Sword of God

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

As always, I'd like to start off by thanking my parents, Andrew and Joyce Kuzneski. They've been with me from the very beginning-literally-and their love and support have never faltered. I feel truly blessed to be their son.

Professionally, I'd like to thank Scott Miller, my remarkable agent. Before we teamed up, I couldn't find a publisher. Now my books are available around the world. While I'm at it, I'd like to mention Claire Roberts, my foreign agent, and the entire staff at Trident Media. Every time I hear from them, they have more good news.

Speaking of which, the best news I've received so far was my deal with Berkley. It's been a pleasure to work with my editor, Natalee Rosenstein. She took a chance on my last book, Sign of the Cross, and I'll never forget it. Thanks for all you've done. The same can be said for Michelle Vega and everyone at Penguin. I have nothing but compliments for the entire Penguin Group.

Next, I'd like to thank Ian Harper for living in L.A. When I'm writing, I tend to call him in the middle of the night with all kinds of strange research questions, and that three-hour time difference means he's actually awake. Thanks for being there!

Finally, a big thanks to all the readers, booksellers, and librarians who have read my books or recommended them. Obviously, at this stage of my career I need all the help I can get, so I truly appreciate your support.

He who leads a holy war wields the sword of God.

– Paccius, Roman general (circa 27 ad)

South Korea

1

Saturday, December 23

Jeju Island, South Korea

(sixty miles south of the Korean Peninsula)

The boy could smell the blood from fifty yards away. A strong, pungent odor that made him gag yet piqued his curiosity. Common sense told him to turn around and get some help. His father. His mother. One of his neighbors. Anyone who could protect him from what he was about to discover. But common sense rarely mattered to an eight-year-old.

Especially when he was somewhere he wasn't supposed to be.

The valley to his right was lined with camphor trees, many seventy-five feet tall and a hundred feet wide. The path in front of him was rugged, made of black volcanic rock that dominated the subtropical island and formed its very core. The temperature was cold, in the low forties, but would climb steadily as the day wore on, a by-product of the nearby Kuroshio and Tsushima currents. The sun was still rising over the eastern sea when he made his choice. He zipped his jacket over his nose and inched forward, following the stench of death.

For years his family had warned him about this place, claiming it was built for evil. It was a story that wasn't difficult to believe. Sometimes, late at night, he could hear the screams-bloodcurdling shrieks that oozed down the hillside and jostled him from his sleep. The first time he heard them he assumed he was having a nightmare, but the sounds didn't stop when he sat up in bed. In fact, they got louder. This went on for days, weeks, until he could take no more.

He had to know the truth.

Ignoring his family's wishes, he snuck into town and asked one of the village elders about the sounds from the hill. The old man laughed at the boy's audacity. He, too, had been a curious child and felt this trait should be rewarded-but only if the boy could understand the truth.

"Look at me," the old man ordered in Korean. "Let me see your eyes."

The boy knew he was being tested. He stared at the old man, refusing to blink, hoping to prove his courage even though his palms were sweating and his knees were trembling.

Tension filled the hut for several seconds. The entire time the boy could barely breathe.

Finally, the old man nodded. The boy was ready for the truth, if for no other reason than to keep him afraid of the place on the hill, to keep him alive. Sometimes fear was a blessing.

With a grave face and a gravelly voice, the old man whispered a single name that was known throughout Jeju, a place that sent shivers down the boy's spine and woke the hairs on his neck.

Pe-Ui Je Dan.

The boy gasped at its mention. The place was so infamous, so ominous, that other details weren't necessary. He had heard the stories, just like everyone else on the island. Yet until that moment he had thought they were just a myth, an urban legend that had made it across the Sea of Japan for the sake of scaring children into doing their chores. But the old man assured him that wasn't the case. Not only was it real, it was close. Just up the path.

At that moment, the boy promised that he'd never venture up there. And he meant it, too. It was a vow he intended to keep. Not only for his safety, but also for the safety of his village.

Unfortunately, all of that changed on the morning he smelled the blood.

As strange as it seemed, there was something about the scent that attracted him. Something magnetic. Animalistic. One minute he was walking to the store, the next he was tracking the scent like a wolf. Crunching up the rocky path, looking for its source as if nothing else mattered. Sadly, this happened all the time in the world of children-courage and curiosity taking them places where they didn't belong- yet rarely did it lead them into so much danger.

The boy didn't know it as he trudged up the hill, but he was about to kill his village.

2

Thursday, December 28 Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

The Payne Industries Building sat atop Mount Washington, high above the city of Pittsburgh. It was a vantage point that showcased one of die best skylines in the country. From his office, Jonathon Payne could see the confluence of three rivers (die Monongahela and Allegheny flowing together to form the Ohio), two pro sports stadiums (PNC Park and Heinz Field), and a World War II submarine (the USS Requin).

Yet on this day, the thing that captured his attention was the helicopter.

He heard it roar down the river valley, nearly brushing the Gateway Clipper and the top of the Smithfield Street Bridge. It soared over die twinkling lights of Station Square and flew parallel to the 635-foot track of the Monongahela Incline, a landmark built in 1870. The old-fashioned cable car chugged up the hill at six miles per hour, a slow pace compared to the chopper, which banked sharply and aimed right toward Payne's building.

The glass and steel structure was built by his grandfather, a self-made millionaire who went from mill worker to mill owner in less than thirty years. Payne revered the man, yet had bypassed the family business for a career in the military. There he'd led a Special Forces unit called the MANIACs, an elite counterinsurgency team comprised of the top soldiers that the Marines, Army, Navy, Air Force, and Coast Guard could find. Whether it was personnel recovery, unconventional warfare, or counterguerrilla sabotage, the MANIACs were the best of the best.

Payne reflected on those days as he listened to the roar of the chopper while it hovered outside his window. It transported him to another time and place, back when he carried a gun for protection and a knife for fun. When he risked his life and killed for his country without giving it a second thought. Back before his grandfather had died and left him a corporation to run. That was the main reason he had left the military-to honor his grandfather's dying wish.

The shrill of the desk phone cut Payne's memories short. Annoyed, he let it ring a few more times before he answered, finally turning to face the window to see who was calling. He stared at the chopper, eye to eye, more than a thousand feet above the city. The only thing separating them was three inches of bulletproof glass and Payne's reluctance to get back in the game.

"This is Payne."

"This is Colonel Harrington. Sorry to drop in like this, but we've got a situation."

Payne had heard those words hundreds of times before, and it always meant trouble. Once in his lifetime, he wanted to hear the term situation followed by a dose of good news.

"Colonel, I'm guessing you didn't get my memo, but I'm retired." Harrington growled. "I'm guessing you didn't get my memo. I don't give a fuck."

The chopper landed on the building's helipad, where it was greeted by four armed security guards who questioned the pilot and searched the aircraft before escorting the colonel inside. Unarmed, he wore the domes of a civilian-khaki pants, white dress shirt, black overcoat-an outfit that would have blended in with the business world, if not for his dramatic arrival. Normally Payne's visitors parked in the garage under the building instead of on the roof.

Then again, his entrance wasn't the only thing that stood out. There was something about Harrington, a quality that one noticed but couldn't put a finger on. Maybe it was his board-straight posture or his striking white hair, shorn tight on the sides. Whatever it was, he had a presence. An air. One felt it when he walked into a room. The man commanded attention.

Payne waited for him in the conference room, a chestnut-lined chamber equipped with the latest audiovisual gadgets-computers, plasma screens, high-speed connections. Plus it was windowless, which was the best safeguard against laser-guided listening devices. Or getting lased, as the military calls it. A single video camera, mounted in the far corner, tracked Harrington as he strode toward Payne, who stood at the head of the conference table.

Instead of saluting, Harrington simply nodded. "Colonel Joshua Harrington, U.S. Army."

Payne looked him straight in the eye. "Jonathon Payne, U.S. Navy. Retired."

"Yes, Payne, you've made that quite clear. Still, I think you'll want to hear me out on this."

"Oh, yeah? Why's that?"

"Because it involves you."

Payne was not surprised. "That's a shocker." Harrington sneered and sat in one of the leather chairs. He waited there, poker-faced, until Payne took a seat as well. "This also involves that buddy of yours, David Jones. Is he here?"

Payne nodded. "Yeah, I think he's still around. Do you want me to get him?"

"No need. I'll get him myself." Harrington pointed toward the video camera in the corner of the ceiling, then pointed to the chair next to Payne. "Don't worry. He'll be here shortly."

Payne grinned, duly impressed. The colonel was in the room less than thirty seconds yet had properly assessed the situation. Jones was watching them from an adjacent room, running a background check on Harrington while Payne handled the small talk. The fact that the colonel was able to sort things out so quickly said a lot about the man. Somehow it proved his worth.

So did the credentials that appeared on Jones's computer screen. Harrington was a graduate of West Point and earned his silver eagle the old-fashioned way: by going to war and being a hero. In fact, the more Jones read, the more surprised he was that he'd never met him before. His resume read like a Tom Clancy novel. Only six hundred pages shorter.

A moment later, Jones entered the room with the look of a busted schoolboy, a combination of shame and embarrassment that would have been much more apparent if his flushed cheeks showed through his black skin. He was tempted to offer an apology but realized it wasn't necessary. He was simply running security on an officer he had never met. It was protocol.

"So, did I check out? Did I pass your little test?" Harrington pulled his bifocals from the inner pocket of his overcoat and slipped them on. "Or do you want my fingerprints, too?"

Jones was tempted to flip him off and say, Yeah, let's start with the middle finger.

But Payne didn't give him a chance. "So, Colonel, what can we help you with?"

"Who said anything about helping me? Do I look like I need your help?"

Payne and Jones exchanged glances. They were confused by Harrington's tone.

"Correct me if I'm wrong," Payne said, "but you just buzzed my building with your chopper and demanded to speak with me ASAP. My guess is you're either here for help or you're out delivering Christmas cookies. And if that's the case, you're three days late."

Jones stared at Harrington. "You have cookies? Do you have any with green sprinkles?"

The colonel ignored their banter-he had been warned about Payne and Jones's antics-and flipped through his folder instead. It was filled with maps, photographs, and reports. All of them stamped CLASSIFIED in red letters. "Gentlemen, let me be blunt. I don't want to be here, talking to non-army personnel. I think it's a total waste of time, both mine and yours. However, the Pentagon felt you might offer something to my investigation, although I can't figure out what." With a disapproving eye, he glanced around the room. "It's obvious you've gone soft."

"Soft?" Payne echoed.

"Yes, soft. You and your fancy-ass leather chairs and your Radio Shack surveillance equipment. How long have you been out of the service? Four years? The entire infrastructure of the military has changed in that time. How in the hell can you possibly help me?"

Somehow Payne managed to keep a straight face. He pondered things for a moment, trying to read between the lines of the colonel's rant. No one in his right mind would show up with this much attitude unless he was trying to pick a fight. And the only purpose that would serve is if Harrington wanted to end this conversation before it got started. And that didn't make sense. If Harrington wanted to have a fifteen-second chat, he could've done that by phone. The fact that he flew here from Washington meant something else was going on. Something less obvious.

Suddenly Payne figured it out. At least he hoped he had.

"Colonel, I have to admit I was this close to throwing you out of my fancy-ass chair. Then it dawned on me, there's no way the Pentagon would've sent a total prick like you without giving me some kind of warning. Therefore, I'm going to assume that you're acting like an ass in order to test us, maybe trying to see if we've lost any discipline during the past few years. If that's the case, I gotta commend you. Because you've got that asshole thing down pat."

Payne hoped he had guessed right, but if not, so what? He was retired and had enough money to live for the rest of his life. What did it matter if he told off some jackass from D.C.?

Still, the room grew uncomfortable while Payne waited for a reaction.

Finally, he got the one he was hoping for: Colonel Harrington broke into a smile.

"Forgive my rudeness," Harrington explained, "but I had to know what I was dealing with. There's no way I was going to entrust you with this information if I didn't think you could handle some heat. Because, trust me, there's going to be some major heat on this one."

"What kind?" Jones asked.

"International, domestic, political. We've got the potential for a world-class shitstorm, and right now we're missing our weatherman."

Payne deciphered the statement. "Does this weatherman have a name?"

"One you're familiar with: Captain Trevor Schmidt. I believe you trained him with the MANIACs."

Payne and Jones both nodded. They had run the unit for several years, and Schmidt was one of their favorites. A black-haired kid from Columbus, Ohio, who had a passion for war and a taste for revenge. Then again, that could have described anyone in the MANIACs. They were a special group with a unique assignment: Do anything necessary, but don't get caught.

"When was Schmidt last seen?" Jones asked.

"We aren't really sure."

"How about where?"

"We don't know that, either."

"Okay, Colonel, let's approach this from a different angle. What do you know?"

Harrington shrugged. "We know that he's missing. Him and his entire squad. Gone, like fucking ghosts."

Payne grimaced. "I don't believe in ghosts."

"Neither did I. At least not until recently. Now I'm not so sure."

Somehow the Department of Defense had managed to lose an entire squad, which was pretty tough to do with modern Combat Survivor/Evader Locator (CSEL) radios, technology that provided precise geoposition and navigation data to rescue parties. That meant Schmidt was running a classified black op, a covert operation that the Pentagon didn't want anyone--not even Combat Search and Rescue (CSAR)-to know about.

"Tell me, how black was the mission?"

"Black as you can get," Harrington answered. "And it's my job to keep it that way."

"If that's the case, why bring us into it? Why go out of house?"

"Is it because I'm black?" Jones asked.

Harrington ignored him. "The reality is you trained Schmidt so you might be able to give us some insight into the way he thinks-where he'll go, what he'll do, who he'll rely on. The truth is you MANIACs are an interesting breed, one with a unique sense of warfare that no one fully understands but yourselves. Furthermore, two generals and an admiral assured me I'd be a fool if I didn't use you as a resource."

"Just a resource? Nothing more than that?"

"Actually, I'd welcome you aboard in any capacity. Whether that's here or in the field."

