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The Green Zone, Baghdad
One hour later

Camille was surprised when Jackie Nelson cracked open the door, but she guessed a lone Western woman at the doorstep didn't appear too threatening, particularly since they were so rare in the Green Zone. Jackie stood, blocking the doorway, wearing a fluffy white bathrobe and a towel wrapped around her hair. Civilians were such a trusting bunch.

“Jackie Nelson?” Camille held up her corporate identification card—her real one. She knew Rubicon would find out that she had paid a visit to the wife of one of their VPs and she preferred to do it brazenly. She loved to pull Rubicon's chain—then run like hell. “I'm Camille Black, president and CEO of Black Management. I need to talk to you about this man. He's in danger.” She showed her a photo of Hunter.

Jackie glanced at it and looked away. Her face was gaunt. “I've never him seen before.”

“I've heard he rescued you. You owe him your life.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Don't give me that. I know.” Camille made eye contact and held her gaze. Jackie's eyes were bloodshot and slightly jaundiced. “You rode here with a Rubicon crew, but you didn't tell them who you were. Why not? Your husband's one of their VPs. I'd think they would have been even more helpful if they'd known.”

“Ray said it was too dangerous.”

“Was Rubicon the one holding you captive?” Camille had no idea who had held her hostage, but she couldn't figure out how Hunter got hooked up with her if Rubicon weren't involved. Last she knew, Rubicon was trying to kill him. Even if there were no Rubicon link, it couldn't hurt to wedge some doubt between Jackie and Rubicon. Like Joe Chronister had taught her many years ago, this was how informants were born and she could use one with inside connections to Rubicon. Camille stepped closer, into the cracked door and Jackie moved back a few steps into the apartment.

“Why would Rubicon ever want to hold me hostage?” Jackie said.

“Maybe as an executive perk. Word around here is that your marriage isn't going too well.” Camille bluffed, but she knew the odds were in her favor. Hardship posts and relationships didn't mix well.

“I think you better come in and shut the door.”

“Is he here?”

“I stretched out for a few minutes while he showered and nodded off. I woke up and he was gone.”

“He couldn't stick around in a Rubicon apartment. They'll be here soon. They tried to kill him a couple of times yesterday. I know because I helped him get away.” Camille listened for any noise hinting that Hunter was in the apartment. It was quiet, except for the hum of the refrigerator and the air conditioner.

“Why would Rubicon want to kill Ray?”

“Do me a favor and play this for me. Background noise.” Camille gave Jackie a CD. A former NSA scientist in Black Management's expanding intelligence division had mixed special privacy “music” composed of sounds that could not be easily identified and filtered out. It was grating, but effective.

Jackie took it and sighed. “I know the routine.” She turned on the player.

“To answer your question, I honestly don't know why Rubicon's targeting him. Maybe he saw something they don't want him to know about.”

“Rubicon is a paranoid bunch, but it looks like you're that way, too.” Jackie sat on the sofa and pulled her legs up onto the cushions. She stared blankly down the hall.

“Rubicon is dangerous. Paranoia can mean survival.”

“Why do you want to help Ray?”

“We have to keep it quiet.” Camille hesitated. She didn't want to have to go there, but it was the best way to get the woman to help her. “Ray and I are engaged,” Camille said, fighting a tempest of emotions. She knew she had to play the part and force herself to be happy about it. The random sounds of the music were irritating and only made her more agitated.

“That's wonderful. Have you set a date yet?”

We did.
“No, not yet. We're waiting until we can have a big wedding back home.” Camille smiled and it made her feel more hollow inside.

“He's in trouble and on the run. I do know that much,” Jackie said and then relayed the story of her rescue from the terrorists. She paused frequently, stared down the hallway and shook her head as if another dialogue were going on internally.

“You keep looking down the hallway. Is he here?”

“No.” Jackie avoided eye contact with Camille.

“Was he here?”

“Yes.”

“I can help him, but I've got to find him first. When was he here?”

“He left over an hour ago. I don't know where he went.”

Camille wasn't sure if she believed her, but the woman had no reason to lie, except to protect Hunter. She was already pushing it, coming into the apartment of a Rubicon executive and interrogating his wife. Searching down the hallway would have consequences she didn't want. To be on the safe side, she would post observers outside the building just in case he really was hiding down the hall. If he really had left an hour ago, he could be anywhere, inside or outside the Green Zone by now.

