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Wicker’s vantage point was from the top of a building across from the one where the meeting was scheduled to take place. While Wick was undoubtedly one of the best snipers on the planet, his job at this point was just to observe. The goal was to capture and interrogate this asshole, not to kill him.

Maslick waited, noting that his heart rate was higher than it normally would be during a firefight. He didn’t know shit about logistics, and while this op would have been a cakewalk for Coleman or Rapp, it had too many moving parts for him to keep track of. Instead of one target, there were three. Instead of a conventional vehicle, there was an armored Mercedes. Was it possible that these sons of bitches had backup? Maybe Wick wasn’t the only shooter on high ground right now in Rabat.

Maslick was starting to sweat so badly it was going to be hard to hold a gun, something that had never happened to him before. Not in Afghanistan. Not in Iraq. Not even in that disaster in Pakistan.

Reason number fifty he shouldn’t be running this op. Or was that fifty-one?

“The target’s stopped,” Wicker said. “One man getting out of the back. Doesn’t look Egyptian to me. Full Saudi getup—ten-thousand-dollar suit and a tablecloth on his head.”

Maslick swore under his breath.

“I didn’t copy that, Mas. Say again.”

“Did you get a picture?”

“Yeah. Not perfect, but probably good enough for the cover of Terrorist Prick magazine.”

Maslick slammed a hand against the steering wheel and then wiped at the sweat running down his forehead. Everything he’d been told by the analysts was now officially complete bullshit. This had just gone from a by-the-numbers rendition to an on-the-fly improvisation.

“Send it to Langley. See if we can get anything off facial recognition.”

CHAPTER 3

Al-Shirqat

Iraq

RAPP glanced at the glowing hands of his battered

Timex watch and then behind him into the darkness. While he couldn’t see much, he could hear plenty. Dawn was bearing down on them and they were moving at half his worst-case pace with twice his worst-case noise. The plan was to be well into the open desert by sunrise. Clearly, that wasn’t going to happen. Time to come up with a plan B.

Gaffar slipped around a fallen column and Rapp followed his bulky outline as it approached.

“I told you to stay in the back and sweep,” he said when the Iraqi came alongside.

“I understand, but this isn’t going well, Mitch. Ali is struggling and Yusef says he twisted his ankle. It’s going to slow our progress further.”

That seemed impossible. There were people in nursing homes who could have made it to the edge of town by now.

“How far into the desert do we need to travel, Mitch?”

“About fifteen kilometers. It wasn’t hard for me to drop close to town, but bringing a chopper in is too risky. There are too many patrols.”

The rest of their people started trickling in after an excruciatingly long five minutes. The woman whose name he couldn’t remember was first, keeping a reasonable pace. Not surprising. If anyone was motivated to get the hell out of al-Shirqat, it would be her. The perfunctory decapitation or firing squad ISIS would use to deal with the rest of them was downright humane compared with what they did to women.

“Tell me your name again,” Rapp said quietly to her.

“Shada.”

“Where’s your husband, Shada?”

“Helping Yusef.”

It took four more minutes for the rest of them to gather. Yusef was limping badly with an arm looped over Mohammed’s shoulder for support. Rapp was accustomed to working with soldiers who would go to extraordinary—sometimes even counterproductive—lengths to hide fatigue and weakness. Yusef, in contrast, seemed to be milking it.

The temptation to grab him by the hair and have a serious heart-to-heart about their current situation was overwhelming, but it would just make things worse. These were young civilians who had spent the last few weeks living out in the elements and the last few years living in hell. They were running on fumes, and when those fumes were exhausted, they wouldn’t be able to switch over to determination or pride or loyalty to keep them going. They’d drop.

Rapp sank to one knee and motioned for the others to gather around him. “Change of plans. Trying to walk out of town and across fifteen kilometers of desert isn’t going to happen. We’re going to have to get a vehicle.”

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