Payne glanced at Jones, who was nodding eagerly. That wasn't a surprise because Jones was always up for another mission. Upon his retirement from the military, he became a private detective, setting up shop in Payne's office building, a way for the best friends to grab lunch whenever possible. Unfortunately, the life of a Pittsburgh PI was not nearly as glamorous as Jones had imagined, especially compared to the missions he ran for the MANIACs. How could taking pictures of cheating spouses ever compare with killing terrorists or blowing up bridges?

Payne, on the other hand, was more reluctant. He wasn't fully comfortable in the corporate world, opting to donate most of his time to local charities instead of living at the office the way his grandfather had. But that didn't mean Payne was willing to risk it all. If he was killed without an heir, he knew Payne Industries would be dismantled, piece by piece, and sold to the highest bidder. And that was something he couldn't let happen. He loved his grandfather way too much to dishonor his life's work by doing something reckless.

Still, Payne felt a similar obligation to his military career, an unwavering devotion to his country and the men he trained. If one of them was in trouble, he knew it was his duty to help-whether that was as a behind-the-scenes resource or as an expert in the field. Hell, he couldn't live with himself if he opted to sit on the sidelines while one of his men needed him. In his mind, that would be far more irresponsible than risking his own life to help.

"Okay, Colonel. We're willing to lend you a hand. What do you need us to do?"

"I need you to come with me. We'll have plenty of time to talk en route."

"En route?" Jones asked. "To where?"

Harrington stood from his chair. "Korea."

Payne winced. He wasn't expecting such a long trip. "North or South?"

"Does it matter?"

"Of course it matters. I need to know how much ammo to pack."

Harrington smiled an all-knowing smile. "Don't worry, Payne. Packing won't be an issue. I already sent some men to your homes. Your clothes are waiting at the airport."

3

The plane departed from a cargo hangar at Pittsburgh International Airport, far away from the main terminal. It was a nonstop flight to Los Angeles followed by trips to Hawaii, the Marshall Islands, and Japan. Harrington would accompany them to California, briefing them on the way. After that, Payne and Jones would travel overseas on their own, which was the Pentagon's way of ensuring deniability.

Payne got comfortable for the long trip, changing into a gray Naval Academy sweatsuit that accommodated his 6-4, 240-pound frame. He had played two sports (football and basketball) at Annapolis, yet made his name in a different arena: kicking ass. It didn't matter if he was facing ninjas or Nazis, Payne had the innate ability to isolate his opponent's weakness and exploit it, using a combination of strength, quickness, and leverage. He had refined his skills over the years, training at Fort Bragg, Naval Base Coronado, and several dojos around the world. Yet none of them could take full credit for turning Payne into a warrior. That particular gift was a blessing from God. A part of his DNA, just like his brown hair or hazel eyes.

He made his way to the back of the plane, where a conference area had been assembled. Four first-class chairs surrounded a wooden table, cluttered with three laptop computers, several manila folders, and a thermos full of coffee. Harrington sat on the left, growling into his cell phone, telling someone to do something ASAP or he was going to kill the guy's mother. Meanwhile, Jones sat on the right, staring at his computer screen.

"Anything interesting?" Payne asked as he buckled himself into his seat.

"Not really. The colonel blocked every porn site on the Internet."

Harrington hung up at the mention of his name. "What was that, Jones?"

"I told Jon that you've been keeping important details to yourself."

He knew Jones was lying but wasn't going to press it. "So, Payne, now that you're in your jammies, are you ready to begin?"

Payne gave him a mock salute. "I'm comfy and accounted for."

"Oh, goody." Harrington opened the top folder and removed a single photograph. "Captain Trevor Schmidt, thirty-five, served as a MANIAC until three years ago. Based on your recommendation, he was selected to lead his own crew, one that did special projects in the Persian Gulf."

"Meaning what?" Jones asked.

"Meaning they're none of your goddamned business."

"Great! Thanks for clearing that up."

Harrington stared at him, unaccustomed to backtalk. "As I was saying, Schmidt kicked a lot of ass during his first year. No matter what we asked-and we asked a lot- he got it done. We were thrilled with his results and quickly increased his workload. That is, until the incident."

Payne arched an eyebrow. "The incident?"

"You know how it goes. We got some piss-poor intel and dropped his crew into a zone that was much hotter than we expected. Of course, he kept his composure and handled himself brilliantly. I don't know how he did it, but the bastard managed to fight his way out. Several injuries to his crew but no deaths."

Jones beamed. "That doesn't sound like an incident. That sounds like a MANIAC."

"Actually, that wasn't the incident. The incident came later." Harrington opened one of his folders and slid it across the table. Neither Payne nor Jones looked at it. They knew that what Harrington was about to say was far more important than what was written in the report.

Reports were written in black and white. They were more interested in color.

"As you know, our military has a strong presence in the Persian Gulf. Iraq, Iran, Kuwait. Every Arab nation in that godforsaken desert. We've been there for years and we'll be there for years-even places the president doesn't know about. Unfortunately, when you're talking about thousands of soldiers, you can't keep everything a secret. Bases are sitting targets. Troop movements are constantly monitored. So are our warships in the gulf and the Red Sea. We do our best to protect our men, but let's face it: war is war. There are going to be casualties."

Harrington tapped his folder for emphasis. "Your boy Schmidt did everything right. He protected his wounded, secured transportation, and got the hell out without announcing his position. He avoided the hostiles for several hours, waiting until he was far from the hot zone before calling in air support. Eventually, his crew was picked up, patched up, and taken to Taif."

Taif Air Base is in the foothills of Saudi Arabia, approximately an hour's drive to Mecca and a two-hour drive to Jeddah, a historic Muslim city near the Red Sea. Taif is home to the U.S. Military Training Mission (USMTM), a joint training program between the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia and U.S. Central Command from MacDill Air Force Base in Tampa, Florida. The goal is to provide military advisers to the Royal Saudi Air and Land Forces while providing protection to U.S. Department of Defense personnel stationed in Taif. More than three hundred Westerners, working for companies such as McDonnell Douglas and Pratt amp; Whitney, live in the Al-Gaim Compound, a modern community with an American feel. Al-Hada Hospital, a Saudi facility staffed mostly by Westerners, provides basic medical and dental care. But in emergencies, USAF flight surgeon support was available from Prince Sultan Hospital and other neighboring bases.

"Obviously, we didn't admit our fuckup. We rarely do. But we knew we couldn't send Schmidt's crew right back into action. Half his men were hospitalized; the other half were pissed. So we decided to give them some extended downtime in the plush confines of Al-Gaim."

Jones smirked. "Not exactly a trip to the Ritz. Yet better than Baghdad."

Payne ignored his partner, focusing on the missing details of Harrington's explanation. "Unless I'm mistaken, you still haven't mentioned the incident."

Harrington nodded. "Schmidt and his men were valuable assets, and we tried to smooth things over by flying in the families of the wounded. Some of them were in intensive care, so we figured it was the least we could for morale purposes. Turns out it made things worse."

"How so?"

"Just look at the report. Everything's in there."

Payne shook his head. "I'd rather hear it from you."

Harrington stared at Payne, still trying to figure him out. Payne's credentials were impeccable, yet he still didn't have a feel for the man. Who was he? The decorated soldier who captained one of the finest fighting units in modern warfare, or a burned-out officer who retired from the military in his midthirties for a cushy desk job in a penthouse office? Until he figured that out, Harrington was going to analyze Payne's every move and second-guess his every action.

But for the time being, he decided to play along and answer his questions.

"As I mentioned, we brought in their families. I'm talking parents, wives, kids, girlfriends. We even flew in a dog. We had extra housing at Al-Gaim, so we figured what the fuck." Harrington paused, garnering his thoughts. "The third morning we bused them over to the hospital for visiting hours, just like we'd done the previous two days. Schmidt actually drove them himself, making sure his wounded men and their families were as comfortable as possible before he left for a briefing back at Taif Air Base."

Jones smiled. "That sounds like Trevor. He was a top-notch soldier but a better person."

"Maybe back then. But after the incident, the Schmidt you knew ceased to exist."

Middle East

4

Friday, December 29

Taif, Saudi Arabia

(Forty-one miles southeast of Mecca)

A cloud of sand followed the car as it turned off the main highway and bounced across the rough road that led to the compound. Fred Nasir was a tanned middle-aged man wearing a baseball cap, sunglasses, and casual clothes. He grinned as he parked his Toyota Camry, the most popular car in Saudi Arabia, near the front gate. Thrilled to finally be there.

A team of American soldiers, wearing desert camouflage and carrying assault rifles, swarmed the car before Nasir had a chance to open his door. Some looked under his vehicle with mirrors attached to long poles, while others probed his trunk for explosives. The men moved in unison, like a NASCAR pit crew, doing their designated task without getting in each other's way. Finally, after thirty seconds, an all clear was given.

But instead of returning to their posts, the soldiers took five steps back and aimed their weapons at the car. Suddenly Nasir was in their crosshairs, a split second away from death. Certainly not the greeting he was expecting.

His heart leaped into his throat.

The lead guard moved forward, raised his handgun, and aimed it at Nasir's face. He held it there. Silent. Poised and ready to shoot. He did not smile. He did not blink. He simply waited for Nasir to do something stupid. A flinch. A twitch. Even a sneeze would have resulted in a nasty scene. But Nasir remained frozen. Calm. At least on the outside. Internally, he was having a far different reaction. His heart was racing, his stomach was churning, adrenaline was surging like a tsunami. Yet what could he do? At this moment he had to play by their rules.

Seconds ticked like minutes while the tension continued to mount. Finally the guard tilted the angle of his gun upward and used its muzzle to tap on the glass. The click, click, click was a welcome sound to the driver, who took a deep breath and slowly lowered his window. A rush of hot desert air surged into the car, returning the color to Nasir's cheeks.

"Papers?" the guard asked. It was more of an order than a question.

Nasir obliged, careful not to move too quickly. Still conscious of the crosshairs.

"Nationality?"

"I'm an American."

"Really? You look foreign to me."

"Yet I'm an American. Look at my passport."

The guard sneered and leaned closer. "Are you telling me what to do?"

"No! Of course not. I would never do that. I'm just-"

"You're just what?"

Nasir took a deep breath. He couldn't believe he had been talked into this. It was going all wrong. "I'm just an American. That's all I'm saying."

The guard stared at Nasir's face, then glanced at his passport. It looked valid. So did his travel visa and the rest of his paperwork. He lowered his weapon and signaled the on-duty officer in the security booth. "State your business."

"I'm here to meet a friend in the main dining hall."

He glanced at a list of visitors and noticed Nasir's name. His visit had been preapproved. "Good choice. The delivery truck just rolled in from our commissary over in Riyadh. Those guys hook us up whenever they can. Rumor has it they brought in a case of Oreos today."

Another security guard, who heard the tail end of the conversation, approached with Nasir's parking pass. "Double Stuf Oreos. That means twice the cream."

Nasir tried to look enthused but had more important things to worry about than cookies.

"Put this on your dash and park your car in the guest lot." The guard pointed to a row of cars just inside the compound walls. Flashing his gun, he added, "And don't worry about it being stolen. It's the safest parking lot in the world."

If not for the snipers and the barbed-wire fence, Al-Gaim would have felt like Main Street, U.S.A. Nasir was surrounded by dozens of American-style homes of all shapes and sizes, each of them furnished with televisions, dishwashers, microwaves, washers, and dryers. An Olympic-size swimming pool graced the community, as did racquetball, tennis, and basketball courts. Farther down, there was a movie theater and a four-lane bowling alley.

All in all, it wasn't a bad place to live-as long as the first axiom of real estate was ignored. The one that stressed the importance of location, location, location. Despite having all the charms of suburbia, Al-Gaim was nestled in the volatile foothills of Saudi Arabia, deep in the heart of Islam. Where the average daytime temperature was pretty close to hell's.

Thankfully, Nasir's walk to the rendezvous point was a short one. He strolled quickly, trying to ignore all the snipers who were watching him. His only concern was getting to the dining hall, where he had to follow the strict orders he'd been given over the phone.

Take a seat. Pour a glass of water. Try to remain calm.

But the truth was, Nasir was petrified. If he were caught, he would be killed. It was as simple as that. There wouldn't be a trial. There wouldn't be a jury. There would simply be an execution, one where his body wouldn't be found and his family wouldn't be notified. He would simply disappear into the desert, a mystery that would never be solved.

Today's number one goal was to prevent that from happening.

His contact walked across the dining hall like he had worked there for years. He certainly looked the part, wearing the same greasy white apron as the kitchen staff while doing all the things that a good worker should. He pushed in chairs. He rearranged condiments. He stacked dirty dishes in a plastic bin. All of this seemed ordinary-even to Nasir, who was looking for him. Yet none of his actions seemed out of place. Even his approach to his table was normal.

He pointed to the glass of water. "You done with that, or will you be eating something?"

It took a moment for the question to register. When it did, Nasir's heart skipped a beat. It was the code they had agreed upon. This was his contact, for a moment, he forgot how he was supposed to respond. Then it came to him. "I don't know. Is it safe eating here?"

"I eat here every clay and I'm still breathing." A huge smile filled his face. "Our food ain't fancy, but it's better than eating camel."

The man reached into his apron's pouch and pulled out a take-out menu, which he casually handed to Nasir. At least that's how it appeared to the guards who were monitoring the dining hall via security cameras. This was the twelfth menu he had handed out during his shift, so his action appeared innocuous. No reason for any alarm or concern.

Of course, the guards couldn't see what was hidden inside. It was the reason Nasir had risked his life to visit Al-Gaim. The reason why all that money had been given to him and why this handoff was taking place in the middle of a U.S. military compound.

As amazing as it seemed, the menu was the key to everything.

5

U.S. Army Base, Kwajalein

Republic of the Marshall Islands

(2,136 miles southwest of Hawaii)

After being briefed by Colonel Harrington, Payne and Jones slept for an entire day-at least according to the calendar. In reality, they took a four-hour nap during their flight from Hawaii to the Marshall Islands but crossed the International Date Line (longitude 180°) in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, a spot halfway around the world from Greenwich, England.

So far their mission had gone as planned, flying from Pittsburgh to L.A. to Honolulu without any delays. They might have been a few years removed from the military, yet Payne and Jones were seasoned veterans when it came to long trips. They knew when to eat, when to sleep, and when to piss-all in order to hit the ground running. Most travelers would have bitched and moaned about spending so much time in the air, but not them. They were so accustomed to jumping out of planes in the dead of night, not knowing if they were ever going to see the sunrise again, that they viewed this trip as luxurious.

