As Xu left the field, his cell phone rang. One of his smugglers in Pakistan was on the line. Another arms shipment had been successfully sold to the Taliban. Xu congratulated the man. The Tigers had turned their gunrunning operation into a most profitable venture. They used the money to buy the silence and fierce loyalty of many more military commanders within the region, men who, while not part of the group, would do as they were told when the time came.

HAKKA CASTLE

XIAMEN, CHINA

APRIL 2012

Buddha stood on the ridge overlooking the castle, watching as Huang ascended the dirt road winding back and forth like a brown snake--or better still, a noodle, the thought of which made Buddha's sagging gut growl.

Buddha's real name was Hsieh Chia-hsien, but over the years he'd actually come to prefer his CIA moniker. He had been working for the agency for more than two decades, recruited at the ripe old age of forty-one. He'd had a full head of hair when the Americans had come calling, and Bill Clinton had been in the White House.

Yes, times had surely changed. Now the agency had paired him up with some college kid. Both the CIA and the DIA had been hiring too many of these Boy Scouts, as the Americans called them, and twice Buddha's cover had nearly been blown by them.

As an expression of his disdain, he'd dubbed his new partner, the baby-faced Chan Chi-yao, as Boy Scout, and that would be his code name, whether he liked it or not.

Boy Scout wore a perpetual scowl that he thought concealed his inexperience. At twenty-four, what he knew about the world could fit in a teacup. But oh, he wasn't afraid to tell you how smart he was, in case you forgot. Poor boy. It might take him fifty years, but he would realize what a young fool he'd been and that he should have had more respect for his elders. This new generation had been raised by wolves.

Buddha fished out his handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his brow, then shoved up his spectacles. The temperature was mild, but that didn't matter. He seemed to sweat no matter what he was doing.

Boy Scout glanced over at him, shaking his head. "Have you considered a diet?"

They spoke in Mandarin, but occasionally Buddha would throw an English phrase at the kid to test him, like he did now: "You wanna play, you pay. That's the way it is, kid. And I'm way too old for a diet."

The kid frowned. Nope, he didn't quite understand that one. But hadn't the kid said he was an expert on American slang? Uh-huh . . .

Their inside man Huang finally reached the ridge, and Boy Scout gave a slight whistle. The elder moved into the dense stand of trees and nodded to them.

"How did it go?" asked Buddha.

After a slight shrug, Huang answered, "Okay, I guess."

"What you mean, old man?" snapped Boy Scout. "Did you tell them or not?"

"I told them, but they still want to meet you. They don't trust me."

"Quiet for a moment," Buddha ordered the kid. "Huang, all they need to do is stay out of the way. You keep telling them that those men coming tomorrow night are drug smugglers working with the army. You tell them the secret police will be coming to arrest them, and that everyone should remain in their rooms. And when we're finished, I promise you that those men will not bother you or your family ever again."

"I want to believe you."

"Just do as we say. And when you know exactly where each man will be staying, you will call us with that information."

"And if I don't?"

"Then we'll--"

Buddha slapped a palm over Boy Scout's mouth. "Then we'll assume you're dead. If you want to save your village, help us."

"But you are not with the secret police, are you?"

"What makes you say that?"

Huang flicked his glance to Boy Scout. "He is too young and too stupid."

Buddha smiled. "I agree. But the police are desperate these days, and we need anyone we can get."

"Okay, but remember our deal. The man I told you about?"

"Yes, Fang Zhi?" said Buddha.

Huang nodded. "You will kill him."

"Of course. Better go now. Fang will be calling you soon. And so will we."

For a moment, Huang just stood there, looking at them, and Buddha pitied the man. He was just a simple farmer caught up in something far more dangerous than he could possibly imagine.

Fang Zhi was assumably one of the Spring Tiger Group's cronies, a guard or security chief who meant nothing in the grand scheme. His name was not even worth mentioning to the Special Forces team coming ashore, and while Buddha had promised to kill him, that was only to satisfy Huang.

Buddha regarded his partner, then tipped his head toward the path. "Back to the car, little one."

Boy Scout's eyes widened. "You will not say that again."

"I see your parents have been neglectful, and the Americans have poisoned away what was left of your respect. But that is okay. You will do as I say, or I will strangle you until you are blue then white then dead. And then I will communicate the unfortunate accident to Langley." Buddha narrowed his fiery gaze, and Boy Scout withered where he stood.

Then, abruptly, Buddha threw his arm around the kid and chuckled. "We're going to have a lot of fun in the next couple of days. Let me ask you something. Other than in training, have you ever been shot at?"

"No."

"That's not good."

"Why should I be worried? This is an assassination, nice and quiet."

Buddha chuckled again. "My dear boy, when the Americans are involved, nothing is ever quiet."

Chapter Twenty-Two.

PIER 3E

SUBIC BAY FREEPORT ZONE

PHILIPPINES

APRIL 2012

Captain Scott Mitchell drove one of the team's two SUVs around some cargo pallets, then he and Ramirez, who was at the wheel of the other truck, slipped beneath a row of six-inch-thick hawsers secured to the bollards of a supertanker on the opposite end of the pier. They drove farther out, then finally parked alongside the submarine, whose hull glistened like the black skin of a killer whale in the moonlight.

Their weapons and other gear were packed in more than a dozen heavy load-out bags and stowed in the cargo areas of each truck. Jenkins and Smith began unloading, but Mitchell told them to hold off until they talked to the crew.

"Captain Mitchell," called a tall, broad-shouldered man coming forward.

"That'd be me, sir."

"I'm Lieutenant Commander Sands, the XO, and this is Master Chief Suallo, chief of the boat. We call him COB."

After shaking the XO's hand, Mitchell turned to the shorter, stouter man with the forced grin and did likewise. "Master Chief."

"Captain."

"Glad to have you aboard, Captain," added Sands.

Mitchell gave a little snort. "I appreciate that, sir, but you'll be happier once we're off your boat."

The XO chuckled then raised his voice to address the entire team. "Okay, listen up. Welcome aboard Montana . Master Chief Suallo will issue each of you a thermoluminescent dosimeter, like the ones he and I are wearing." Sands reached down to his belt and gestured to a device slightly smaller than a deck of cards. "The dosimeter records your total radiation dosage while on board, and it must be worn at all times. Once COB assigns you one, you'll be escorted down this after hatch, through the lock-out trunk, and into the galley on the upper level."

"Damn, we get to eat first thing," Ramirez whispered in Mitchell's ear.