 

Once it became clear that Jackie didn't have any useful information, Camille stood to leave. The woman needed to debrief, but Camille didn't have time or inclination to be her confidant. And she couldn't stand another moment of pretending everything was like it had once been between she and Hunter. She had forgotten how happy she had been just to be with him and watch him move about in the world, interacting with people and animals. He had such strength and compassion. He was a warrior and a lover. There was such a balance of opposites about him. And his mind—he made her think so hard and laugh so hard.
God, I miss him.

She gave Jackie a glossy black business card as she tried to stuff her emotions back where they belonged. “I've got to get moving if I'm going to find Ray. If you think of anything that might help me, call me. If you get scared and want out of here or you need an escort to the airport or need protection from Rubicon, call my assistant Pete. My men will be here in a flash. We're not far away—just across from the old presidential palace.” She stopped the music and retrieved the disk from the CD player.

“I know the place. I hope you can help him. Ray—or whatever his name is—is an incredible guy. You've got to be one of the luckiest women on the planet.”

“He is amazing.” For a moment, Camille really did feel lucky. She always did get into her cover stories a little too much, she scolded herself. But he was amazing.

The Green Zone, Baghdad

The rushed shower, shave, self-inflicted haircut and clean clothes made Hunter feel like a new man. He only wished they also made him look like one. As long as it was dark and no one looked too closely, he could probably pass as one of the thousands of contractors in the Green Zone. It had been risky enough to take the time to clean up and the danger of any extra minutes to alter his appearance in a Rubicon-leased apartment was too great. He stole a Leatherman utility knife and a swatch of duct tape, an operator's best friend, from Jackie's husband. He felt bad sneaking out while Jackie was asleep, but he felt a lot worse about other things he had done. He tucked a pebble in his right shoe to alter his walk, but the rock poked him so much as he walked down a flight of concrete steps in an alley, he stopped and emptied his shoe.
Tradecraft be damned
.

The streets were empty of foot traffic. At night the Green Zone was an American enclave and Americans drove everywhere. He needed wheels and money. He didn't find any in the predictable spots at Jackie's and he didn't want to ransack the entire apartment. Dozens of new American-made pickup trucks were parked along both sides of a street that seemed to otherwise be abandoned. He had only been there once, but he knew he had found the place he was looking for.

He walked down an alley toward the sound of loud music coming from a basement. As he got closer, he could see an Iraqi bouncer standing at the door.

The Western-dressed Iraqi had a cigarette dangling from his mouth and an AK slung over his arm. He looked Hunter over, then nodded and opened a blue painted door to a bar tucked away in a basement. Hunter stepped inside and the thick cloud of smoke immediately made his eyes burn as the beat of the blaring hip-hop music pulsed through his body. The place was packed with American contractors and a few privileged Iraqis. Strings of Italian Christmas lights hung over the bar, the brightest spot in the otherwise dark establishment. No one knew whether the few nightclubs and bars in the Green Zone were illegal or not, but everyone knew they had to be treated as such if they were to avoid offending local Muslim sensibilities. It was the best stocked bar in the Middle East outside of Dubai. Thanks to Western contractors importing cheap foreign workers to staff their service contracts, young Filipino and Thai bargirls kept the men entertained. Southeast Asian women always looked young to Hunter, but no one could have convinced him that any of these girls were over fifteen. Hunter watched a constant stream of them escorting American men and rich Iraqis into a backroom.

Assault rifles were placed on tables and empty chairs—always within easy reach of their owners. Hunter had been counting on the fact that the real operators worked at night and the guys in the bar at this hour were mainly construction workers, bomb disposal guys and run-of-the-mill security guards. But for some reason tonight there were too many familiar faces and that made him nervous. He knew a lot of the guys there by their call signs, or names that didn't really belong to them. The Special Operations world was a small one and Hunter had been a part of it for over a decade.

Hunter picked up an empty beer bottle and carried it as camouflage as he worked the crowd, searching for an easy mark. Contractors always carried too much cash to places like this and he needed money and credit cards. The cash would get him out of Iraq and the credit cards would buy airline tickets as part of a fake trail to destinations only his pursuers would visit—he definitely wouldn't.

Someone put his hand on Hunter's back. “Well if it isn't Jack Russell. How you doing, flyboy?”

