Remington buttoned the flap over his pistol holster as he turned the corner in front of the burned-out shell that had once housed the restaurant. He pushed all thought of Abu and the man’s execution from his mind. Maybe in the quiet of night that memory would return, but he knew why things had to happen the way they did. He’d stepped over the line, but he could live with it because it was for a good reason.
The RSOV’s driver stood at the front of the vehicle smoking a cigarette and holding his assault rifle in one hand. His attention was focused on a midnight-blue Mercedes sports coupe idling in the street beside the Ranger vehicle.
Remington’s adrenaline spiked as his gaze swept the luxury car. No one was supposed to be here. Certainly not some media geek with a camera. He scanned the nearby rooftops, wondering if Hardin or his team had somehow tipped off one of the broadcast groups. With the dead man in the cellar, the Ranger captain knew his career might end in the next few seconds.
Taking a deep breath, Remington pushed the throbbing fear from his mind. He was in control. No matter what, he was going to stay in control. He continued forward.
4
United States 75th Army Rangers Temporary Post
Sanliurfa, Turkey
Local Time 0628 Hours
Black-tinted windows masked from Remington’s view whoever sat inside the blue Mercedes. The German engine ran so quietly it couldn’t be heard over the distant noises of the city, the vehicular traffic as well as the earthmovers. A helicopter buzzed overhead, but the pilot gave no indication of interest in the Mercedes.
A chill ghosted through Remington as he surveyed the vehicle and looked for clues about its origin. The vehicle gave the air of being an alien creature plopped down in the middle of the city’s ruins. It looked too complete and too powerful to be touched by the vagaries of the war that had left Sanliurfa broken and shattered. The vanity plate on its front bumper read DEALZ.
“Captain Remington.” The RSOV driver caught sight of Remington and wheeled around. He flicked the cigarette from his fingertips, crushed it underfoot, and stood immediately at attention. He snapped off a quick salute.
Remington returned the salute. “At ease, Private.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We have company,” Remington observed.
“Yes, sir. A man to see you, sir.”
“What man?” Remington never broke stride, but his hand drifted down to the holstered M9. No one had known in advance that he was going to be at the restaurant other than Hardin’s handpicked crew. The driver hadn’t known before Remington had given him instructions. Until Hardin and his team got rid of Abu’s body, Remington couldn’t afford to be tied to this site.
“The man didn’t give his name, sir,” the private answered.
“You didn’t ask, Private?”
The private hesitated as if confused. “I confronted him, sir. I asked his name. That’s SOP. He told me he didn’t have to give me his name. He said that you would understand.”
The statement made no sense to Remington. Getting names of people in a secure area was one of the first things a soldier working a post did—standard operating procedure.
“What does he want?” Remington asked.
“To speak with you, sir.”
“Why?”
The private shook his head and looked lost. “I don’t know, sir.” His brow wrinkled in frustration. “I know I should have asked. I was going to ask. But he told me everything was going to be all right.” A perplexed look twisted his features. “I guess—I guess that I believed him, sir.”
Closer to the Mercedes now, Remington peered at the black glass and wondered who would be stupid enough to drive a Mercedes sports coupe into a war zone. He wondered even more how the car had stayed in showroom condition. Dust hadn’t even settled on the midnight blue exterior. The finish gleamed like fresh-poured metal. Only Remington’s reflection showed in the black-tinted window that was as shiny and nonreflective as oil pumped from a deep well.
Then the passenger window rolled down, sliding easily in its grooved channel, like the smoothly articulated movement of a trained athlete. Remington’s reflection melted away and revealed the man sitting behind the steering wheel.
“Captain Remington,” the man called out in a thick accent. The man had a shaved head and a rounded goatee of rich copper hair. His complexion was pale, as blemish-free as young, clean bone. Wraparound sunglasses hid the man’s eyes. He wore a charcoal, pin-striped suit that fitted him as if it was tailor-made. In fact, Remington was pretty sure it had been.
“Do I know you?” Remington asked.
The man grinned, splitting the goatee and creating dimples in both cheeks. He didn’t look older than twentysomething.
“No. You don’t know me yet, Captain Remington,” the man said. “But you’ll be glad you met me.”
Remembering the vanity plate on the front of the car, Remington said, “If this is a sales pitch, I’m not interested.” He walked behind the RSOV and up to the passenger seat, standing between the Ranger vehicle and the Mercedes.
“Not a sales pitch,” the man promised. “A deal.”
“I’m not interested in any deals either.”
The man leaned across the seat toward the open window. “I think you’ll be interested in this one, Captain.” He paused. “I guarantee you that it will be much better than the deal you gave Abu Alam just now.”
Anxiety ripped through Remington like a Bouncing Betty land mine. The initial surprise leaped up at him just as the deadly booby trap was designed to do, then shattered into a thousand screaming pieces that ran throughout his mind.
Dropping his hand to his hip, Remington drew the M9 pistol, thumbed off the safety, and pointed the weapon at the driver of the Mercedes.
Still grinning, showing no fear at all, the man lifted his hands before him in surrender. Black driving gloves encased his hands.
“I assure you, Captain, you have no need for weapons. Or for violence of any kind.”
Wary, knowing he was somehow trapped, that Hardin hadn’t been as circumspect in his delivery of Abu
