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Anbar Province

As Hunter drove out of the gates of the camp and into Anbar province, he gritted his teeth and immediately felt pain. His tongue checked on the tooth, still tucked into the side of his mouth. He had to get it back in the socket soon.

Like he had earlier in the night on the way to the raid, he turned right toward Ramadi. His unit had worked out an emergency exit plan for him—the only problem was he had to get to the insurgent stronghold, Ramadi. The escape plan had been set up before the insurgents had returned there yet again and no one in the Pentagon had ever gotten around to modifying it. He knew an American armed only with a SIG Sauer and a little over thirty rounds wouldn't make it far on the dusty roads of Anbar province. A goat in an Afghan mujahedin camp had a better chance of dying a virgin.

He had to go local.

 

The guys at Rubicon were constantly leaving things in their trucks but a quick scan of the back of the Navigator confirmed what he already knew—Camille Black ran a tight ship. A break-down kit was in the back along with ammo cans he'd check out when he got a chance, even though he was sure it would be 5.56 rounds for assault rifles, not 9mm for his sidearm. What he wouldn't have given for a stray rifle or even a different vehicle, one outfitted for a trunk monkey—a machine gunner with a mounted weapon designed to punch out the back window with the first round and surprise the road hazard with the following ones.

With one hand on the wheel, he reached under the driver's seat, hoping something useful had escaped inspection, but he found nothing. Leaning over to the passenger seat, he patted the floorboard and his hand bumped up against something, but it rolled away. A water bottle. Hopefully it had a few swallows left in it. The tooth was driving him crazy and he had to do something about it. Already on the edge of Ramadi, he pulled over to the side of the road, unbuckled his seatbelt and reached for the water bottle. It was half full.

He turned the overhead light on and opened the door. He poured some water into his hand, he spat his tooth into the palm, then swirled it in the water. Although he had stitched up comrades more than once and had even carved a bullet from his own thigh, teeth were different. He'd rather face a horde of tangos than a dentist. It was all he could do to force himself to look at it. At least it seemed to be free from dirt.

Careful not to touch the roots, he picked it up and turned it around as he tried to figure out which way it went in. The water rolled out of his hand onto the ground. He leaned back into the truck to look into the rearview mirror to find the hole. Checking one more time to make sure the tooth was turned the right way, he took a deep breath and shoved it into the socket. Pain zinged his mouth. After another measured breath, he bit down firmly, pushing the tooth farther down. He jumped from the jolt.

He swirled warm water in his mouth. As he leaned out the door to spit, a knife thrust toward him. He jerked out of the way and yanked the door shut to the sound of bone being crushed. A man screamed and the knife fell to the ground. Unsure if the carjacker had buddies with him, Hunter threw the SUV into gear, grabbed the arm and held onto it. This was the break he needed and he wasn't about to let go.

The man howled as he was dragged alongside the Navigator. Hunter glanced into the mirror and even though he saw no accomplices, he still wanted to get a little distance from the carjacking site, just in case. The man was going for a short ride. Hunter sank his fingers into the guy's hairy forearm, digging his fingernails into the skin, but he couldn't get a good grip. The arm slipped away. He hit the brakes, came to a stop, then sprang from the vehicle.

The young man lay unconscious in the dirt, his arm twisted into an unnatural position. Hunter yanked off the assailant's headband, headscarf and beanie and dropped them onto the hood of the SUV. He wrestled with the body for its clothing, a dishdashah, the traditional white man-dress worn throughout the Arabian Peninsula. He worked the skirt above the man's hips, exposing his genitals. Keeping with local customs, the carjacker wore no underwear. Hunter averted his eyes.

“This is why guys in Detroit never go out carjacking free-balling under a dress. It's not only the cold,” Hunter said as pulled the dishdashah over the man's head. He wadded it up and grabbed the headdress. He smiled when he found a small wad of cash. It wasn't much, but would be enough to get him by for awhile before he could sell the gold chain necklace that he always wore for such emergencies. He jumped into the Navigator to drive back to where the guy had lost his slippers.