Hunter swung around. The man was in his midforties and wore a brightly colored Hawaiian shirt. He looked part Chinese with a lot of something else thrown in. Hunter vaguely remembered him as an instructor in a gentleman's course where Force Zulu had sent him to learn the basics of handling a helicopter so he could pick up enough to land one safely in case a pilot became incapacitated. It was one of the most humbling experiences of his life. The first time he took the controls, he couldn't keep the helo inside an area the size of a football field. It spun. It whirled. The beast had a mind of its own and he doubted it could ever really be tamed, only forced into temporary submission. Two courses and many simulator hours later, he could almost keep it in the air without making himself quesy.

Hunter pretended to sip from the empty bottle as he kept an eye on the door. “Keeping myself in the crosshairs. So what are you up to nowadays?”

“Still flying them whirlybirds. You ever get that ticket?”

“Never. I like my wings either fixed or honey barbequed. Helos flip too easily.” Hunter sat down the bottle down. “You're going to have to help me out with your name.”

“No, problem, Jack. It's Wayne Akana. But everybody calls me Beach Dog.”

“So what outfit are you with here, Beach Dog?”

“I retired from the Night Stalkers. I keep planning on moving back to the North Shore, but right now I'm flying for Black Management. As a matter of fact, this afternoon I flew Camille Black herself from Ramadi into the bubble.”

“Camille's here in the Zone?”

“Sure is. See that big guy over there?” Beach Dog pointed to a man whose belly hung over his Bermuda shorts. Several men crowded around a table with him. “He's buying drinks for everyone on his crew, says the rounds are on Ms. Black's tab.”

“Any idea where she is right now?”

“What do you want to know for?”

“We used to have a thing.”

“Sure you did. I've heard that from a lot of guys.” Beach Dog smiled and gulped his Heineken.

A Rubicon security team walked into the bar, dressed for work, not a night on the town. They wore photographer's vests with bulging pockets over Kevlar body armor and they carried AKs. Hunter hunched down a little and moved so that Beach Dog was between him and the door. “Can you get me to Camille?”

“Now?”

“She's got some big problems and I have something she needs.” Even if Stella were really furious at him, Hunter was sure he could talk her down. All he needed to do was get her to understand the truth. And besides, he had to find a way to make things right with her. He ached inside as he thought about how much he wanted her. Suddenly it didn't make any sense to flee Iraq to save his ass if it meant leaving his heart behind.

“Yeah, right,” Beach Dog said. “I don't think she needs anything in your pants.” He waved to a waitress, then pointed at his empty beer bottle. “I've heard talk from the guys that she might even have something going on with Pete. You know, the woman with the short hair and comfy shoes who works in her Baghdad ops.”

“I'm not joking.” Hunter grabbed him by the arm. The Rubicon operators scanned the crowd. Hunter slouched lower and looked around for options.

“Dude, you are one intense guy.” He stared at Hunter's hand grasping his forearm.

“See those two men working their way to the bar? They're Rubicon operators and they're here to kill me. Keep yourself between them and me.”

“Hey, I'm here for a good time, not to play combat-flashback with you.” The helo pilot put his hands in the air as if surrendering.

“If you were with Camille Black today you had to have heard her talking about problems with Rubicon. I'm not crazy and I have critical intel for her about Rubicon. There's going to be money in this for you. You know she's generous with those who go out of their way to help her.”

“How serious of a problem is it?”

“You saw the look on her face today, didn't you?” Hunter gambled. He could almost see how the two vertical lines formed between her eyebrows when something was bothering her. That look used to scare him because it usually foreshadowed trouble between them, but now he would have welcomed it just to see her again.

“I've never quite seen her this way,” Beach Dog said as a waitress handed him another beer.

“I'm telling you, big bucks.”

Beach Dog sighed. “Follow me.” He approached three men talking to two girls who had barely reached puberty. He put his arm around the waist of a petite Filipina and looked at the men standing around the tall table with her.

“Hey, what are you doing, Dog? Hand's off. I just bought her,” a man twice the girth of Beach Dog said as he pushed Beach Dog's arm away. He pointed to a passport from the Philippines lying on the table.

“Rob, remember how we ducked the Aussies at the bar in Patpong? I'll have her back to you in two shakes.”

“She better still have that new car smell.” Rob shrugged his shoulders and reached for his drink.

“Take the other one,” Beach Dog said to Hunter as he led the bargirl to the back of the bar. “You need one of these to get into the brothel in the back. It's got plenty of exits.”