No parachutes or drop zones. Just pillows and playing cards.

Technically, the Marshall Islands is a sovereign nation that signed a Compact of Free Association with the United States in 1986. But that's just fancy political talk. In simple terms, the United States has full authority and responsibility to protect the Marshall Islands. In return, the U.S. Department of Defense was given use of the Kwajalein Atoll, which consists of ninety islets and one of the largest lagoons in the world, and allowed to lease eleven nearby islands for the Ronald Reagan Ballistic Missile Defense Test Site-also known as the Reagan Test Site, or RTS. This Pacific weapons site is a vital cog in America's defense system, not only because of its strategic location but also because of its sophisticated research technology.

Once the plane touched down, Jones grabbed one of his bags and headed for the front hatch. "How long do we have to kill?"

Payne shrugged, trailing his partner. "A few hours. They're making final arrangements."

The duo stepped into the warm night and glanced around the semideserted airfield. Bright lights shone in the distance, highlighting the periphery of the fence line. A tropical wind blew across the tarmac, kicking up the scent of jet fuel and burned tire. It was a smell they remembered well. Not quite as sexy as napalm in the morning, but memorable nonetheless.

A young woman with Asian features and dark hair stood at the bottom of the plane stairs. She wore a khaki skirt and an open-collared white blouse that danced around her petite frame in the gentle breeze. It was the middle of the night, yet she had a smile on her face and a gleam in her eyes that said she was honored to be there. "Welcome to the Marshall Islands."

To Jones, this was a pleasant surprise. He wasn't expecting a welcoming committee.

"Aloha!" he said as he kissed her on both cheeks, a common greeting in Hawaiian airports. "Or however you say hello in Marshallese."

The woman's cheeks flushed, an equal mixture of anger and embarrassment. The smile that was present a moment before was replaced with an angry growl. This was not the delicate lotus blossom that Jones had first perceived. She was a typhoon to be reckoned with.

"Why in the world did you kiss me?" she demanded while poking Jones in the chest. "Just because I have an island complexion you automatically assume I'm some kind of air tramp ready to give you a lei. Do you see any flowers in my hand? Do you hear any Don Ho music?"

"Ah, crap," Payne mumbled, trying not to laugh.

"You're in the middle of a U.S. Army base, not on some island tour. What is wrong with you?" It was a rhetorical question. "While you're in my presence, I expect to be treated with the respect I deserve or else we will stop dealing with each other and I will file sanctions with the base commander. Have I made myself clear?"

Jones nodded, completely mortified. "Yes, ma'am."

"I'm a soldier, not a tart."

"Sorry, ma'am, I didn't mean to imply …" He stopped in the middle of his sentence. "You're right. I'm sorry. I was completely out of line."

She glared at him for a moment longer before nodding her head. "Fine. Apology accepted."

Without delay, she brushed past Jones and stopped in front of Payne, giving him a quick salute. "Captain Payne, it is an honor to work with you. I know you weren't used to working with women in the Special Forces, but I swear I'll be of great assistance to you."

A look of confusion filled Payne's face. "In what way?"

"Wait," she said. "You mean, you don't know? I'll be joining you on your mission."

"Excuse me?"

"I'll be joining-"

Payne signaled her to stop. "Yeah, I heard you the first time."

Puzzled by the news, Payne glanced at Jones, who gave him a shrug from a very safe distance. No way he was going to reenter mis conversation. Besides, it was obvious he had no idea who she was either, or he wouldn't have kissed her. At this point the only thing Jones knew was that she was a soldier, not a tart. And since Payne already possessed that intel, Jones did the smart thing and retreated to the safety of the hangar.

Payne growled to himself. "What did you say your name was?"

"Choi. Sergeant Kia Choi. U.S. Army."

"And who assigned you to my team?"

"Colonel Harrington, sir."

"Really? In what capacity?"

"Full capacity, sir."

He shook his head. "That's not what I meant. What's your skill set? Your specialty?"

"Oh," she said, embarrassed. "It's linguistics. I'll be serving as your translator."

"My translator? Damn, Sergeant, why didn't you say so?" He handed her one of his bags, letting her know that she was going to be treated like any other member of his squad. "I hope to hell you know a lot of swear words, because we cuss a lot."

"Don't worry, sir. I know them all."

Payne dumped his gear inside the hangar, then followed Kia to an army jeep that had been built for World War II.

No key was required. Just a touch of the ignition button and the engine roared to life. "I hope our plane is newer than this."

Kia laughed, a smile once again brightening her face. "Don't worry, sir. RTS is equipped with the best technology in the world. We keep relics like this for personal use only. Most of the major roads on Kwajalein are paved, but when you hit the smaller atolls, you're forced to deal wim coral-lined tracks. And jeeps tend to thrive in that terrain."

He nodded while shifting his attention to the nighttime sky. The alabaster moon, tucked behind a bank of clouds, occasionally showed itself, lighting the coconut palms that dominated the tropical landscape. The temperature was in the mideighties, a pleasant change from the harsh Pittsburgh winter that Payne was used to facing in December.

As if reading his mind, Kia said, "The temperature here is remarkably consistent, averaging roughly eighty-two every month. Strangely, the nighttime temperature is three to five degrees warmer than the afternoon temperature. Mostly because of all the daytime rain."

"A translator and a weather girl. It looks like the colonel found me a winner."

"Actually, sir, I found Colonel Harrington." The jeep squeaked to a halt as she stopped outside the airport command center. "I was born on a U.S. Army base near Seoul, so I know the language and people of South Korea better than most. I realized an old-school soldier like the colonel wouldn't consider a woman for this job unless he was talked into it. So I called in every favor I possibly could for the opportunity to join your team."

"You did what?"

"I called in several favors-"

"Hold up! Let me get this straight. You're saying you're not used to fieldwork."

"No, sir. But-"

"Tell me, Choi, what are you used to doing?"

'Translating."

"I know, but where?"

"Behind a desk."

Payne groaned as he climbed out of the jeep and walked toward the building. It was bad enough that he was asked to run a mission with no prep time, but to assign him a rookie in such a critical role? What the hell was Harrington thinking? Her inexperience was going to cause a whole new set of problems.

"Sir," she pleaded as she hustled after him, "I know this isn't what you were expecting, but I promise I won't let you down."

"Glad to hear it, Choi. Because if you do, there's a good chance we'll all end up dead."

6

Saturday, December 30

Jeju Island, South Korea

The seventy-mile boat ride across Jeju Strait was eerily silent, partially due to the trio's jet lag and partially from a lack of camaraderie. Their flight to Japan had gone smoothly, as did their trip to the southern tip of the Korean Peninsula. Good weather, no red tape, few delays. Kia showed off her translating skills at die Tokyo airport, easily switching from Japanese to Korean. According to her file, she was able to speak seven languages and read three more, which was a remarkable feat-especially since Payne and Jones had worked with some Americans who could barely speak English. Still, one issue gnawed at them: how would Kia react under pressure? It was one thing to ask a stewardess for more honey-roasted nuts in a foreign language; it was quite another to lie to an armed guard who was one flick of his finger away from blowing off your head.

In the field, that was the skill that made a good translator.

Normally Payne and Jones, who had reputations for cracking jokes and encouraging levity on their squad, would be in the midst of playful banter, but neither of them was in a talkative mood. Payne occupied his time studying the approaching coast through binoculars, while Jones sat upright in the rear of the boat's cabin, catching a nap. His body swayed to the rhythm of the pounding waves. Left and right, back and forth, up and down. Never opening his eyes and never appearing unsteady. It was a skill he had developed in the MANIACs-sleeping whenever and wherever he could.

Kia, on the other hand, was anxious. She had taken Dramamine before they shoved out to sea, and so far her stomach had cooperated. At least in terms of seasickness. Unfortunately, the medication did little to quell the anxiety that was raging in her gut. So much was riding on this mission, much more than she was willing to admit. If she screwed up … hell, she didn't even want to think about it. Dwelling on the possibilities would only make her more nauseous.

The trio's silence continued until their boat approached the northern end of the island. Jones sensed their change in speed and opened his eyes. "Are we there yet?"

"Looks that way," Payne said as he secured one of the ropes to the back of the boat. "My guess is that's our welcoming party."

An Asian-American soldier, wearing blue jeans and a thick sweater, met them at the dock with a midsize SUV. He didn't salute and warned them about displaying any military behavior outside of the cave. Don't use ranks. Don't use names. And don't tell anyone, including the soldiers who were guarding the site, why they were actually there. Only a select few-those inside the cave-knew what was going on, and it was imperative that things stayed that way.

The weather was crisp, somewhere in the low forties, but it felt much colder because of the icy breeze that surged off the water. The people of Jeju often referred to their home as Samdado: the island of three abundances-wind (pungda), rocks (seokda), and women (yeoda). Jagged cliffs of black stone lined the northern face and made up the island's core, formed by a volcanic eruption during the Quaternary Period of the Cenozoic Era. No historical records exist before the life of Christ, but local folklore insists that three leather-clad gods rose from the earth and used Tam-naguk (now called Jeju) for hunting. This continued until the gods stumbled upon a wooden chest that contained three princesses from the East Sea. The three gods married the three ladies and spent the rest of their lives raising five different grains, cows, and horses.

"You guys ever been here?" asked the soldier as he pulled their SUV onto the highway that led to Mount Halla, the highest mountain in South Korea. Its white peak rose 6,000 feet above sea level, spreading east to west across the center of the 712-square-mile island. "The coastal areas are swarming with tourists, particularly newlyweds. Asians view Jeju as the ultimate destination for honeymooners. Some people call it the Korean Hawaii."

Payne studied the distant landscape-thick groves of alpine trees covered the black basalt-and disagreed with the comparison. "Doesn't look like Hawaii."

"Doesn't feel like it, either," Jones declared from the backseat. "Turn on the damn heater."

The soldier smiled and cranked up the temperature. "Koreans actually embrace the variety of climates on Jeju. It's one of the only places in the world where you can find both polar and tropical animals living on the same island."

Payne nodded. "That's kind of unique."

"That's nothing. This mountain we're driving up right now, the one with all the snow on the top? It's actually a volcano. When was the last time you saw snow on a volcano?"

"It's been a while. We don't have volcanoes in Pittsburgh."

"Obviously it's dormant now, but Mount Halla's eruption formed this island millions of years ago. Everything you see-the hotels, the lakes, the trees-is sitting on volcanic rock. But the most remarkable part is what you can't see. The core of this entire island is surging with lava tubes, massive wormholes snaking through the earth like giant veins. And I'm not talking small caves. I'm talking huge. The largest is more than eight miles long."

Running throughout the northeastern corner of the island, Manjanggul is one of the longest lava tube systems in the world. The width of the main cave varies between six and seventy feet, while the height soars to more than ninety feet in certain spots. Tourists flock to three main entrances, where they are able to explore the naturally formed lava pillars and stalactites, including a landmark called Turtle Rock, which looks like an ancient turtle crawling out of the depths of Earth. Public tours are stopped six-tenths of a mile deep, leaving seven and a half miles to scientists who observe bats and other underground creatures in their natural habitat. They also study the tubes themselves, trying to ascertain why rivers of lava that once flowed deep underground burst to the surface, leaving massive chasms behind.

Experts believe there are more than a hundred lava tubes on Jeju, but only 60 percent have been documented in public records. The others are either undiscovered or being used for alternative purposes-such as the cave the U.S. military was studying. It was being protected by the top soldiers in the Pacific fleet.

A thick rope hung between two camphor trees at the bottom of the rocky trail, blocking all unauthorized personnel. Two soldiers dressed in casual clothes sat on folding chairs, checking IDs. If they were trying to look inconspicuous, they were unsuccessful. Their size and skin color gave them away. Thankfully, other soldiers fared much better. Their painted faces and camouflage uniforms blended in with the nearby woods, making them virtually invisible. They scanned the terrain with their sniper scopes, poised to eliminate any trespassers who tried to approach the cave. Although this island was South Korean, this hillside temporarily belonged to the United States of America.

Members of Payne's team flashed their credentials and were given immediate access to the site. Led by the soldier from the SUV, the trio climbed the path behind him, careful where they stepped. First Jones, then Kia, then Payne, his eyes darting back and forth, noticing everything. Azalea bushes, no longer in bloom, dotted the lower landscape, as did fields of long brown grass that rustled like dead leaves every time the wind blew. Up ahead, larger trees lined the basalt trail, roots and trunks squeezing out of narrow fissures in the stone. Fingerlike branches waved overhead, swaying against the breeze, as if urging them to stop. Under their footsteps, rocks crunched like broken bones, the sound mixing with the stale scent that wafted down the hillside like a waterfall of stench. The entire place felt macabre, like nothing Payne had ever experienced before. In his mind, he likened it to the setting of an Edgar Allan Poe story.

"Good Lord," Payne said. "What in the world is that smell?"

The driver answered coyly. "It's the reason you're here."

7

Fifteen feet from the cave entrance, each member of Payne's team was given three things: a surgical mask, surgical gloves, and crime-scene booties to be slipped over their shoes. Yet no instructions or details were provided.

Jones eyed the driver. "Are you worried we'll contaminate the scene?"

"Just the opposite. We're worried about the scene getting on you."

"What does that mean?"

The driver inched backward. "You'll find out soon enough."

Kia frowned. "You're not coming with us?"

"Not a chance. I saw it once and that was enough for me."

Confused, she turned toward Payne. "Sir, what's going on here? What is this place?"

He shrugged while sliding his mask over his nose and mouth. "We're about to find out."

In the summertime the six-foot crack in the stone mountain would have been covered by leaves and vines that dangled from the overhead cliff. Now the only thing protecting it was the team of snipers who hid in the trees. Payne studied the natural opening, looking for clues as to what might lie ahead. The only thing that stood out was the stench that seeped through his mask. It was a smell he recognized, one that foreshadowed a change in their assignment.

This wasn't going to be a rescue mission. It was something far worse.