The dirt streaked across the front of the white cotton garment would draw some attention, but even so, the man-dress would help him blend in a lot better than his 5.11 pants and Under Armour T-shirt. Back on the tango turn-pike to Ramadi, he yanked off his shirt and undershirt, then pulled the dress over his head and down to his waist. The Velcro crackled as he pulled the sheath off his leg and lay his knife on the seat beside him. Steering with his knee, he unzipped his pants and pulled them down to his ankles where they got stuck around his combat boots. Peeking up over the dashboard just enough to see the road ahead, he untied his boots and took off his pants. For a few moments he debated with himself whether he really needed to lose his jockeys, but knew he had to do everything he could to blend in. His knife could have been a spoil of war, he told himself as he strapped it back onto his bare leg, but as much as it pained him, he would have to leave the firearm in the SUV. He had no way of concealing it and passing as an Iraqi was a far more powerful defense than a single bullet.

Deciding to forego the beanie, Hunter folded the black and white checkered cloth in two and draped it over his head. The black cord of the headband smelled like a goat. He doubled it around the top of his head to hold the headdress in place, then pulled down the sun visor to check himself out in the vanity mirror. The cruel Iraqi sun had given him a deep tan that was darker than many of the locals. His beard could have been a little longer and rattier, but he could pass. Score one for the loose Rubicon dress code that had no restrictions on hair length or facial hair.

The first rays of sunlight streaked orange across the sky and soon calls to prayer would echo in the streets. He could already smell smoke from firewood and diesel fumes from generators. The Iraqis didn't let much of the day get away from them, he'd give them credit for that. He spotted a dark alley with an assortment of cars where he could change and trade in Stella's SUV for something less conspicuous. He looked in the rearview mirror as he started to turn.

Two Ford Expeditions sped toward him.

Rubicon
.

Camp Tornado Point, Anbar Province

The first rays of the morning sun were turning the sky orange and a distant wail of a muezzin called the faithful to prayer as Camille marched into Saddam's former palace. It had been a day since she'd slept and nearly as long since she'd eaten. Her body was achy and her emotions were whitewater, churning with eddies and undertows with no clear main channel. She and Hunter played rough together and delighted in pushing one another to the edge in their own war games, but the heat of their battles usually resolved in wild passion. During their last vacation they had spent days tracking one another throughout Panama and it ended in a sugar cane field where she surprised him and overpowered him, though she was sure he would claim that he was the one who had prevailed. They had made love there for hours, the sharp blades of the cane slicing their skin. This morning had the appearance of another game, but his mood had not been playful. Their sparring suddenly felt strangely real. She grabbed a handful of M&Ms from her pocket and popped them into her mouth. The M&Ms had saved her life more than once, keeping her blood sugar hyped when her body was ready to tank. She chewed fast and swallowed before entering the headquarters of the base commander, USMC Colonel Michael Lukson. Camp Tornado Point was still officially a Marine base and the contractors were guests even though they outnumbered the Marines twenty to one. An aide showed her inside the colonel's makeshift office, one of Saddam's former bedrooms.

Camille tried to play cool, but the cavernous room screamed for attention.

It was a bold play of volume and void that had all the class and splendor of an Atlantic City casino. The original furnishings had long ago been stripped away, but gold-plated gargoyles perched atop green malachite pillars protected the granite walls and marble floors. A recessed archway and blue lapis columns framed a life-sized mural of Scud missiles with flames shooting behind them. At least the Iraqi flags on the missiles had been chipped away. Saddam's military murals competed with fantasy scenes of iridescent dragons menacing chesty blondes that would have been better suited to black velvet than a palace wall. A beam of light shined onto the floor. She looked up, following it to its source. A mortar had knocked a hole in a ceiling dome and it had missed a stylized Saddam leading troops into Jerusalem by only a few inches. She shuddered when she realized she was standing in the middle of Saddam's wet dream.

The base commander had set up his office in a corner of the grand room. File cabinets and scavenged office fixtures surrounded a simple wooden desk half covered by an old computer monitor. A wall map of the al-Anbar Area of Operation was tacked over the groin of one of Saddam's nymphs. The colonel sat at his desk, across from a man Camille hadn't seen or spoken to since the outbreak of the second Gulf War when she had quit the CIA. Joe Chronister was the reason she had joined the Agency and he was also the reason that she left it to start Black Management.

Colonel Lukson stared at her, his thick arms crossed. As was custom when in combat, his short sleeves were down, not rolled up in a cuff. One forearm was tattooed with the Marine Corps' globe and anchor with the words Semper Fidelis above it; the other arm had the image of an alligator on tracs.

Camille stood perfectly erect beside an empty chair. “Colonel Lukson, sir, I'm Camille Black, president and CEO of Black Management.”

“I know who you are.”