 

Hunter took the one of the Filipino girls by the hand. He expected to follow Beach Dog, but instead, the girl immediately started leading him to the whorehouse. Beach Dog and another girl were right behind him.

A small Asian man sat on a stool in front of a glass door with newspapers stuck to the panes to obscure the view. He nodded to the girl and let the group pass.

It took a few seconds for Hunter's eyes to adjust to the darkness, but his ears were immediately oriented to the sounds of sex: heavy breathing, moaning, grunting and assorted fucking sounds which sounded like a giant orgy coming from all around him, but there was no laughter, no signs of lingering. When he could see, he understood. It was a place where you wanted to do your business and then get the hell out. He was walking through the most sorry-ass brothel he'd ever seen, and as a Marine he'd seen some pretty bad ones. Sheets hung from wires crisscrossing the ceiling, creating small cubicles. They stopped short of the concrete floor, well above the thin mattresses. Clothespins attempted to hold the corners shut, but not much was hidden and from what he saw, he wished it were. The Iraq War had gone on long enough for proper whorehouses to be established, so the only way he could explain the place was that the proprietors had designed it for quick disassembly in case of a police raid. Either that, or they were cheap fuckers.

The girl tugged at his hand to lead him into a cubicle. He planted his feet and shook his head.

She formed a circle with her index finger and thumb and thrust two fingers from her other hand in and out of it. “Ten dollar.” Then she puckered her lips and blew. “Five dollar.”

Hunter shook his head. “No thanks.” He looked behind him to Beach Dog. “Where the hell's the door?”

“Straight ahead, past tent city.”

The girl grabbed Hunter's arm and tried to pull him back. “Why you no like?”

He shook her off and kept going.

 

Ten minutes later they were in Beach Dog's extended cab Ford F-150 truck approaching the Black Management compound.

“I think I'm better off if I get under a blanket in the backseat for the security point,” Hunter said as he ducked low in the seat.

“Dude, chill. I'm telling you, it's just like going onto a base back home. Right stickers, right look and nobody says boo.”

Beach Dog rolled to a stop at the security shack and held out his thumb and little finger, flashing the guard the Hawaiian shaka sign. “Hey, Kimo, been catchin' any waves lately? I hear we had some big sets come in yesterday.”

“You too funny.” A heavy Hawaiian man let out a deep belly laugh.

“Too much beach and not enough water in this place.” Beach Dog held up his plastic security identification badge.

“Your friend, he have ID?”

The guard pointed at Hunter who looked at Beach Dog and shrugged his shoulders. He needed a backup plan fast, but at the moment he was stumped. He would not take out an innocent security guard.
Come on, Beach Dog.

“I can give him one visitor pass, but I need an ID,” Kimo said.

Beach Dog grimaced. “He can't leave a trail. No one can know he was here with me.”

“He some kind of spy or something?”

“Promise me you won't tell anyone what this is about.” Beach Dog leaned out the window and lowered his voice. “Steamy, hunky man-love.”

“For real?” Kimo cocked his head and inspected Hunter as if he had just arrived on the planet.

Hunter let his wrist fall limp in his most effeminate wave while he told himself Beach Dog couldn't possibly be serious.

“Go, go, go. But next time, his place.” The guard raised the barrier.

“Now you keep that long board waxed. I feel a big swell coming on.” Beach Dog winked at Kimo.

“You too much. Go!” Kimo closed his eyes and shook his head.

As soon as they cleared the guard shack, Hunter turned toward Beach Dog. “Dog, you don't really—”

“I like surfing the big waves, if that's what you're getting at.” Beach Dog smiled in a way that gave Hunter the feeling the guy really was coming on to him. “That trailer over there. That's the boss-lady's.” He pointed to a retro-style trailer, but drove past it.

Hunter had nothing against gays and even had intervened several times to keep some poor guy from getting the shit kicked out of him just because he had lost the chromosomal luck of the draw. But he still felt a wave of nausea when he thought about two guys. Two chicks were a big turn-on, but two guys were just gross, particularly when one of them was him.

As they drove past several helicopters, Hunter said, “Why don't you pull over there out of the streetlight?” He wished he didn't have to deceive the guy. He would be careful not to injure him permanently.

“My trailer's just over there by the helicopters.”

“I can't wait, dude—if you know what I mean.”