And yet he couldn’t move now.

Just blurt it out, he thought. And yet that seemed impossible.

The alcohol was just enough to make him a little sloppy; he held Li’s hand awkwardly as they sat at a small wooden table near the edge of the roof, staring at the city spread out before them.

“Great night,” said Li.

“Definitely.”

“It’s still early.”

“The hotel is pretty close.”

“Is it?”

Her smile made it impossible to say anything else. Turk paid the bill and led her to the car, and a half hour later they were in bed. Time had completely disappeared, and conscious thought as well—for Turk there was only her skin and her scent, her hair and the inviting softness of her breasts.

He drifted off, only to wake with a start an hour later. He still hadn’t told her. Li was sleeping peacefully. Turk got up, pacing the hotel room—he had to tell her, but to wake her up?

He didn’t even know what time he had to leave. He turned on his laptop, angry with himself—what a fool, what an absolute idiotic, ridiculous fool. A damn teenager. An imbecilic middle school kid.

As he tapped his password into the screen, he suddenly found himself hoping the mission had been called off. When he didn’t see the e-mail among the first few entries, he nearly yelped with joy: maybe he had a few days reprieve. Even twenty-four hours, even twelve, would suffice.

But there it was, down at the very bottom, between a nudist site link a friend had sent and an advertisement for car insurance.

PLANE LEAVES AT 0705. BOARDING PASS ATTACHED. CIVILIAN DRESS.

Turk took a beer from the minifridge and paced back and forth through the room. He had to tell her, and he had to wake her up. And God, how was he going to tell her?

He could lie and say it had just come up. He just got the e-mail—not in itself a lie, actually.

Technically.

“What are you doing?” Li asked from under the blankets.

He looked at her. Her eyes were still closed.

“I, uh—damn.” Turk sat in the chair opposite the bed.

Li opened her eyes. “What?”

“I . . .” He knew he was only making it worse by delaying. He ordered his mouth and tongue to speak—better to blurt it out. “I have to leave in the morning on an assignment. It, um, just came up.”

“Huh?” She pushed herself up, propping her head with her right hand. “What’s up, Turk?”

He hated himself. If he was a braver man, he’d leap out the window and disappear.

“I have—something came up today, something important.”

For a moment he thought he would lie—just show her the e-mail and say nothing else. But he couldn’t lie to her. Something in her eyes, in the look she was giving him: it wasn’t disappointment entirely; there was more—loss and vulnerability. He was hurting her, and lying would only make that worse, much worse. Because he didn’t want to hurt her. He loved her, though he’d never used that word.

“I’ve been putting off telling you. They need me to do something really important. I have to leave for Arizona in the morning. I’m sorry. I should have told you, but I couldn’t. I didn’t want to ruin the night.”

Li slipped out of the bed, naked. She walked across the room and put her fingers to his lips.

“It’s OK, Turk. I understand. I know it must be important.”

She kissed him, and they folded their bodies together, hers warm, his cold. They went back to bed and made love, though their thoughts were already both moving far apart.

6

Arizona, three days later

THIS WAS NOT WHAT HE HAD IN MIND. NOT AT ALL.

Turk kept his head down as he ran through the scrub at the foot of the hill. Two men were following him, but he was more concerned about what lay in the hills. The curve ahead looked like a perfect place for an ambush.

When Breanna told him that he’d start training right away, he assumed she meant working with the nano-UAVs. But he hadn’t seen the aircraft, or any aircraft, since arriving at the “camp” in the Arizona scrubland. Instead, training had been more like SERE on steroids.

SERE—Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape—was the Air Force survival course designed to help prepare pilots who bailed out over enemy territory. It had never exactly been his favorite class. He’d taken the course twice at Fort Bragg, and nearly washed out both times.

This was a hundred times worse. He’d been here five days and trained the entire time; no breaks. The sun beat down relentlessly during the day. Nighttime temperatures dropped close to freezing. The ranch covered thousands of acres, with hills of all sizes and shapes. There was a dry streambed, an almost wet streambed, and a raging creek. Name a wild beast and it was most likely hiding behind a nearby crag.

The remains of ranch buildings abandoned some thirty or forty years before were scattered in various places. Turk had visited them all, running mostly, occasionally under live fire. For a break the first day, he’d spent two hours on a target range with rifles and pistols nearly as old as he was. That was fun, but as soon as his trainers saw that he was a comparatively good shot—he’d won several state marksman competitions as a Boy Scout—they replaced the gun instruction with more survival training.

They were very big on running, especially from armed pursuers, as he was doing now.

Turk slowed as he reached the crease of the hill, trying to catch his breath and listen. He needed to keep moving, but he didn’t want to fall into a trap.

It was morning, or so he thought—his watch had been taken from him upon arrival. Assuming it in fact was morning, he put the sun over his shoulder and faced what he reckoned was north. His objective lay in that direction.

As he turned, he thought he saw something flickering on the ground in the pass ahead.

A trap?

He couldn’t retreat; the two men chasing him were no more than five minutes behind. Going straight over the top of the hill and trying to ambush whoever was hiding probably wouldn’t work either; he’d been caught in a similar situation the day before, ambushed in his own ambush by a lookout.

Turk stooped and picked up a few small rocks. Then he slipped along the face of the slope, moving as quietly as possible. When he was within three feet of the point where the side of the hill fell off, he tossed two of the rocks down in the direction of the trail. Nothing happened for a moment. Then the barrel of an AK-47 poked around the side of the hill, eight feet below him.

He waited until a shoulder appeared, then launched himself.

The gun rapped out a three-shot burst. Turk’s ears exploded. His fist landed on the side of the man’s face and both of them went down, Turk on top. He punched hard with his right fist and felt the other man’s body collapse beneath him. Turk gave him another punch, then leapt for the rifle, which had fallen to the ground.

He had just reached the stock when something grabbed his leg. He flailed back with the gun, gashing the man he’d jumped hard on the forehead. Blood began to spurt. Turk got to his feet as the man collapsed, horrified yet satisfied as well.

“Hey!” Turk started to yell, his shout was cut off by a thick arm that grabbed him around the throat and began choking. He kicked, then remembered one of the techniques he’d been taught on day two. He grabbed at the elbow with both hands, pushed his chin down, then tried to hook his leg behind his enemy’s, turning toward the arm holding him. But his attacker anticipated that and managed to move around with him. Turk kept trying, shrugging and pulling his shoulders as the other man tightened his grip. Finally, the uneven ground became an ally—they fell together. Turk tried rolling away but the other man’s arm remained clamped to his neck.

“Knock it off! Knock it off!” yelled Danny Freah, appearing above them. Freah was the head of Whiplash’s special operations ground unit and ostensibly in charge of the training, though Turk had only seen him on the first day, and then for about thirty seconds. “Knock it the hell off! Now!”