“This is me,” she said with a sigh when they reached it, suddenly hating the sight of the place.

He lifted a hand as though he wanted to touch her face again, then dropped it. A muscle flexed in his jaw. “I’ll talk to you tonight if I can. You take care of yourself.”

“I will. You too.” It scared her that his job was so dangerous, but it was part of who he was and she accepted that because it was also part of the reason she loved him. She still worried like crazy about him though.

His eyes swept over her face in an almost physical caress, as though he was drinking in the sight of her, trying to memorize it. “Bye, sweet pea.”

Oh God, she loved the way he said that, so intimate and filled with adoration. Liam was finally hers and it was the most thrilling feeling in the world. “Bye.”

Watching his retreating figure until he turned the corner and out of sight, Honor ran her tongue across her lips, still tasting him. A bittersweet ache filled her chest but she went back to work with a smile on her face, her feet barely touching the ground for the rest of the day.

Chapter Three

The sound of feet shuffling around in the next room woke Safir. He rubbed a hand over his tired, burning eyes and rolled to his side on the thin pallet, squinting to see in the darkness. Faint light illuminated the edges of the rug hanging in the doorway that served as a partition between the bedroom and the main room in the humble mud brick house he was staying in. The murmur of distant voices reached him, the men gathered to pray outside.

He pushed himself up and tugged on his cleanest tunic before rising and entering the main room. An elderly woman scrambled up from her position of prayer, modestly covering her face with her scarf and averting her eyes.

Safir walked out into the cool morning air and joined the others for their dawn prayer. He was exhausted from his long journey from Karachi to back here in the mountainous tribal region, a journey made even more perilous by all the intelligence agencies hunting him and the large bounty on his head.

His mentor, Rahim, had been dead for two months and Safir was taking no chances with his own safety. As it turned out, Rahim’s most trusted man, named Jihad of all things, had been an American spy.

To this day no one knew how far the American treachery had extended into their network. After the betrayal had come to light Rahim had cleaned out their ranks. Since his death Safir had continued to cull anyone who might pose a risk to him and their future operations. His life’s purpose now was to continue the fight his mentor had begun.

He tried to clear his mind as he prayed but found he couldn’t concentrate. Though he loved his religion, he was not as devout as Rahim had been. Perhaps because he’d been educated abroad in the UK before returning home to Pakistan.

He struggled with the notion that he should be more strict and literal in his interpretation of the holy Quran. But Allah was all-powerful and knew the truth of what lay in his heart: a fierce and righteous determination to wage war against the West, both here and on their shores. He hated the western powers for occupying Muslim land, for killing innocent Muslims and having the gall to call them terrorists.

The U.S. and British intelligence services had ruined his life by branding him a terrorist, then taking away his passport and forbidding him to return to the U.K. Now he would get his revenge.

Perhaps he wasn’t the experienced and devout leader his men expected or even wanted. But what he lacked in religious zeal and field experience he made up for in brain power and cunning. In university he’d been captain of his chess team. Strategy was his area of expertise, among other technological tricks he could use to his advantage. This fight was about to take on a slick, more sophisticated edge and his extensive network of resources to draw from was a huge tactical advantage.

The next battle in the newest chapter of this war would take place later today on his command. Waged not by men, but by computers and the power of social media. In a few days he’d have more money, weapons and manpower to continue strategic strikes both here and abroad.

Qasim, his best friend, a British-born Muslim who had also been stripped of his citizenship after MI6 put him on the terrorism watch list, walked toward him. “Did you hear back from Omar yet?” he asked in a low voice, speaking English so the others couldn’t understand.

“This morning. He’s in.”

Qasim grinned. “That’s good news.”

“Very good.” They’d all met while attending Cambridge a few years ago, and shared the same political and religious views. Omar worked for Boeing in the Seattle area. His placement within the company and his location were nothing short of ideal for Safir’s purposes. “I’ve never met a more talented hacker in my life.”

“Think we can trust him with something like this? It’s hard to control him from this far away.”

Safir snorted. “You’re underestimating the draw of the five hundred thousand dollars we offered him.”

“I just hope he’s as reliable as we think he is,” Qasim muttered.

Safir slapped him on the back once. “He is.”

He waited for the men to gather their prayer mats before approaching Behzad. Nearly all the men were older than his twenty-four years and he was careful to treat them with the respect due to his elders, even though there was no question that he was in command. Behzad was a local farmer and his host for the duration of his stay here, a man in his mid-fifties who could barely read or write. He was still one of the wisest, kindest and purest men Safir had ever known.

“Has there been any news since we last spoke, Uncle?” Safir asked him.

The man’s time-worn eyes warmed a fraction at the respectful way Safir addressed him. “I have heard from one of the neighboring villages that one of your followers may have found someone on the inside to help us.”

Safir’s interest sharpened. “That is welcome news.” One of the reasons Rahim had been so effective and deadly was because he’d been born and raised among the enemy in the U.S. He’d looked like one of them. Talked like one of them. Had been trained by their military. He’d understood how they thought, how they operated. To know they might possibly have found an insider willing to trade information and help them perpetrate the attack he was planning—for something as simple as money—sent a flare of excitement through Safir’s veins.

“I was told your man will report back to you later this evening.”

Safir nodded and set a hand on the man’s sturdy shoulder. Stiff with arthritis but wiry and strong due to a life of working this harsh land to provide for himself and his family. Few westerners could ever relate to such an existence, not even the farmers in the Midwest, but the Pashtuns were as much a part of these mountains as the land itself.

No amount of bombs would take their homeland from them, and the Americans and their allies had lost the will to stay here. More and more foreign soldiers left every week. It was only a matter of time before they were all gone and in the meantime Safir planned to take advantage of their weaker numbers.

“I will return tonight with more good news, God willing,” Safir told him, sharing a smile.

Behzad nodded, his smile fading. “My wife and I will say a special prayer for you. We grow weary of their aircraft hunting in these mountains. Our people have buried too many of their family members this past year.”

“I know you have.” American drones, bombers and gunships had indiscriminately wiped out so many innocent lives in their quest to hunt the so-called “insurgents”. It only enraged the local people and strengthened their resolve to fight to the end.

And the end was near, at least for the West.