Prologue
Yusufiyah, south of Baghdad
Sergeant Jeff Carnes sat paralyzed in the passenger seat of the smoldering Humvee, slowly regaining consciousness after the concussion of the RPG.
As small-arms fire ricocheted off the Humvee’s armored doors, Carnes tried to figure out how badly he was wounded. Garbled chatter was coming over the radio, but he couldn’t shake his mental fog enough to answer.
The daze extended to everyone else in the vehicle. “I’m okay,” someone said.
For how long?Carnes asked himself.
Despite mounting pain, he turned his head to glance out his window and saw two angry Iraqis looking back at him from about twenty feet away. He watched one of the bandits hand a grenade launcher to the other, as if in slow motion.
Carnes tried to muster the strength to make a last-ditch call for help on his radio, but his hands wouldn’t work. All he could dowas brace for the impact of the round and hope the inevitable—death—was instant and painless.
In even slower motion, he watched the black-and-white-checked shemagh worn on the head of his executioner ruffle in a nonexistent breeze. As the material seemed to lift off the Iraqi bandit’s head, a ripple of dark red liquid erupted from underneath the headdress. The RPG fell to the ground and the man collapsed.
Sergeant Carnes had seen people die before, but never so suddenly or so violently. One second the terrorist was lifting an RPG; the next he was a corpse.
“Holy shit,” he mumbled as he witnessed the accomplice also fold.
As his senses began returning, Carnes heard the muffled sound of allied gunfire coming from the driver’s side of their vehicle, then saw a group of people in civilian clothes and body armor running at full sprint toward the enemy. A moment later he saw a small American flag held against his window by a tall man with Oakley sunglasses and a rhinoceros silhouette on his helmet.
Carnes read the man’s lips: “We’re the good guys. You’re gonna be okay.”
THREE DAYS LATER
CHAPTER 1
Nantucket County Jail
Nantucket, Massachusetts
My latest deployment in Iraq had ended in a blazing firefight.
Team Rhino and I had fought our way out of an ambush south of Baghdad, and Al-Qaeda had put a bounty on my head for greasing one of their suicide bombers.
Now I was standing in the middle of a holding cell on the tiny island of Nantucket in Massachusetts.
I’d made it back to the island via the last ferry, parked my car and grabbed my gear.It’s good to be home,I’d thought as I walked to my house.
Actually, I hadn’t exactly walked to my house—it was more like I sneaked in. And to be clear, the gear I’d grabbed was a Sig Sauer pistol, a Colt .45, an AR-15, and an HK MP5 submachine gun with all the fixings.
I get why that might’ve seemed suspicious.
Moments later, I was laid out on my kitchen floor, forcibly arrested by the seven legitimately deputized agents of the federal government who’d been waiting inside.
My overseas heroics didn’t seem to matter much to the guys who’d thrown me in jail last night. I’ve been shot at on many occasions and made it out without a scratch. But this was my first time in jail. Not exactly Rikers or Sing Sing, I know—not much violent crime on this island since Nantucket’s days as the whaling capital of the world—but a pain in the ass all the same.
So here I was, my pesky ego starting to hurt as much as the ass kicking I’d gotten from the feds earlier. I could see the local boys in blue and the other agents glancing over their shoulders at me in the cage.Fuck them.I just stared back. I didn’t hide my contempt.
I shook my head, gathered my thoughts, and took stock of my surroundings, though I sure as shit wasn’t planning on staying here long.
I had a cellmate. He was about eighteen—twenty, max—and not going to pose much of a threat. As soon as we made eye contact, he shifted nervously and looked at the floor. It must have been his first time in jail, too.
“Nice watch,” I said.
“Uh, thanks,” he replied, nervously trying to pull the sleeve of his sweater down over the glistening silver band. He was a tall, good-looking kid with a lanky runner’s body that stretched to just over six feet. The few days of summer growth on his face didn’t amount to much. He was dressed like a typical summer resident; shorts, sandals, an old fishing sweater—and a $6,000 Rolex, the Submariner with the green bezel.
