Mitchell nodded. "It's the old reminder: don't let it get personal. I know. And if it were anybody else . . ."

"You did the right thing, sir," Ramirez said. "You heard the colonel. And what the hell did they expect? If they were so worried about you showing bias, they would've denied your request to lead this mission. Come on."

"Yeah. Well, there's no love lost between us and the CIA, and this didn't help. I think that's Grey's problem. I've put her in an awkward position."

"Like you said, we're all on the same team," said Brown. "Those spooks will figure that out. And they'll get over it."

It took another fifteen minutes to reach the hospital, and once there, Brown and Ramirez went off with Diaz to grab something warm to drink while Mitchell checked on Rutang.

To his surprise, Rutang was sitting up in bed, awake, an IV already in. A nurse there said they'd already drawn blood and that they'd had him scheduled for X-rays because of the blunt trauma to his head and face.

"Yo, Tang, what's up?" asked Mitchell in his best spirit-lifting tone.

"Scott, I think I'm done. Stick a fork in me."

"Whatever they drugged you with is wearing off. Your eyes look good."

"Don't change the subject. I told you, I'm done."

"Done with what? Filling your bedpan?"

"Between this and the Philippines . . ."

"Uh, let's see, you've had two missions that went south out of what, a hundred? It's like plane travel. You only hear about the crashes."

"That's what my cousin keeps telling me. The bastard just made colonel, too."

"Good for him. But we're talking about you."

He closed his eyes. "When they were beating me, I just kept thinking about Mandy and the kids, about how selfish I am for wanting to do this and how they were going to lose me--when this is the time they need me most. Everybody warns you about having a family."

"That's a cop-out."

He snapped open his eyes. "Then why is everybody single or divorced? Look at you."

Mitchell made a face. "Rutang, this isn't the time for career decisions. You focus on recovery."

"Yeah, whatever." He glanced away.

"Listen to me, bro. They'll come in here tomorrow, and they'll ask you a million questions. And can you do me a favor?"

"What?"

"Just don't be a wise guy. Answer the questions. The people I work for are not very patient."

"Who do you work for?"

"Those very impatient people."

Rutang rolled his eyes. "I won't embarrass you. And there is something I need to tell them. It's small, but you never know. When the captain's team got close to the arms dealers, they got out the big ear and eavesdropped on a conversation. They heard 'em say 'Pouncing Dragon' a couple of times."

"Well, that's something. Probably the code name for their operation. Maybe the intel people can trace it."

"I hope so. We died out there trying to stop those bastards."

"Your guys didn't die in vain--thanks to you."

"I ain't no hero, Scott."

"God, I hope not. You'd give us all a bad name."

Rutang shook his head. "Your cheering-up skills? You should work on those."

Mitchell smiled. "You work on getting better."

Chapter Fourteen.

MITCHELL RESIDENCE

FIFTH AVENUE

YOUNGSTOWN, OHIO

OCTOBER 2011

Mitchell parked the rental car outside the old house, making sure he was at least six feet ahead of the mailbox. Then he got out and opened the trunk to fetch his duffel bag.

Dad's blood pressure would rise because Mitchell had rented a foreign car instead of a GM. Dad had spent thirty years at the General Motors Assembly Plant in Lordstown, working his way up to foreman. He had taught Mitchell his fierce sense of loyalty to people, products, and ideas.

But Mitchell had a coupon, and he was decidedly more loyal to his own wallet. While Ghosts did receive bonuses and special allowances for clothing and food, keeping the world safe from terror and destruction still paid less than 60K a year. Sure, he had few expenses and a nice nest egg and retirement, but being frugal in an unstable economy was just plain smart.

However, none of those arguments would work on Dad.

Mitchell shut the trunk and checked his watch: 16:30 hours. He was thirty minutes past his ETA. Blame it on the airline. He drew in a long breath through his nose. Clean air. It was good to be home.

He had made a quick stop back in '09 for the holidays, feeling good about seeing everyone and about his work in Eritrea, and then there had been Cuba in the following year, with missions against those narco-terrorist Colombians. Mitchell had earned himself yet another Silver Star and had chosen to remain a Ghost Team leader, despite being slated for promotion and the promise of more pay. He'd forgo the money and remain behind a weapon instead of a computer. And when it was time to step off the battlefield, he'd return to Fort Bragg to become an instructor. He'd already done a few stints of that, was scheduled to instruct again, and enjoyed paying it forward.

Earlier in the year his missions in North Korea and Kazakhstan had gone exceedingly well. While he continued to keep himself out of the politics that threatened the security and success of nearly every deployment, it still frustrated him when the Ghosts scored a win that could never be shared with the public.

He started up the long walkway toward the house, a two-story Colonial Revival-style home built in 1920 with white shingles and a large American flag flying beside the garage door. This was Mitchell's boyhood home, and the older he got, the smaller the house seemed. It did have four bedrooms, with that second bathroom that Dad had added over twenty years ago. And most recently, Dad had erected a white picket fence around the entire property. Dad was a small-town boy with small-town sensibilities that would never change. "Now I'm living the dream," he'd said, marveling over the fence.

Mitchell mounted the steps to the porch and, with his attention focused on the sounds of the TV coming from inside, he nearly fell on his rump as he tripped over a radio-controlled car that he assumed belong to his little nephew Brandon, who at seven was unaware of Dad's strict policy regarding guest parking.

Mitchell gently booted the car aside, yanked open the screen door, then pushed in the heavy wooden one and yelled, "This is the United States Army. Put down your alcohol and come out with your hands up!"

He stepped into the entrance foyer, immediately accosted by the incessant ticking of Dad's tall grandfather clock and that smell, a cross between wood chips and wool, that always permeated the house.

His sister, Jennifer, who preferred Jenn, came rushing down the hall from the kitchen with her arms extended, crying, "Scott!"

She was the youngest of the four children, only twenty-nine, and Mitchell recoiled as he saw how much weight she had lost. The last time he'd seen her, just after baby Lisa had been born, she was at least thirty pounds heavier. While growing up, she had always been a bit mousy, avoiding eye contact when she could, and at barely five feet tall, it was easy not to notice her. Yet after the baby had been born, it was as if a new mother had been born, one who was loud and outgoing.

Now she was even thinner than before getting pregnant, and he barely took her in before her bear hug threatened to expel the airline peanuts from his gut.

When she released him, she pulled back and traced a finger over his sideburn. "Is that gray hair?"