Turning on his flashlight, Payne took a few steps inside and let his eyes adjust to the gloom. Jones and Kia followed closely. The breeze that had been prevalent on the outside had relented, replaced by dampness in the air that made the stone floor slick and the walls seep. The year-round temperature in the caves on Jeju was roughly fifty degrees, but the high humidity made it feel colder. Moisture clung to their clothes, their hair, their skin. So did the ghastly stench. It was far worse than a sewer. It was like walking into an autopsy.

Payne focused on Kia. "Are you squeamish? If so, I need to know right now."

"No, sir. I'm not squeamish. Why?"

"Because this is going to be bad. Worse than anything you've seen before."

Kia grimaced. "How do you know?"

"Experience."

"You used to investigate crime scenes?"

Jones answered for him. "No, we used to cause them."

Payne said nothing as he turned from Kia. He knew she was aware of their background with the MANIACs and the types of missions they used to run. Still, for a split second, he was embarrassed. Not for his actions-he was quite proud of his military record-but the way his past had been framed. Kia was a new member of his team, and he didn't want her to get the wrong impression. He wasn't a killer or a criminal. He was a soldier. Nothing more, nothing less.

Up ahead a shadow danced on the cave wall. Payne spotted it and headed toward the source of the light. It was a faint glow deep within the bowels of the mountain, yet he knew its intensity would increase tenfold when he reached the scene. Each step brought new sensations that he noted. The rumble of a portable generator. The artificial heat from overhead lights. The echoing drip of seeping liquid. And a stagnant cloud of that god-awful stench. It was inescapable. Unforgettable.

"Don't touch anything," he stressed to Kia. "And if you feel nauseous-"

"I won't feel nauseous."

Payne stopped and put his hand on her shoulder. "But if you feel nauseous, just leave the scene. Don't ask for permission. Just go. Get some fresh air, collect your thoughts, whatever you need to do. Just don't get sick at the scene. That's very important."

"I'll be fine, sir."

"Thankfully," Jones joked, "if she does vomit, this place will smell better."

"I'm not going to vomit," she insisted. "I'm not the least bit squeamish."

Payne nodded, hoping she was right. "Well, we'll find out soon enough."

Kia lasted less than ten seconds before she bolted toward the entrance. But Payne and Jones didn't stop her. Or blame her. During their time in the military, they had never witnessed anything like the scene inside the cave. It was beyond gruesome. It was barbaric.

Blood covered everything. The ceiling. The walls. The floors. Crevices in the stone were filled with sticky red puddles. Cracks looked like surging rivers, the liquid flowing from one point to the next, as if the cave had been drenched with a crimson rain, the downpour searching for a way to escape. Only there was nowhere for it to go because the entire chamber was saturated with fluid. Like a giant heart had exploded and coated everything in its wake.

A table and a chair sat in the middle of it all. Both were bolted to the floor. Both were splattered with arterial spray. So was the light that hung overhead. It looked ancient. No fancy fixture. Not even a pull string. Just a solitary bulb that was caked with dried blood. A single wire ran from its base, snaking across the ceiling, held in place by mining staples that were old and rusty. Obviously from another generation. In fact, the whole chamber had that feel, a giant time capsule that had been cracked open, revealing the way things used to be done when no one was watching. Payne closed his eyes and tried to imagine the screams.

Four floodlights were set up along the periphery, but only one was currently on. Jones glanced at its base and noted a lack of blood. No way it was there when the violence occurred. Same with all the others. They were spotless. Obviously brought there to light the scene.

"Can we go in?" Jones whispered.

Payne shrugged, unsure if all the evidence had been processed. He was ready to call out when a man wearing a surgical mask peeked his head out of the back corridor.

"I thought I heard someone." He wore a butcher's apron that was streaked with blood. It matched the stains on his surgical outfit and booties. "Please come in."

Payne didn't move. "Are you sure? We don't want to disturb-"

"Yes, yes! I'm positive. Everything has been collected."

Jones glanced around at all the gore. "Everything? I think you missed a spot."

The man walked across the bloody cave, barely leaving footprints in the residue. Until then Payne and Jones were under the impression that the chamber was wet. But the dampness was an optical illusion, a combination of the bright light and the crimson stains that made the surface glimmer, a red version of the Amber Room in St. Petersburg, Russia.

Only the tint in this room was biological.

Payne extended his gloved hand and introduced himself, using the opportunity to study the masked man before shifting his focus to the crime scene. Dr. Ernie Sheldon was short and frail, with little hair other than the gray fuzz that covered his temples and the back of his head. The corners of his eyes creased with wrinkles whenever he smiled. It was one of the few things that Payne could see behind his mask.

"You're sure we can come in?"

Sheldon nodded. "Of course! How can you help me if you can't come in?"

"Good question. Better yet, why are we here? It's obvious this isn't a missing-person case."

"Why do you say that?"

Jones motioned toward the floor. "There's less blood at the Red Cross."

"True, there's a lot of blood in here. But how do you know who the blood belongs to?"

"We don't," Payne admitted. "In fact, there are a lot of things we don't know. People have been pretty tight-lipped about why we're here. And to be honest, it's starting to piss us off."

"Then allow me to apologize, because that's all my fault. I'm the one who wanted you kept in the dark. Me and no one else. I'm completely to blame."

Payne glanced at Jones, who shrugged as he studied the cave. "Go on."

"Actually," Sheldon said, "there's not much to explain. I want you to form your own opinion based on your observations, not mine or anyone else's."

"That's understandable. But to do that, we need a starting place. Some basics that'll let us form a rational conclusion. Otherwise, D.J. is liable to guess that this place is nothing more than a Korean slaughterhouse."

Jones grinned. "Moooooooooooooooo."

"Fair enough. What would you like to know?"

"What's your job description?"

Sheldon shook his head. "That's something I'd prefer not to reveal at this time. Concentrate on the scene, not me."

"Fine. What is this place?"

"It's a lava tube, formed when molten rock burst forth from-"

Payne interrupted. "I know what a lava tube is."

'Then why'd you ask?" Sheldon's voice was playful, not demeaning. Like a mentor forcing his pupil to ask the right question.

"I meant this facility. It's obvious this place wasn't used for public tours."

"What's your best guess? Take a look around and hypothesize. If you guys are as good as-"

"Some sort of prison. Fairly old." Jones knocked on the table, listening to the metal thump as it echoed throughout the chamber. "Possibly World War II, maybe later. It's been around for a very long time." He crouched to examine the floor bolts, which held the table and the chair in place. "If I scraped away the blood, I could probably find a manufacturer. That would tell us if it was Korean, Japanese, or American.. .. My guess is American."

Sheldon smiled. "Why do you say that?"

Jones shrugged. "Because we're American. Why else would we be called in?"

"Touche."

Jones shifted his focus to the lightbulb that dangled above his head. It wasn't on, so he was able to stare at it, searching it for clues. "Jon, come over here."

Payne strode across the room, his eyes focused on the bulb. "See something?"

"Maybe. I'm not sure if this table will hold me. Can you give me a hand?"

Holding Payne's shoulder, Jones stepped onto the chair, then the table itself. The surface was remarkably solid, refusing to sag under his body weight. He flipped on his flashlight and studied the light socket. To his eye, there was a tiny piece that didn't belong. It was circular and curved. Definitely modern. "Just what I thought. It's a camera, embedded in the base. I bet if I took it apart, I'd find a microphone inside, too."

Sheldon clasped his hands together, clearly amused by Jones's discovery, yet not the least bit surprised. "And what was its purpose?"

Payne answered as Jones hopped off the table. "To record interrogations."

"Heavens! You two are good."

Jones ignored the flattery and studied the black cable that ran along the ceiling to the rear of the cave. It stretched into the corridor from where Sheldon had originally emerged, which meant this facility continued beyond the current chamber. Possibly much deeper. What had the SUV driver told them? The longest lava tube on the island is more than eight miles long.

"That camera is next-generation American technology. Definitely military. Expertly placed. And since these walls are way too thick to transmit to an outside source, that means the recording device has to be …"

His words hung in the air as he followed the wire into the next room.

Unprepared for what he was about to see.

8

Halfway down the path, Kia sat on a tree stump, her head perched between her knees. Breathing was still difficult, but no longer because of the bile that had risen in her throat. Now it had more to do with her behavior than anything she had just seen.

Good Lord, she thought. Did I really just run out of the cave?

In all her life she had never been more embarrassed by her actions. Sure, she'd talked a good game, bragging that she wasn't squeamish, pretending she could handle anything, but all it took was one look at the crime scene and she started running. Of course, the good news was that she followed through on one promise to Payne. At least she didn't vomit on any evidence.

Kia untied the surgical mask that hung around her neck and tossed it down the rocky path. Her booties came off second, followed by her surgical gloves. With a rubber snap, she flicked them into the air. Even if she was ordered back to the cave, there was no way she was going in. Not with all that blood. Deep down inside, she knew her stomach wouldn't allow it.

"Nasty scene," said a voice from behind.

Kia whirled around so fast she almost fell off the tree stump. Her lack of grace caused the driver of the SUV to laugh as he emerged from the trees.

She apologized. "Sorry about that. I didn't mean to disturb you."

"Don't worry about it. You weren't the scene I was talking about." The driver wore thick gloves and carried a bag labeled Medical Waste. He used it to collect her garments. "Remember what I said when I gave you these? I'd been inside the cave, and once was enough for me."

She nodded, no longer quite as mortified.

"All of us have our limits. And all of us have a specialty. My guess is you weren't selected for forensic work or combat. You were brought in for another purpose."

"Is it that obvious?"

'Then why'd you go in the cave in the first place?"

She shrugged, not really sure of her answer.

"Let me guess. You were trying to fit in, weren't you? Trying to impress your squad leader. Trying to show him how tough you were." He laughed, the sound of someone who had been in her position and had made the same mistake. "Listen, I know this is going to sound pretty simplistic, but I'll let you in on a little secret I learned long ago. The best way to impress your boss is to do your job. That's it. That's the key to getting ahead in this world. Do what you're supposed to do and you'll get noticed."

"Too late. I think I already got noticed."

He grinned. "Yeah, sprinting out of the cave probably wasn't your best choice."

"Probably not."

"In that case, may I suggest Plan B?"

"Which is?"

"Do something that will make everyone forget about Plan A."

"Such as?"

The driver glanced into the trees. He knew they were being watched by several snipers, all of them ready to pull their triggers over the slightest indiscretion. Still, he wanted to assist Kia. Lowering his voice to a whisper, he said, "There's a village nearby, filled with several people who probably aren't very good with English. As far as I'm concerned, their statements might come in handy as this investigation broadens. Heaven knows what they heard or saw."

"You mean no one's talked to them?"

"No one's even been over there. We've been waiting for a translator."

Shame motivated people to commit desperate acts. Some large. Some small. Some completely foolish. As Kia walked toward the village through the camphor trees, she pondered these categories and wondered how she would classify her decision at the end of the day.

The daughter of an American soldier and a Korean mother, she was born on a U.S. Army base near Seoul, 275 miles north of her current location. Foreign marriages rarely worked in the military-they're often based on loneliness and little else-but her parents were the exception. Kia lived in South Korea until she was seven, learning the language, land, and customs from her mom. Then, when her father was transferred to a Stateside base, she learned all about America from him. Ironically, when she was old enough to choose her home, she split the distance between the countries, opting for a job on the Marshall Islands, in the middle of the Pacific.

Near the end of the rocky path, Kia spotted a harubang, also known as a stone grandfather, a ubiquitous gray figure found everywhere in Jeju. It marked the beginning of the village. Made of porous basalt, the six-foot sculpture had two hands-one rested slightly higher on its belly than the other-but no feet. A curved hat sat atop its friendly face. Bulging eyes. A big nose. A gentle mouth. Island elders once believed they drove away evil spirits. Nowadays they were simply a symbol of Jeju, the only place in the world where the original figures were located.

Kia touched it as she walked past, her eyes no longer focused on the relic but on the tiny village that lie ahead. She felt foolish for her thoughts but hoped the statue had done its job, protecting these people from the violence of the cave.

Little did she know that the villagers had played a major role in the bloodshed.

Both past and present.

9

Mecca, Saudi Arabia

On the outskirts of the sacred city, there was a massive blue sign. Its message was written in Arabic and English, an equal dose of welcome and warning. For true believers of Islam, it marked the gateway to their holy land, the one place on earth they were supposed to visit before they died. But to others, the sign was more ominous. A threat that shouldn't be ignored.

STOP FOR INSPECTION ENTRY PROHIBITED TO NON-MUSLIMS

Fred Nasir stared at the sign and realized this was the point of no return. There was an exit road to the right of the checkpoint, a final chance to turn around and drive back to Taif. Or Riyadh. Or anywhere else he wanted to go. But if he stayed in this line of traffic, which he'd been sitting in for the longest thirty minutes of his life, there was a chance he was going to be pulled from his Toyota Camry and taught the Hind of lesson he'd rather not learn.

For a culture that preached peace, some Muslims were skilled at violence.

Guards were standing up ahead, armed with rifles. He knew that additional men, carrying more significant firepower, were stationed in the nearby security building. Video cameras recorded everything: faces, cars, license plates. A sophisticated system whose sole purpose was to weed out the unwanted. Nonbelievers, who didn't belong.

"Relax," he said to himself. "You'll be fine."

After taking a deep breath, Nasir eased his car under the blue warning sign and waited for the inevitable. The part he feared the most. Two soldiers came out of the booth, neither of them smiling. The first asked for his travel visa and passport; the other glanced inside the car, searching for things that didn't belong. Mecca was a strict city with strict rules. No exceptions. This wasn't like Tijuana, Mexico, where a tourist could slip a couple of bucks to a guard and smuggle Pepe the Dancing Mule across the border for a bachelor party. This was far more serious. The type of place where bribe attempts were greeted with gunfire.

As requested, Nasir placed his papers in a tiny basket and handed it to the guard, who quickly disappeared into the booth, where he'd inspect everything, putting extra emphasis on the paperwork that granted travelers access to Mecca. To get clearance, Muslims must file the proper certificates (vaccinations, marriage, birth, etc.) weeks in advance, pay the proper entry fees, and include a notarized letter from the director of their mosque that certified their faith. Passports were required as well, but unlike some cities that frowned on visitors from certain nations, Mecca was the ultimate melting pot, a city whose sole existence was to greet visitors from all countries, as long as the visitors believed in Islam.