The large empty room behind her made her uneasy, but she continued to stand in silence, waiting for the colonel. She averted her eyes. The military controlled the bases in Iraq and the private military companies were guests on their turf. Camille's troops at Tornado Point did covert work for the CIA and some secret military units—almost all of it outside the purview of the base commander. It was no secret that Colonel Lukson and other field officers did not like their new roles as landlords for higher paid civilian mercenaries and would relish the eviction of one of them.

After a long minute, Lukson spoke. “Anything you want to tell me, Black?”

“Sir, I was fired on tonight by Rubicon troops.”

“And that's why you decided to play cowboys and indians on my ranch? You might not take orders from me, but I sure as hell can kick your sweet ass off my base.”

“Sir, I had to defend myself, sir,” Camille said like an enlisted Marine. She flashed back to her childhood when she had to stand before her father and answer for her mistakes in the same way. At the time it had felt severe, but now, it seemed more like good training. She had a lucrative contract to protect and couldn't risk any missteps with her Marine host. It was time to use the word “sir” more than she had in the past year.

“And you had to defend yourself from Mr. Kyle as well?”

“Who's Mr. Kyle, sir?”

The CIA case officer Chronister interrupted. “I believe you encountered the gentleman tonight in the Rubicon offices.”

Camille continued to stand erect in front of the colonel and ignored Chronister. “Sir, Mr. Kyle threatened me at gunpoint. I had to disarm him, sir.”

“By tying him up and breaking his fucking neck?” Chronister said with a laugh. “Camille, I always loved that matter-of-factness about you. You really should've been a Marine.”

Fuck you, Joe.
She continued to stare straight ahead at the colonel. She wasn't going to fall for his bait—not this time. She wondered why Hunter had done it. He was one of the most deadly men she knew, but also one of the most moral. He wouldn't kill without reason.

“Black, answer the question. Did you tie Kyle up and break his neck?” Lukson said.

“No, sir. He was alive, sir, when I left, sir.”

“Did you threaten Mr. Kyle?” Lukson leaned back in his chair causing a caster to fall out. He grabbed the desk to catch his balance.

Chronister laughed. Camille remained stoic, silently thanking her father, who would've beaten her senseless if that had happened to him when dressing her down and she had so much as cracked a smile. She was exhausted and trying hard not to tremble before the Marine. “May I help you, sir?”

“Goddamn piece of Iraqi shit.” Lukson got down on the floor and shoved the caster back into the base of the wooden chair. “I'm still waiting on your answer, Black. Did you threaten Kyle?”

“Sir, no, sir.”

“Come on, Camille. Did you not tell him…” Chronister pulled a pair of reading glasses from his pocket and put them on. He unfolded a piece of paper and read from it. “‘All I care about is eliminating the enemy…and as I see it right now, Rubicon is the enemy?'”

Camille stared straight ahead.

“Answer him, Black.”

“Sir, those are my words, sir. Sir, the only way he could know that is if the Agency is bugging Rubicon offices.”

“What's it to ya if we listen in on your competitors? What were you doing there?” Chronister gnawed on the end of his reading glasses.

“Black!”

“Sir, Rubicon has been muscling in on Black Management assignments. I suspect, sir, that they're trying to beat us to big arms caches. I also suspect, sir, that's why the Agency is keeping an eye on them,” she said stiffly, as if she were at a legal deposition.

“Cut the cloak-and-dagger bull-crap. I don't have much use for spies and I don't like mercenaries, but one thing I really hate is a traitor. Fuckers should be shot on sight,” Colonel Lukson said to her as he leaned forward. “The OGA has evidence that a few individuals in Rubicon have been in contact with al-Zahrani's people. Kyle got too close and they popped him. We're missing the big guy in this picture and I want to know who he is. We might not see eye-to-eye about spies and mercs, but I think we're all working from the same field manual when it comes to traitors. You seem like a nice, well-mannered girl. Now do the right thing, sweetheart, and tell us the truth about last night.”

“Sir, I am telling the truth, sir. The only thing I have to add, sir, is that after I left Kyle's office, some Rubicon troops fired on me and tried to kill me. Maybe they got to Kyle first.”

“Was Mr. Kyle alone when you left the office?” Chronister said.

Camille hesitated.

“Was he alone?” The colonel said, his voice rising with irritation.

Even to cover for Hunter, for some reason she couldn't bring herself to lie to the Marine's face. Camille turned toward Chronister as she spoke. “Yes. Kyle was alone.”