Agent Thomas Saenz, code name Mongoose, was a longtime field operative for the CIA who had spent the past eight years in Afghanistan. With a ruddy complexion, long beard, and matted, shoulder-length hair, Mitchell could barely distinguish him from his Taliban captors. His hands were bound behind his back with a pair of heavy police cuffs.

Beside him sat Agent Erik Vick, code name Viking, a broad-shouldered, stocky man with a shock of chestnut brown hair and a wiry beard. He, too, could easily be mistaken for an insurgent and had spent the past three years working the Afghanistan-Pakistan border and the tri-border area to the west.

And the third man, well--Mitchell could barely breathe, and a dull ache came into his eyes. It was Rutang, all right, his old friend who had gotten back on the horse, deployed to Afghanistan, and been making a new name for himself for the past couple of years as a top-notch Special Forces medic. The last time Mitchell had seen him was at his promotion party.

Rutang's face was mostly purple, his left eye swollen, and they'd obviously drugged all of the men to keep them docile. Mitchell's penlight revealed dilated pupils.

"Diaz, here, sir. Got another guy coming outside the center house. Better hurry."

"Roger that. Ramirez, keep covering the door. Brown? Get in here, now." Mitchell glanced over his shoulder as the gunner entered. "They're cuffed. I need keys."

"I'm on it."

"Tang, can you hear me?"

"Who are you?" asked Saenz.

Mitchell regarded the man with a weak grin. "We're the guys getting you out of here." He faced Rutang once more. "Come on, bro, you with me?"

"Scott, is that you?"

"Yeah." Mitchell swallowed and steeled himself as Rutang began to cry. "You're all right, Tang. Stop." They had beaten him so thoroughly that Mitchell feared picking him up.

"Keys," said Brown, after wrenching them from the nearest insurgent's pocket. He crossed around the bed and began opening Saenz's cuffs. Then he worked on Vick's.

"Captain," called Diaz. "The guy outside is moving around the back. He'll spot the bodies. I have a shot."

"Take it!"

Rutang cleared his throat. "Scott, I let everybody down again."

"No. The cache was blown. You stayed alive."

Three days ago Rutang's ODA team had been tasked with entering Waziristan based upon intel provided by Saenz and Vick. A pair of arms dealers with Chinese connections had arrived with a massive shipment of Chinese-made small arms, and the team's mission had been to kill the dealers and destroy the cache before it was delivered to the Taliban insurgents. Those small arms would undoubtedly be smuggled across the border into Afghanistan and could even reach Iran and Iraq. Those arms would no doubt be used against American and coalition forces in the region.

Part of a split team operation, Rutang and the rest of his six-man group, along with the two CIA agents, had served as the outer cordon, providing security and overwatch while the other six moved into the small village to take out the dealers and blow the cache.

What happened after that only Rutang and the agents could tell. Signals Intelligence had picked up a beacon in a snow-covered saddle about a quarter kilometer east of the houses, and further investigation of the site via satellite and Green Force tracking revealed that at least five members of the team were there, although all five GFTCs indicated no pulse.

The weapons cache had been destroyed, and higher assumed that Rutang, Saenz, and Vick had tried to hide the bodies then escape across the border into Afghanistan. Somewhere along the way they were captured.

"They got us because of me, Scott," Rutang said through a groan. "Because of me."

"No time to worry about that."

"Listen. First team got taken out in the explosion. But the others . . . We couldn't just leave 'em there."

"Tang, forget it."

"We planted a beacon on the site so higher could bring 'em home."

"Higher knows about the marker. They'll send in a recovery team. Don't you worry, brother. Nobody gets left behind."

Brown finished removing Rutang's cuffs, just as Diaz's voice broke once more over the radio. "Captain, I got him. But the bodies are piling up out here--you'd better move!"

"Roger that. We're getting them out right now. Ramirez, they're drugged. I need help."

Ramirez rushed back into the room, helped Saenz to his feet, draped the guy's arm over his shoulder. Brown assisted Vick, while Mitchell got Rutang to his feet--and it was now even more clear that he'd been the worst beaten of the group.

"Get some jackets, hats, gloves, whatever you can find. Bundle them up and get 'em ready to move," Mitchell ordered.

Ramirez and Brown got to work, and within minutes they had all three dressed and ready to face the weather.

"Buddy, I have to lift you," Mitchell told Rutang.

"I know."

Mitchell hoisted Rutang over his shoulders. "Just like old times, eh?"

"Yeah."

"At least you're lighter than the last time I carried you."

"I've been on the Taliban diet. Lose ten pounds in three days, guaranteed."

"Great. Now shut up and let me rescue your ass. Diaz, are we clear to move?"

"Affirm--wait, negative, negative! Another guy from the middle house, heading right for your door! He looks unarmed, but he's too fast for me."

"Captain, he's mine," said Brown, who carefully brought Vick to the bed, then rushed to the front door, drawing his Nightwing.

Mitchell put a finger to his lips, warning Brown.

The gunner nodded, eyes growing wide with an intensity that nearly lit the room.

The door swung open, and in stepped the guy, much shorter than the others, wearing a tan and black shemagh over his head and face. His voice came muffled: "Who stole my cigarettes? I want to know right now!"

Brown rolled away from the door. And the rest happened so quickly, so efficiently, that Mitchell could only mouth a curse in utter awe.

Like a bolt of lightning, Brown got behind the insurgent and slid his arm beneath the guy's chin, locking his jaw shut while simultaneously driving his blade into the man's heart.

With the blade still jutting from the man's chest, Brown released his hand, loosened his grip on the guy's neck, and began stuffing the guy's shemagh into his mouth.

The insurgent was still alive, beginning to bleed to death, and it could take a minute more before he lost consciousness. Knife wounds did not produce instant death the way they were portrayed in films and on TV, and Brown knew exactly what he was doing to keep the man quiet until blood loss took its toll.

"All right, let's go," Mitchell ordered.

Brown freed his knife, then hustled back to Vick, who slung his arm over Brown's shoulder, and they fell in behind Mitchell.

Ramirez and Saenz led the way out into the bitter cold and a more powerful wind that stung their cheeks.

They started down the hill, rallying back toward Diaz's position, but Mitchell found a little section of hill where a pair of snow-covered boulders provided exceptional cover. "Set 'em down here."

"Scott, what now?" asked Rutang, slurring his words.

"Just making sure we're not followed. Brown's staying with you. We'll be right back. Diaz, you reloaded and set?"

"Yes, sir."

Mitchell stole a moment to pull up intel from the UAV3 Cypher drone. He brought the drone back over the houses to confirm that of the twelve insurgents, only three remained. Two guys were in the center house, one in the first house.