This time of year-the last month of the Islamic calendar-the city was particularly busy, hosting more than two million guests who were there for the hajj, the pilgrimage that all able-bodied Muslims were required to make at least once in their lifetimes. To accommodate the influx of travelers, the Saudi government built a special airport in Jeddah, the largest in the world in overall area, consisting of a dozen terminals. Traffic flow was so specialized that it was open only for the hajj season. The rest of the year it sat dormant, unable to handle normal operations.

Unfortunately, the airport sat fifty miles west of Mecca, meaning everyone who flew in for the hajj still had to pass through the same security checkpoints as those who drove. This clogged the roadways with cars, vans, and tour buses, plus the occasional hearty soul who walked the entire way through the desert heat. Nasir had heard stories of men passing through security on the hump of a camel, but thus far he hadn't seen any.

Three minutes later, the guard returned with his approved paperwork. Everything had checked out; Nasir was free to enter the city. Lifting the metal gate, the guard welcomed him with a common Islamic greeting. "Salaam aleikoum."

He replied, "Aleikoum salaam."

Peace be upon you.

And on you, peace.

Nestled in bleak mountains that were barren from the desert heat, Mecca (spelled Makkah in Saudi Arabia) is a bustling city of more than 1.2 million people. Founded in about 400 AD as a nomadic trading post, it expanded through the centuries, becoming the holy center for one of the world's biggest religions. Five times a day, more than 1 billion Muslims turn toward Mecca and pray. This direction of prayer is known as the kiblah. All mosques around the world are built to face the Kaaba, a holy shrine that stands in the center of the Great Mosque in Mecca.

The Kaaba is located at 21°25'21.70"N, 39° 49' 33.64" E.

The city itself has no railroads or airports, and its drinking water has to be pumped in from surrounding areas due to a lack of underground wells, yet it is still a modern metropolis, filled with restaurants, malls, museums, and skyscrapers. Nasir was expecting none of those things as he drove through Mecca for the first time. He was anticipating something more ancient, more hallowed-a collection of mosaics and domes that showcased the beauty of Islamic art and architecture, not a steady flow of tourists looking for clearance items at an outdoor bazaar.

His biggest shock came when he spotted a Kentucky Fried Chicken not far from the Kaaba. He was tempted to stop, just to see if Colonel Sanders was wearing his southern white suit and tie or if they'd dressed him up in a robe and sandals. The possibility made him laugh, a welcomed tension-breaker before he completed the last part of his mission.

Nasir drove to the designated area, not far from the Great Mosque, and parked his car. This part of town, known as the old city, used to be crammed with houses and apartments that had been there for generations. But most of them were bulldozed to widen the streets for me millions of pilgrims who flooded this area during the hajj and to erect a colossal new building project known as the Abraj Al Bait Towers Complex.

Ironically, it was during the razing process that an important discovery had been made.

While clearing the way for something new, an ancient relic had been found.

If Nasir hadn't known where to look, he never would have seen the tunnel entrance. Accessed by a wooden shack and protected by a chain-link fence, it was hidden behind several piles of debris and an assortment of construction materials. On the surface, it appeared that another building was going up. But the opposite was true. They were going down, excavating deep into the ground underneath Mecca.

Wearing jeans and a short-sleeved shirt, Nasir stepped around the rubble and peeked inside. Lights had been strung along the ceiling, giving him a glimpse of the thin wooden boards that lined the interior. It looked like an abandoned mine shaft, the kind found in an Arizona ghost town. Dusty and unstable. Creaking all the time. Like it was liable to collapse at any moment.

Suddenly, he regretted their meeting place. They wanted him to go in there?

No wonder they paid him all that money. He had risked his life several times in two days.

And for what? A take-out menu?

None of it made any sense.

But who was he to argue with fortune? If he kept his cool, he'd be done in five minutes. Just make the drop and leave. No sense hanging around. After that, he'd drive to the airport and disappear for a long time. Maybe take a long vacation. Or buy a new house.

With all that cash, he could do whatever he wanted.

Nasir glanced at his watch and smiled.

It was time to get this over with.

10

A generator purred in the gloom while Jones tried to grasp what he saw. The first image that leaped to mind was the interior of an anaconda. Recognized as the largest snake in the world, it often bit its prey with its sharp teeth before squeezing it to death with its muscular coils. Afterward it swallowed its meal whole, sometimes unhinging its own jaw to engulf the entire carcass. Larger victims, such as sheep or deer, could often be seen through the snake's flesh, slowly dissolving inside.

In Jones's mind, he had just walked through the mouth, a gruesome cavity filled with blood and gore. Now he was staring at the belly, the place where the bodies were disposed.

The cave stretched farther than his eyes could see, fading to black somewhere in the depths of the mountain. Thick metal bars were anchored at irregular intervals on each side of the expanse, makeshift cages that were part man-made, part geology. Computer lights blinked in the distance, the glow of technology in an otherwise archaic world.

To him, none of it made any sense.

Like pieces from several jigsaw puzzles all mixed together.

Payne noticed the confusion on Jones's face and came forward to investigate. Seconds later, he was just as bewildered. "What is this place?"

"I have no idea."

Dr. Sheldon heard the comment and asked, "Have either of you heard of Roh Tae-woo, the former president of South Korea? In the early nineties, a large cave was discovered on Jeju that housed the remains of several islanders slaughtered just after World War II. Instead of announcing die discovery to the world, Roh sealed the cave, hoping to keep it quiet. Eventually word of his cover-up was unearthed and he was imprisoned for his actions."

Jones considered the information. "And this is his cave?"

"No. That cave is on Mount Halla. This cave is still a secret."

"Whose secret?"

"Ahhh, now we're getting somewhere. Whose secret indeed?!"

Sheldon squeezed past the duo and walked toward the small table that sat in a natural nook along the right-hand wall. He clicked on a desk lamp and rummaged through a large stack of folders. Each of them classified. Each of them critical. Yet in his mind there was no need for a locked safe, since the front door was being guarded by snipers.

"Here you go," Sheldon said. "Who wants to read it first?"

Jones took the file while Payne held the flashlight. No arguing. No bickering. No ego of any kind. Both men knew mat Jones was better at analyzing information. It was his specialty. He had an innate ability to spot important facts and incongruities faster than anyone Payne had ever met. So Payne did the smart thing and let Jones decipher the data.

According to the folder, they were standing in a lava tube that was discovered by locals in 1824. It measured 1.2 miles in length. Parts of it were narrow, less than 4 feet wide, while other sections were spacious. One gallery soared to more than 22 feet in height and was originally used as storage space for smugglers, who valued the constant cool temperature and natural protection of the black stone. Decades ago smuggling was the main source of income on the island, so the exact location of the cave was a fiercely guarded secret. Villagers protected it with their lives and were rewarded for their efforts.

Unfortunately, their loyalty was used against them in the aftermath of World War II.

In an attempt to establish control on Jeju, the South Korean government labeled everyone who was associated with smuggling as Communists and demanded their capture. This set off a chain of events that led to the bloodiest event in the island's history: the Jeju Massacre.

On April 3,1948, rebels from Jeju's "people's army" attacked police stations and government offices on Jeju, causing the death of an estimated fifty people while freeing many islanders who they felt had been wrongly accused. They kept control of the island until June 25, when the South Korean government invaded from the mainland and overwhelmed Jeju forces. Thousands of islanders were detained and sorted into four groups (labeled A, B, C, and D), based on their supposed security risk. Unfortunately, the South Korean Navy realized they didn't have the manpower to guard that many people in captivity. So they did the unthinkable. Instead of letting people go, they ordered the local police to execute everyone in groups C and D.

No trials. No appeals. Just bloodshed.

Thousands of innocents were slaughtered. Bodies were stacked in the streets.

Yet this brutality didn't stop the rebellion. Over the next six years, a reported eighty thousand islanders were killed- nearly a quarter of Jeju's population.

Jones glanced up from the file. "How accurate are these numbers?"

"Very," Sheldon answered. "They're based on firsthand accounts of American troops."

Payne interrupted. "You mean we watched the executions?"

Sheldon nodded. "We were summoned to South Korea after World War II to help set up a provisional government. Unfortunately, we had no authority to intervene in an internal conflict. All we could do was keep meticulous records and pray the violence stopped on its own."

Payne scowled because he knew that was bullshit. The U.S. military had a long-standing tradition of butting into battles where they didn't belong. Not that he had a problem with that. Sometimes the biggest kid on the block needed to flex his muscles to protect the weakest. Yet for some reason mat wasn't the case on Jeju. The only question was, why?

Jones wondered the same tiling. "What was our real reason for doing nothing?"

Sheldon smiled under his mask. "Take a wild guess."

"Because we had more to gain by staying out of it."

"Such as?"

"Damning information against the new government."

"And why was that important?"

Jones gave it some thought. "Because Jeju is an island in the Korea Strait. The perfect place for Americans to spy on Japan, Russia, China, and North Korea."

Sheldon nodded, then signaled for them to follow him deeper into the cave. "Smugglers used this facility until 1951. That's three years after the revolt started, which goes to show how secret this place actually was. Outside of locals, no one knew about it. Not the police. Not the government. Not even us. At least until much later."

He stopped in front of the first cell and admired its simplicity. Iron bars were anchored in the volcanic rock, creating a series of jail cells that stretched deep into the darkness. "Local villagers were held here by the South Korean government. Young, old, men, women. It didn't matter. Everyone was locked in this cave for weeks. Then, one by one, they were tortured for information about the rebel army that most of them knew nothing about. To this day, the unlucky ones are still buried in the deepest sections of this cave. Hidden behind piles of rock."

Payne hated stories like this-especially ones that happened so long ago-because no matter how good a soldier he was, there was nothing he could do about tragedies from the 1950s. Of course, there was something he could do about the present-that is, if he was given all the facts. Yet for some reason he sensed that Sheldon was hiding something important from them. He wasn't sure what it was, but his patience was wearing thin.

"Not to be rude, but can we fast-forward to recent history?"

Sheldon glanced at Payne. "Of course we can. What would you like to know?"

"Everything you're keeping from us."

The smile faded under his mask, the crinkles disappearing from the corners of his eyes. "Nothing like cutting to the chase."

"Actually, the chase started two days ago, when we first got on a plane. Yet for one reason or another, you've been stonewalling ever since. First by proxy, now in person."

"What do you mean?"

Payne pointed at him. "There you go! A perfect example. Most people respond to questions with answers, not other questions."

"Jon," Jones whispered, trying to calm him down.

But Payne brushed him aside. "Seriously, Doc, it's time for some straight facts. No more history lessons. No more bullshit. Why the hell are we here?"

"To find a missing person. Actually, several missing people."

Payne rolled his hand in front of him, urging Sheldon to go on. "Some names would help."

"Before I continue, I need to give you some more background info on-"

"Holy hell! Give me a fuckin' break!"

"Seriously. This is important information."

Payne shook his head, unwilling to listen further. "D.J., I swear to God, if he starts talking about the Korean War, I'm going to kick him in the balls."

"Jon!" Jones shouted, thankful his mask covered his smile. "Let the guy talk."

"Talk? All he does is talk. Ten minutes ago I asked him about this facility, and he started blabbing about the effects of molten lava…. Seriously, who the hell does that?" He pointed at Sheldon. "Why would you do that? Do I look like I give a damn about molten anything?"

Jones stepped between the two, knowing full well that Payne wasn't really mad or the least bit out of control. But when it came to acquiring information, they realized fear often went a long way toward lessening someone's reluctance to speak-especially someone like Dr. Sheldon, who was holding his cards much tighter than he should have been. Thankfully, when someone as large as Payne started to roar, people usually did whatever they could to calm him down.

This was their version of good cop/bad cop.

They called it Payne in the ass.

"Jon," Jones said, "calm down. Let me talk to him for a minute. Alone."

"Fine! Maybe you two can discuss the history of molten liquor."

Jones rolled his eyes. "It's called malt liquor. And my guess is he doesn't drink Colt .45."

"Okay, Billy D. Discuss whatever you want. But I'm going outside to make a call." He pulled out his cell phone and fiddled with the buttons. "If you learn any news about this century, you know where to find me."

Payne stormed off, the sound of his footsteps echoing in the cave like rolling thunder. Jones waited for the rumble to pass, then apologized for his friend's behavior, blaming it on jet lag and his close connection to Trevor Schmidt.

"You have to understand," Jones said, "Jon is very protective of his proteges. Two days ago Colonel Harrington told us that Trevor was missing and asked for our help, but that's the last we've heard about it. No updates. No progress reports. No nothing. That's tough for us to take."

Sheldon nodded. 'Trust me, I'm empathetic to your situation. I truly am. But there's a reason why I've been rambling on and on about this cave's background and answering all of your questions with questions of my own. I know you think I'm playing games with you, but I swear that's not the case."

"Then what is the case?"

Sheldon fidgeted with his gloves, trying to delay his answer. "Honestly, we've been on Jeju for several days now, and in all that time we've only learned one thing."

"Which is?"

"None of us have any idea what happened here."

11

Payne smiled as he walked outside. The smell of blood still lingered in the air, yet compared to the interior of the cave, he felt like he was standing in a daisy-fresh meadow. His mood brightened further when he scrolled through the picture gallery in his cell phone and saw the clarity of his latest image: Dr. Ernie Sheldon, the unwitting star of a sneak attack.

Laughing to himself, Payne typed an encrypted text message to Randy Raskin, one of his best contacts at the Pentagon, asking him for basic intel on the man in the photo. He gave him Sheldon's name but stressed it might be an alias. At this point it was too early to tell.

After hitting send, he returned his attention to his current surroundings. With a quick glance he scanned the rocky path that sliced through the trees toward the road. No sign of Kia. She'd fled the scene several minutes earlier, but he fully expected to see her sitting there. Her head between her knees. Cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Several excuses ready to spring from her lips to explain her actions. But none of them was necessary, since it wasn't her fault.

