muslim, and I figured everyone from the mission was still asleep. The target wouldn’t be doing anything until at least noon.

I rolled over, leaning on an elbow. “Jennifer, I don’t think we’re fooling anyone anymore.”

She said, “Pike, appearances matter. I know they know, but there’s no reason for the team leader to throw it in their faces. I think Knuckles tolerates it, but only because we make an effort to not let it show during operations.”

Knuckles was my second in command, a Navy SEAL who, strangely enough, was a stickler for the military prohibition on fraternization within the chain of command. I think it had something to do with a bad experience in the close quarters of a ship with a male supervisor. Or maybe he was just a stickler. Either way, unfortunately for him, neither Jennifer nor I were in the military, and it was my company. My team. But she had a point.

“So you want to scuttle out of here doing a walk of shame to keep up the appearances of ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’?”

Before she could answer, I heard the door to our room fly open. Like a high schooler hiding from her mother, Jennifer threw the covers over her head. I bunched up the thick bedspread to hide her form, tossed a pillow over her pile of clothes, then turned to rip into the idiotic maid who’d entered.