If anyone was to blame, Payne knew it was himself, for he was the one who let her enter the cave. The one who knew she was a translator, nothing more. Certainly not trained for that type of gore. Yet for some reason he urged her to tag along, even though she served no purpose inside. Even though he knew they were about to stumble into something much worse than a rescue mission. Not with that smell. Not with all those soldiers carrying all that firepower outside the scene. Obviously this wasn't about a missing person. This was something different. Something more significant. But for the life of him, he didn't know what it was. That's the main reason he wanted to step outside and get some fresh air. He needed time to think. To figure out why they'd brought him in. What role they wanted him to play.

Now all of that would have to wait. His focus was no longer on the cave. It was on Kia. She was his number one priority. Not because she was a woman or defenseless, but because she was part of his team. And that's what leaders were supposed to do. Protect their squads at all cost.

Payne knew snipers were nestled in the camphor trees and buried on the hillside, tracking his every move through mounted scopes. He couldn't see them, but he knew they were there. Watching. Waiting. Hoping someone did something aggressive so they could pull their triggers. The key was not to give them an excuse. Slowly he turned and studied the rock face behind him, trying to determine where he would have positioned his men if he'd been in charge of security.

One up top. A couple over there. A few more down the path.

No way Kia went anywhere without being watched. Without them telling her where she could puke and where she couldn't. This was their land. Their terrain. They were the spiders, and this was their web. They could tell him her exact location. No problem at all.

But first he had to get one of them to talk.

Payne crunched down the trail, focusing on a thick grove of trees. It looked dark and impenetrable. The perfect place to take residence. With a grin on his lips, Payne pointed toward the dense brush and signaled for the sniper to come out. Then Payne just stood there, staring and smiling, until he heard some movement. A snap was all Payne needed to know that he was right.

A few curse words later, the guard emerged from the thicket. Mud on his young face. Twigs on his helmet. A rifle in his hands. "Dammit, sir. How'd you see me in there?"

Payne shrugged. "Who said I did?"

The sniper cursed again, this time even louder. Pissed at himself for giving up his position to someone who hadn't even seen him.

"Wow. When you were a kid, you must've sucked at hide-and-seek."

"Actually, sir, I never lost."

Payne smiled. "Actually, son, you just did."

The sniper was tempted to argue, but what could he say? Instead, he quickly changed die subject. "Was there something you needed?"

"I'm looking for my translator. Female. Asian features. Probably covered in vomit."

"You mean the hottie? She headed toward the village."

"There's a village?"

The sniper pointed down a side path that cut through the woods. "Can't tell you much about it. Haven't been there yet."

"Is it secure?"

"Don't know. Don't care."

Payne nodded, not surprised by the answer. In the military, most information was compartmentalized- especially on secured projects such as this one. A guard over here didn't need to know what was going on over there unless it posed an immediate threat. And even then, he sure as hell wasn't going to talk about it with someone he didn't know or trust.

"We done here?" asked the sniper, who waited to be dismissed before he slipped back into the woods to find a better place to hide. Payne watched him for a while, then turned his attention to the village path. It was dark and foreboding, like everything else in the area. Protocol told him that he should let Jones know where he was going, but something in his gut told him that time was of the essence. That Kia was in a lot more danger in the village than Jones was in the cave.

And as usual, Payne's gut was right.

Kia walked through the center of town, staggered by the silence. It was the middle of the day, yet there were no dogs barking, no kids playing, no errands being run. No movement or activities of any kind. Tiny stone huts sat back from the rocky road, separated by stone fences and guarded by dozens of harubang, their friendly stone faces no longer quite so inviting. In fact, in the stillness of the village, their presence was somehow disconcerting, as if the people themselves had been consumed by these ancient stone figures. As if they were suddenly the only residents.

A gust of wind added to the chill that Kia felt surge through her body. She was accustomed to the warm tropical breezes of the Marshall Islands, not the whipping wind of this volcanic ghost town. Or was the chill from something else? Perhaps more to do with her fear and apprehension than the temperature itself. The thought was an unpleasant one, especially after her recent behavior in the cave. No way she was going to turn and run again.

Once was bad enough. Twice would be unbearable.

The strength of the wind increased, this time bringing the faint scent of burning wood. Not maple. Not oak. Maybe pine. The musk filled her nose, quickly erasing the memory of the bloody cave and replacing it with the promise of survivors. She turned toward the smell, staring into the face of the breeze, looking for a sign of life. Any sign. And then she saw one. A tiny wisp of smoke rising from a stone chimney on the far end of the village. It wasn't much, but its presence gave her hope. A rope to cling to as she journeyed forward, searching for answers.

Kia passed house after house, yard after yard, all of them seemingly deserted. Each adding to the mystery of this vacant town, each filling her head with more questions. Were the villagers dead? Or were they hiding? If so, from whom? Or what? She prayed the blood in the cave didn't belong to them, but every empty home, every abandoned car made that seem less likely.

Obviously there was a connection between the two mysteries.

She hoped it wasn't a tragic one.

Payne heard the scream from the far end of the village and reacted instinctively.

In a single motion, he pulled his Sig Sauer P226 from his waistband and broke into a full sprint. His eyes scanned the horizon, searching for danger. The only movement he saw was the bouncing of tree limbs as they swayed in the breeze. Payne leaped a log gate in a stone fence that lined one of the nearby yards and checked his weapon. His magazine was full.

At least until he found a target.

Because of the wind and the echoing effect of the rock, Payne couldn't gauge where the scream had come from. He knew it was somewhere up ahead, but that's all he knew. Maybe from a house. Maybe in a yard. Maybe in the woods beyond town. To him, it was like tracking gunfire in an open canyon. The first shot announced trouble; the second shot gave its location.

Thankfully, the scream was followed by the murmur of voices. Close enough to be heard, but too far away to be understood. Yet Payne didn't care about diction. He cared about location. Every second of sound gave him a better chance to find the threat and stop it.

Moving silendy, Payne skirted the stone fence and crept forward, his weapon raised in an offensive position. His eyes focused. His breathing controlled. Just like he'd been taught to do. In fact, this whole scene felt like a training exercise. Like he'd stumbled into Hogan's Alley-the mock city at the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia-and was being tested for speed and marksmanship. Only this was the Asian version. And it was real. No fake terrorists armed with paint guns. No spring-loaded wooden targets. And absolutely no do-overs.

He was up against an unknown enemy with unknown numbers.

And he was facing them alone.

12

Jones stared at Dr. Sheldon, unsure if he was telling the truth. How could several days of fieldwork turn up nothing? "Doc, I'm not calling you a liar, but-"

"You find my lack of answers hard to fathom." Sheldon smiled, not the least bit offended. "And if I were you, I'd feel the exact same way. All this blood, all this evidence, I have to know what happened. Unfortunately, there's one thing preventing me from drawing any conclusions."

"Which is?"

"I don't have a lab. My entire investigation relies on forensic evidence, yet I can't test anything myself. As it stands, every single sample has to be smuggled off this island so it can be examined at some classified facility. That tends to slow things down."

"I guess it would."

"Right now I'm still waiting for test results I should've received days ago."

Jones nodded, sympathetic to the situation. Early in his career, he worked for the military police, so he knew all about forensic delays and what they did to a case. "Then let's concentrate on other things. Like Trevor Schmidt. How do you know he was here?"

"How? Because this was his facility. He was running the show."

"What do you mean?"

"They brought him in several months ago. First as a guard, later in a more significant role. My guess is they wanted to see if he could handle this place, and he ended up thriving."

"Doing what?"

"Doing everything we're not supposed to do."

The voices came from a house at the far end of the village. One male, one female. Both of them shouting in Korean. Or Chinese. Or some other language that Payne didn't speak. He tried to get as close as possible, hoping to get a view of the argument, but the stone fence that surrounded the yard was much taller than the others he had passed. It stood ten feet tall and was made of thick volcanic rocks that were held in place by some kind of natural paste.

The only entrance was a carved wooden gate that depicted all four seasons on Jeju. Royal azaleas blooming in spring. Waves roaring in summer. Leaves dancing in autumn. And snow falling on Mount Halla in winter. A stone grandfather stood on both sides of the gate; each was rough and weathered, like they'd been there longer than the home they were protecting. A stone chimney anchored the right side of the house, exhaling wisps of brown smoke that soared above the thatched roof and filled the air with a piney aroma.

Gun in hand, Payne crept closer until he was able to lean his body weight against the right gate. It groaned ever so slightly as it swung open, just enough space for him to slip inside.

Kia stood at the far side of the yard, her back against the wall, tension etched on her face. She was arguing with an old man who wore ajeogori robe and bqji pants. Pleading with him. Begging for something in Korean. None of this made any sense to Payne until he saw the weapon in the guy's grasp. It was long and sharp and pointed at Kia's midsection. Maybe a pitchfork. Maybe a trident. Whatever it was, it was fully capable of ruining her day.

Payne inched forward, approaching his target from behind. His hair was long and white and pulled into an elaborate ponytail that was bound tight with a fancy clip. Every time the old man talked, it swayed back and forth, up and down, as if punctuating his words with extra emphasis. His voice was guttural, his phrases choppy. Fear was evident despite the language barrier.

Kia spotted Payne about twenty yards away. Much to her credit, she didn't smile or point or call out to him. Instead, she kept arguing with the old man. Kept his focus straight ahead so Payne could ease into position and do whatever he needed to do.

Ten yards out, Payne lifted his gun and aimed it at the back of his target's head. One simple squeeze and the old man would have been dead. Brains splattered everywhere. Game over. But Payne sensed that was the wrong move. This guy wasn't a killer. He was scared. Probably more so than Kia. He was wearing a robe and slippers in his backyard. Simply defending his property. No way he deserved to die. Then again, neither did she.

Five yards later, Payne made a choice. No gun was necessary. He tucked his P226 in his belt and slipped behind the old man. In a fluid motion, Payne grabbed his ponytail with one hand and flicked away the pitchfork with the other. It fell harmlessly to the ground. The old man was next. Payne eased him backward, supporting his body weight with his own, making sure he didn't bang the man's head or break a hip or anything else.

It was his good deed for the day. No sense hurting the guy if he didn't have to.

"You okay?" Payne asked Kia, refusing to take his eyes off his target.

She nodded as she grabbed the rusty pitchfork. "I'm fine."

"Glad to hear it." Payne patted down the old man, who seemed stunned by the sneak attack, then took a few steps back. Just enough space to feel comfortable. He felt even safer once his gun was back in his hand. "What the hell happened?"

"He attacked me."

"Yeah, I kind of figured that. But why?"

"I don't know," she blurted, punctuating the words with the pitchfork. "I saw the smoke and came here to ask where everyone was because the entire village is empty and I thought maybe he could tell me what was going on, but before I could even ask, he attacked me."

Payne smiled, recognizing the symptoms of adrenaline. The rambling. The exaggerated hand movements. The white knuckles as she clenched the handle. Common traits for a soldier who was new in the field. "Kia, sweetie. Remember to breathe."

"What?"

"Breathe."

She nodded, sucking in a deep bream that returned some color to her cheeks. She repeated the process, and everything about her calmed down. At least a little bit.

"Now, what else can you tell me?"

"About what?"

Payne pointed to the old guy. "Him."

"I heard someone working out back. So I walked around the side of the house to investigate. I got halfway there when he came charging at me with this." She held up the pitchfork. "I'm not armed, so I did what my father always taught me to do when attacked. I screamed."

"And I heard you. You did it very well."

Kia smiled, the stress of the moment melting away. "Thanks."

"What were you two arguing about?"

"Everything! I said I wasn't going to hurt him, but he disagreed. I told him I was Korean, but he didn't believe me. No matter what I said, he claimed I was lying."

Payne nodded, starting to grasp the situation. Either the old guy was completely delusional, or he'd suffered a recent trauma. Something so significant that he'd developed some major trust issues. Why else would he be deathly afraid of Kia?

"Does he speak English?" Payne wondered.

She asked him in Korean but the old guy ignored her, refusing to say anything.

"Fine," Payne said, "then he can't help us. We're just gonna have to kill him."

The old man flinched on the ground, reacting to what Payne had said. Obviously a big mistake. Right then and there, Payne knew he spoke English. Or at least understood it.

In a calm voice, Payne said, "Don't worry, sir. I'm not going to hurt you. I just wanted to see if you could understand me. And clearly you can." He stepped forward and offered the guy his hand, but it was rejected. The old man wanted to stand on his own. "My apologies, sir. I figured since I pulled you down, the least I could do was help you up."

"Just like an American," the old man muttered in a thick Korean accent. He took a moment to dust himself off- first his robe, then his pants-before finishing his thought.

"Why do your people always assume that an act of kindness will make up for one of violence?"

Payne shrugged. "Probably the same reason that your people always sound like a fortune cookie when you're talking to my people."

The old man frowned. "What's a fortune cookie?"

"It's not important. What is important is why you attacked my friend."

"She came into my yard where she didn't belong. I was defending myself."

Kia objected. "I came into your yard because I was worried about you and your neighbors. And according to sammu, I'm allowed to enter your yard when I know you're home."

Now it was Payne's turn to be confused. "What's sammu?"

"It's a tradition on Jeju. The people here are direct descendants of the Kingdom of Tamna, islanders who always prided themselves on honor and independence. The concept of sammu guarantees that this island is free of thieves, beggars, and gates. When you walked through town, did you notice the three logs that blocked the thresholds on all the fences? Those logs are known as jeongnang. They aren't used as protection but rather to inform visitors if the master of the house was home or when he'd be coming back. If one log was there, he'd be back shortly. Two meant around dinnertime. Three meant he was far away from home. On the other hand, if the logs were missing, you were welcome to pay him a visit."

Payne glanced at the old man. "No log means she wasn't trespassing."

"Not only that," Kia added, "but he doesn't have a log. He has a huge wooden gate. I'm surprised his neighbors let him get away with that. It's disrespectful to the entire village."

The old man bristled, unwilling to be insulted by two strangers. "One shouldn't mock what one doesn't understand."

Payne frowned. "Meaning?"

"If you had my past, you'd have a gate, too."

13

Shari Shasmeen was a lot of things, many of which caused her problems in this part of the world.

For one, she was an American. Born and raised in Florida, she was the child of a Muslim father and a Christian mother-neither of whom was overly religious. Each of them had their own beliefs and raised their daughter in an environment where she was allowed to believe whatever felt comfortable. Naturally curious, Shari read the holy texts of several religions and compared their major attributes. After much consideration she came to a conclusion that pleased both of her parents. Instead of choosing a faith, she chose a career. She opted to become a religious archaeologist to answer all the questions that plagued her.

Yet her job was problematic. Women were second-class citizens in the Middle East, one of the main areas she needed to conduct her research. Whether natives or tourists, women were expected to follow the rules and customs of the land-laws that restricted their dress, travel, and ability to socialize. Things were especially strict in Saudi Arabia, where the Commission for the Promotion of Virtue and Prevention of Vice (CPVPV) employed religious police called mutaween, who patrolled the streets like Nazis, looking for even the slightest violations of Islamic law. They arrested unrelated males and females caught speaking, enforced Islamic dress codes and prayer schedules, prevented the consumption of non-Muslim food such as pork or alcohol, and seized inappropriate products such as American books, magazines, CDs, and movies. Sometimes punishment for these violations was a public flogging; at other times it was a prison sentence. Occasionally it was much worse.

On March 11, 2002, the Saudi mutaween stopped hundreds of schoolgirls from leaving their burning school in Mecca because the girls were not wearing the abayas (black robes) and head scarves that were required in public by Islamic law. Some mutaween were seen beating scorched teenagers as punishment, while others locked the school gates from the outside, preventing the students from fleeing the fire. Fifteen girls were killed and several dozen were injured-many of whom were crushed against the barricades while trying to escape the flames. Making matters worse, many of the schoolgirls' parents witnessed the carnage from across the street and were punished when they tried to intervene and save their daughters.

Shari knew about the mutaween and their violent ways before she ventured to Saudi Arabia for her current project, but fear wasn't going to stop her from her work. In America she was a respected academic known for her fierce determination and dedication, so there was no way in hell she was going to let anything stand in her way. Even if it meant risking her life.

Of course, she wasn't reckless about it.

Shari was an attractive woman in her late thirties. Not flashy or glamorous, more like an exotic soccer mom who lived down the street. In most parts of the world, she went to work in casual clothes, staying as comfortable as possible while she slaved away in the hot sun. But in Mecca, she played it safe and followed the local dress code, hiding her tanned and lithe body under an abaya, a long robe mat scraped the ground every time she moved. A veil covered her shoulder-length black hair. She wore no makeup or jewelry. She even traveled with a chaperone.

At least that's how she was in public.

In private, it was a completely different story. The instant she got inside the tunnel that had been carved underneath the old city, she started taking off her clothes, stripping down to the T-shirt and cargo shorts that she wore under her robe. It was her way of flipping off the mutaween and everything they stood for. Her way of showing independence and great legs at the same time. Her coworkers, an American crew of two scholars and three security guards, thought it was amusing. Not only because Shari was so dramatic about it, but also because all of them knew her behavior wouldn't make a damn bit of difference if the Saudi government figured out what they were doing down there.

If that happened, her lack of clothes would be the least of their worries.

Boards creaked as Fred Nasir walked down the steep slope of the tunnel. When the path leveled off, it turned gently to the east. Lightbulbs hung above him, barely lighting the way. He walked fifty more feet, where he was greeted by a locked metal gate. It wasn't what he was expecting to find so deep underground.

"Hello?" he called, his voice echoing through the shaft. "Is anyone home?"

A hulking security guard emerged from the darkness. He carried a flashlight in one hand and a pickax in the other. Sweat dripped from his brow, mixing with the dirt that covered his face. To Nasir, it looked like the guard was leaking mud. Like a mole man who lived in the Earth's core.

"May I help you?" he asked in a deep voice.

"I have a delivery."

"Stay there."

Nasir nodded. What choice did he have? The gate was locked, and the person he needed to meet was on the other side. At least he hoped he was. The truth was he didn't know anything about him. Much like it had been at Al-Gaim. He was given a time and a place but wasn't quite sure who was going to be there when he showed up. He was told it was done for security. The less he knew, the better. Obviously it made perfect sense, but it was still unsettling.

He glanced at his watch again. Five more minutes had passed.

Finally, Nasir heard movement up ahead. He stared through the metal gate, hoping to get a glimpse of his contact before he had to talk to him. Praying it wasn't another mole man.

One glimpse and he realized that wasn't the case. In fact, it wasn't a him at all.

It was a woman. A sexy woman. Striding confidently through the darkness. Her hair was covered and she wore a robe, but there was something about her that was captivating.

Suddenly he wasn't in such a hurry to leave.

"May I help you?" Shari asked, who had put on appropriate clothes for her visitor.

"Yeah. I have a delivery."

"Great. I've been expecting you. Please slip it through the gate."

He looked at the fence and frowned. "You mean I can't come in?"

"Why would you want to come in?"

"I don't know. Just to look around. I'm kind of curious."

Before Shari could respond, the guard emerged behind her. He still held the pickax in his grasp. "You know what they say about curiosity."

Nasir gulped. "It killed the cat."

"It's gonna kill the deliveryman, too, unless you get your ass out of here."

Shari fought the urge to smile. "You heard the man. Give me the package, then you better get going. I'm not big enough to protect you if he gets angry."

Nasir nodded and slipped a sealed envelope through the gate. Inside the envelope was the take-out menu he had picked up at Al-Gaim. Inside the menu was a tiny computer disk.

Shari glanced at it and frowned. "Is that everything?"

"Yes. That's everything."

"Okay, then. Thanks for coming." She turned to leave but realized he was still standing there, just watching her. "Can you find your way out? Or do you need some help?"

"I'll gladly help you out," growled the guard.

"No, thanks. I'm fine." Nasir backed away from them. "No problem at all."

"Great," Shari said with a laugh. "Take care now. Stay safe."

Nasir turned and hustled up the ramp, dying to get out of the tunnel. Dying to see the sunlight.

Ironically, it was one of the things that led to his death.

There's a split second when people first leave the darkness when their eyes are unable to adjust. The sun's rays are just too bright; pupils are unable to compensate.

To a trained killer, it's something that can be taken advantage of. A moment when his target is temporarily blind. And a blind target is an easy mark.

The man calmly waited until Nasir stepped outside the tunnel. Then, before he could focus, he took his jambiya, a curved Arabic dagger, and slid it across Nasir's throat. One quick slash and it was over. His scream emerged as a bloody gurgle, a short burst of spray followed by a quick loss of life. No resistance. No struggle of any kind.

One minute the target was alive, the next he was dead.

Just like the killer had been taught.

After that, he simply dragged Nasir back into the tunnel and dumped him on the ground, blood pouring from him like a gutted pig. No need to hide the body. No need to clean up the scene. That would defeat the purpose of this violent act.

This murder was a message.

One he wanted them to see.

14

Payne spotted a wooden bench in a small flower garden. Always cautious, he checked it for hidden weapons before letting the old man take a seat.

Payne had been raised by his grandfather, so he had a special place in his heart for the elderly. He believed in respecting them. And listening to them. Always soaking in as much wisdom as he possibly could before the resource was no longer available. Of course, he also knew that some senior citizens were total assholes. Therefore, he planned on taking every precaution until he knew more about this guy and his past.

"So," Payne said, "tell us about the gate."

The old man stared at him, sizing him up. Several seconds passed before he was willing to speak. And when he did, there was a bitter tone in his voice. Filled with anger and acrimony. "This isn't the first time Americans have come to Jeju. You've been visiting for decades. And I don't mean tourists. I mean soldiers like you. Threatening our island."

On the inside, Payne felt like a total ass. Embarrassed for being there. Ashamed for holding this guy at gunpoint. Mortified by the lack of U.S. military support during the Jeju Massacre. Yet what could he do? It was crucial for him to stay in control of the situation, so he revealed nothing. No emotions. No response. No reaction of any kind.

"I was one of the men who was arrested back in 1948. My entire family was pulled out of my home, this home, at gunpoint. The women were carted away first, their screams echoing through the night. Then we were blindfolded and dragged into a nearby cave, where we were beaten, starved, and tortured for the next three years. During that time, my father, uncles, and brothers were killed. Out of nine of us, I was the only one who survived."

The old man rubbed his eyes, wiping away the tears that streamed down his face.

"You want to know why I have a gate? That's why I have a gate."

Kia sat next to him and whispered something in Korean. Something soft and comforting. The tone of her voice revealed that much. Payne had no idea what was being said and realized it would be inappropriate to ask. The old man needed a moment, and Payne was willing to give it to him. That's the least he could do. So he took the pitchfork from Kia and let them talk.

Eventually, after a few minutes of dialogue, Kia turned her attention to Payne. "Do you have any questions?"

Payne nodded. He had several. Yet he realized things would go smoother if someone else did the asking. Someone the old man could trust. Someone who hadn't grabbed his ponytail and pulled him to the ground.

"Actually, why don't you interview him? I figure, you found the guy."

Kia smiled, thrilled with the opportunity. And her excitement seemed to brighten the old man's mood. Five minutes earlier, he had been holding her at bay with a rusty pitchfork. Now the two of them were bonding.

She started simple. "Can you tell us more about the Americans?"

"They've been coming here since the fifties. Mostly in the dead of night when they didn't think we were watching. But we saw them. We noticed what they were doing. Bringing in others, sneaking them through the woods." He turned toward Kia, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Things died down a few years ago. All of us hoped they'd finally moved on, that they'd found somewhere new. But all of that changed a few months ago when the screams returned to the island. Pe-Ui Je Dan had been reborn."

"Pe-Ui Je Dan?"

The old man nodded. "The Altar of Blood."

Jones stared at Dr. Sheldon, still trying to figure him out. So far, their conversations were like a game of poker. A lot of bluffing, a lot of gamesmanship, yet no obvious winner. Every once in a while Sheldon toyed with him-dropping a hint, raising the stakes-but he refused to lay his cards on the table. And until he did, the game would continue whether Jones wanted it to or not.

Unfortunately, Sheldon's last comment was his most puzzling yet. He claimed Trevor Schmidt was in charge of this facility. But how could that be? It didn't make any sense. Schmidt was a highly decorated Special Forces soldier, handpicked for the MANIACs and trained in their specialized form of warfare. Those skills could not be used in a cave. Not as a guard, nor as a facility supervisor. To achieve full impact, he needed to be in the field.

Then again, Colonel Harrington stressed that Schmidt was no longer the same man he had been. That he ceased to exist after the incident at Taif. Those were Harrington's exact words. Schmidt ceased to exist. Like Schmidt had died with everyone else in the incident. As if he were unable to shoulder the pain and loss of the tragedy and had simply given up. Jones had seen many soldiers who could no longer handle the pressures of war, who could no longer bounce back from their emotional scars and remain on active duty. But he had never heard it described in Harrington's terms. His friend had ceased to exist.

A loud ding echoed throughout the cave, a sound that snapped Jones back to reality. He glanced at Sheldon, who told him not to worry. The sound meant that Sheldon had received a classified e-mail. Probably the test results he'd been waiting for. Jones wasn't sure if he was allowed to see them, but there was no way he was going to miss this opportunity. He followed Sheldon into the next room, hovering over his shoulder at all times, hoping to catch a glimpse of the e-mail. But his persistence wasn't necessary. After Sheldon scanned the report, checking and double-checking the information, he passed it to Jones. No fanfare. No explanation. No games of any kind. He knew Jones was smart enough to figure things out, so he simply handed it to him.

Unfortunately, the news was worse than Jones had expected. A lot worse.

Payne made sure he heard the term correctly. "The Altar of Blood?"

The old man nodded, refusing to look at him, focusing on Kia instead. "No matter who was taken there, they always screamed to their gods, begging to be saved from the pain they endured. Sometimes this went on for days. Sometimes weeks. But their prayers were never answered. Their blood was always spilled."

The old man trembled, remembering the time he had spent in the cave and all the family he'd lost. Kia tried to soothe him, touching his shoulder, whispering words of encouragement in Korean before she asked him another question. "And the Altar was recently reborn?"

"Our village was quiet for many years. But a few months ago the spirits were reawakened. The screams started again at night, in a language I've never heard. An ancient language. Something barbaric. Like the Devil speaking in tongues." He glanced toward Payne, still refusing to look him in the eye but making sure he heard every angry word. "But the Devil didn't come here alone. Your people brought him here. Your people lost control. Yet my people were the ones who suffered…. Why does my village always suffer?"

Payne wanted to tell him that he had nothing to do with this, that he'd come to this island to help his people and his village, but the old man wouldn't have listened. There was too much anger, too much history for Payne to overcome. At least with words. The only way to make a real difference was to find out what happened and close the cave forever.

Thankfully, Kia continued to ask the right questions, proving to be a valuable asset. "Speaking of your village, where is everyone?"

"They're out back."

Without saying another word, the old man stood and walked out of his side garden, stepping carefully on flat stones that had been laid in the ground. Kia followed closely behind, while Payne brought up the rear. He walked with his weapon drawn, eyes scanning the terrain, ready for the unexpected. Pruned trees and shrubs filled the landscape, everything perfectly manicured, as if the old man spent all his time doing nothing else. During the summer months, the flowers would have been in bloom, a rainbow of colors bursting in every corner of the yard. But this time of year everything looked dreary, as if a curtain of gloom had been dropped on the entire village. The sky was gray. The mood was dark.

Originally Payne had assumed the stench of burning pine had come from the old man's chimney, which continued to belch a steady stream of smoke, but as they rounded the corner of the house, he noticed the actual source. A giant fire pit had been constructed in the middle of the backyard. Volcanic rocks lined the exterior, stacked three feet high and fifteen feet across. Wooden embers smoldered on the inside, casting no flames but burning intense like a furnace. No sparks. No light. Just a lot of heat. The type of fire that was used to cook meat.

An ancient wheelbarrow, covered in rust, sat abandoned in the yard, next to an ax, a pick, and a variety of cutting tools. All of them splattered with the same hue. The same rust color as the wheelbarrow. In a flash, Payne sensed what had happened. What the old man had done.

"Where are your neighbors?" Kia wondered. "I thought they were back here."

The old man nodded, his eyes filling with tears as he stared into the fire. 'They are."

15

In ancient times, bodies of the dead were often burned en masse to prevent the spread of disease, a common act during times of war when blood-soaked battlefields were sometimes littered with thousands of victims, soldiers so brutalized that identification was next to impossible. The cleanup process was so essential that some generals actually called a truce with their enemies after a major battle, giving both sides enough time to properly dispose of the corpses before their war reignited and more soldiers were slain.

While a student at the Naval Academy, Payne had read grisly accounts of the disposal process, perfected by the empires of yesteryear, and prayed he would never see it in person. Yet here he was on Jeju, a tiny island in the middle of nowhere, and he was forced to stare at the ashes. Maybe forced to sift through them to figure out why this crazy old bastard had loaded the bodies of his neighbors onto a wheelbarrow and burned them in his backyard.

For all Payne knew, he might have done the same thing with the victims from the cave. That would certainly explain where everyone went. Why they suddenly disappeared.

Of course, that wouldn't explain who killed them or why. But one thing at a time. He would worry about those details later. For now, he had to get this guy talking.

Payne's thoughts were interrupted by the vibration of his cell phone. He glanced at the caller ID and saw David Jones. Their phones had been designed with a special encryption chip, so they could talk without concern. No hijacked signals. No security leaks. As safe as whispering.

Payne clicked SEND. "We need to meet."

Jones agreed, his voice somber. "Where are you?"

"In the village."

"There's a village?"

Payne laughed. He'd said the exact same thing to the sniper who'd led him here. He gave Jones directions, then added, "When you come, bring some backup. I've got a major situation."

He nodded. "That makes two of us."

Twenty minutes passed before Jones arrived at the old man's gate. He led a split squad-both security and forensics- in a convoy of SUVs. Payne didn't recognize any of the men, which led him to believe that there was a full platoon stationed nearby. Hiding somewhere in the woods. Waiting for something to happen. For a mission that was supposedly black, there were a lot of potential leaks. Too many, as far as he was concerned.

Jones climbed out of the lead SUV, leaving the rest of the soldiers behind. None of them moved. They just sat there. Patiently. Awaiting further instructions.

"Who are your friends?" Payne asked. "They're very well behaved."

Jones didn't answer. Instead, he grabbed Payne by the elbow and turned his back to the men. Just in case one of them could read lips. "Things have changed."

"No shit. How bad is it?"

"Very. But you go first. How should we deploy?"

Payne explained the basic layout of the village and where he needed troops. Mostly on the periphery. Far from the evidence in the backyard. At least until he got a better handle on things. As for forensics, they'd have to wait until the area was secure.

Jones jogged to the lead SUV and gave them instructions. In an instant, the team sprang to life. Men hustled from the vehicles, scattering to the four comers of the town. Seconds later, they couldn't be seen. Blending perfectly with the landscape. Payne watched their movements from a distance, impressed by their efficiency. Either they were elite soldiers, who adapted on the run, or they'd been here before and knew exactly where to go. Both possibilities raised intriguing questions. Things he'd discuss with Jones at a later time.

But first mere were other issues to resolve.

"Your turn," he said to Jones. "What's changed?"

"The parameters of our mission. I just got word from forensics. About Trevor."

Payne nodded, realizing what that meant. Deep down inside, he'd hoped Schmidt was still alive, but he sensed that wasn't the case the moment he saw all the blood. There was simply too much of it. But now tilings were official. His former student was dead. Killed by unknown forces for unknown reasons. Which meant this was no longer a rescue mission. It was something far worse. A homicide investigation.

Jones continued. "Schmidt's team, including himself, consisted of four men whose DNA was on file with Colonel Harrington. Forensic testing proved it was their blood. And they found so much of it, there's no way any of them could've survived."

"Anything else?"

"They found three additional samples. Strike that. Three recent ones but no names. And not in the main cave but one of the back chambers. That's where the prisoners were kept."

"So Sheldon admitted it was a prison?"

Jones nodded. "If you think about it, it makes sense. It's far from America but close to North Korea, which is our biggest nuclear threat. This location gave us deniability and a lot of freedom when it comes to persuasion. No one was looking over their shoulders."

"And what was Schmidt's role?"

"Sheldon claims he was running it."

"The mission or the torture?"

He shrugged. "Maybe both."

Payne winced at the news, instantly thinking back to the years he'd spent with Schmidt, all the training, all the missions, and wondering where he'd gone wrong. If he'd gone wrong. The life of a Special Forces soldier was a complex one, an equal mix of aggression and discipline, humanity and brutality, always searching for a peaceful solution in an ultraviolent world. Balance was difficult to maintain, nearly impossible, which was one of the reasons why Payne was glad he got out when he did. While he still had a sense of honor. While he still had control.

But some soldiers weren't nearly as fortunate. Sometimes tragedies occurred that pushed them too far over the edge, causing them to lose track of their humanity. Their morality. Their ability to tell the difference between right and wrong. And when that happened, the military usually did one of two things. Either they counseled them on their behavior, hoping to cure it. Or they gave them a change of duty, hoping to exploit it.

And that's what happened to Trevor Schmidt.

An incident changed his life. And the military took full advantage.

According to Colonel Harrington, Schmidt had acted heroically during a mission gone wrong. Bad intel caused his squad to be dropped in the middle of occupied ground, surrounded by the enemy, yet Schmidt led his men to safety without any fatalities. Many injured, but none dead. A modern-day miracle. They were airlifted to Taif Air Base in Saudi Arabia, where they were treated at Al-Hada Hospital, a Saudi facility that catered to Westerners. To boost morale, families were flown in from the States to the Al-Gaim Compound, where they were allowed to stay while their loved ones recovered. Anything, Schmidt had argued, to help his men get better.

On the day of the incident, he had loaded up a shuttle bus with all the family members-wives, parents, girlfriends, even a couple of kids-and driven them to the hospital. His men were quartered in a separate wing, one that offered privacy from the regular patients, allowing them to talk freely about their missions without being overheard. Security was posted outside their doors, and every time the shift changed, the new guards swept the wing for listening devices. Far from perfect, but it would have to do until his men were healthy enough to be transported home.

Schmidt parked in a secured lot and herded everyone toward the front entrance, where they were greeted by another member of his squad, one of the uninjured ones, who led them into the building, through metal detectors, and past security. Schmidt made sure each of his men was doing well before he got back on the shuttle bus and drove to Taif, where he had a meeting to discuss what the hell went wrong with his last mission and whose head was going to roll. Someone had to pay for the fuckup that nearly killed his squad. He'd make sure of it.

Unfortunately, the meeting lasted less than three minutes. Schmidt barely had time to open his mouth when the conference room started to rumble. The floor began to shake. The walls began to quiver. Thunder ripped across the sunny sky. Everyone in the room was a seasoned veteran, so all of them knew what had happened. There had been an explosion. An attack of some kind. The only questions were where and why.

The amazing thing about war is that there can be silence in the middle of so much noise. Phones started ringing and people started shouting, a cacophony of sounds that rose above the distant rumble of a building collapsing to the ground, but Schmidt heard none of it. Not a single sound after the initial blast. As if his brain had hit the mute button.

Just like that, something inside him clicked.

Chaos swirled around him as he walked down the corridor. Alarms going off. Soldiers running everywhere. The anger from a moment before had been replaced with a temporary numbness, a stark realization that his current life would be over the instant he walked outside and saw what had been destroyed by the blast. How many squad members had been killed.

He paused at the door, his hand resting on the latch, trying to soak in his last few seconds of hope before he was overwhelmed by a thirst for revenge that wouldn't be quenched until he punished every last person who was responsible for this tragedy.

Until he squeezed the life out of all of them.

Finally, as if accepting his own fate, Schmidt took one last breath, then stepped into the brutal heat of the Saudi sun, where he stared at the hospital that burned in the distance.

The flames igniting his rage within.

16

Kia sat next to the old man, no longer fearing him. His name was Dong-Min Kim. After she explained who she was and why she was there, he apologized several times for attacking her with a pitchfork. She brushed it off like it was the type of thing that happened every day, but Kim knew better. He wasn't the least bit delusional, as she had first feared. He was actually clearheaded and caring. The stereotypical village elder.

The two of them talked in Korean, everything light and conversational. Nothing about the fire pit, the cave, or what had happened during the past week. Those were topics she wanted to save for Payne and Jones. Instead, she talked about her childhood on the army base near Seoul, explaining how blessed she was to be exposed to so many cultures at such an early age and how it gave her a head start on her current career. By age ten, she could speak four languages.

Kim was impressed by her accomplishments, especially her world travels. In all his life, he had never left the island of Jeju. Not even to go fishing. As a young boy he had nearly drowned while learning to swim, and after that he had an intense fear of the sea, which prevented him from going anywhere. No boats. No planes. No traveling of any kind. Instead he poured himself into books, learning the ways of the world from the comfort of his own home. Unfortunately, that was the main reason why he was so outraged by the presence of the cave. He rarely strayed from his village, yet the dangers of the world kept finding him there.

With a wave of his hand, Payne caught Kia's attention. She excused herself from Kim and walked into the backyard, where Payne and Jones were waiting by the fire pit, the smell of smoke still filling the air.

"Is he lucid?" Payne asked.

Kia nodded. "Very. He knows exactly what's going on."

"Good. We're hoping he can tell us what happened. Any advice on how to approach him?"

"Sir?"

"Will he be receptive to my questions, or should you conduct the interview?"

"Honestly, sir, I think it would be best if I handled it. He doesn't trust Americans. And I think he'd be more comfortable speaking in Korean."

Payne nodded, agreeing with everything she'd said. Unfortunately, he didn't have time to fill her in on the latest news about Trevor Schmidt, so he gave her a short list of questions that he and Jones had composed and asked her to look them over. Thirty seconds later she had them committed to memory. It was one of her strengths.

"Try to keep things conversational," he suggested as he tossed the list into the fire and watched it burn. "Use your rapport to open him up. Then, and only then, ask him the important stuff. We need some honest answers from him. No time for bullshit. Remember, the longer he thinks about a response, the less likely he'll tell the truth."

Kia nodded, then returned to Kim, who gave her a warm smile as she approached. Except for his long ponytail, he looked like her maternal grandfather, a man who'd died long before she was born. Otherwise, Kia's mother wouldn't have been allowed to marry an American.

"Sorry about that," she said in Korean. "My bosses were asking about you."

"And what did you tell them?"

"I told them you weren't a flight risk."

Kim laughed. "That much is true. If I didn't leave for this …" His voice trailed off.

"About that," she said, ignoring Payne's advice to take it slow. "Can you tell me what happened here? None of it makes any sense to me. The cave. The empty village. The fire."

"In the past we always left the soldiers alone and they left us alone. It was a mutual understanding, one that has gone on for decades. But this time, fate intervened."

She said nothing, hoping he would fill in the blanks.

"A few weeks ago, a village boy named Yong-Su came to me and asked about the screams from the cave. I told him about its past, hoping to scare the curiosity out of him. But my efforts failed. Last weekend he went to the cave on his own."

"What did he see?"

"I'm not sure," he admitted. "But when he returned, he was covered in blood."

"His blood?"

"Someone else's."

Kia paused, memories of the cave flooding through her mind. Ten seconds were more than enough to make her nauseous. She couldn't imagine what Yong-Su must have felt when he walked into the cave, completely alone, no one there to protect him. It had to be traumatic.

Kim seemed to read her mind. "The boy came back unable to speak. His mother was crying, simply terrified, unsure of what to do. She cleaned him off and searched for injuries, but found none. Meanwhile the boy's father, an honorable man named Chung-Ho Park, ran from house to house, asking if anyone had seen what had happened. It didn't take long to figure it out. The boy had left a trail of blood everywhere he walked. We were able to follow it to the edge of the village and into the woods. Drip … drip … drip."

The sound of his voice and the look on his face told Kia that his emotions were starting to resurface. To keep him calm, she put her hand on his shoulder and rubbed it gently. Trying to comfort him. Hoping to keep him focused. Still, several seconds passed before he spoke again.

"I'm an old man with a long memory. I know what kind of evil goes on in that cave, so I told Chung-Ho that the village was no longer safe for him and his son. Much to my relief, he didn't question me. He just put his boy in their car and left. His wife and the rest of his family planned on following, but they never had a chance."

"Why not?"

"The soldiers came into town in waves, dressed in black and wearing masks. Some of them followed the blood to the boy's home, while others spread throughout the village. I heard angry voices punctuated by screams, but that's all I could distinguish. I was too worried about finding a place to hide to make out their words."

Kia sat quietly, waiting for him to continue.

"The first shot was the loudest. It sounded like a cannon, echoing through the town. Others soon followed, one after the other, coming in sporadic bursts like firecrackers. My house is the last one in the village, which gave me all the time I needed. After the first massacre, I'd built a small shelter under the floor of my house, just in case history repeated itself. I stayed down there for more than four days, barely eating or sleeping. Going to the bathroom in my own pants. When I could take it no more, I slipped into my backyard and listened. There were no sounds. I glanced out my front gate, but there was no movement. That's when I knew they were gone."

"Did you call the police?"

He waved his hands in disgust. "The police? Why would I call the police? They were in charge of the first massacre! To this day, half of my family is still somewhere in that cave, their bodies crammed behind a pile of rocks and left there to rot. It is such a disgrace to my family name, but there's nothing I can do about it. Believe me, I've tried."

He took a deep breath before continuing. "Did you know the size of a grave plot in this country is larger than the average amount of living space that our citizens have? That's right. The dead took up more room than the living. And the cost of all their burials? It would have been more than I could afford."

She nodded, finally beginning to understand his perspective.

"So I took matters into my own hands. First I went into the boy's house, but everyone was dead. His mother, his brother and sister, his aunt, his cousins. Everyone. Same with the rest of the village. Every single person and been shot and killed. Bodies just lying there in puddles of their own blood, the smell starting to build. So I walked back to my yard and built a fire. I threw in some pine needles and incense to cover the odor. Then one by one I loaded them into my wheelbarrow and did the proper thing. I freed their souls to the sky."

17

One of the guards found Fred Nasir's body near the tunnel entrance. His throat was slashed and he'd been left to die. Blood covered the wooden planks that lined the floor, dried by the desert heat that seeped in from the outside world.

From the looks of things, he'd been dead at least an hour.

Panicked, the guard sprinted down the steep slope, unlocked the metal gate that protected their site, and told Shari Shasmeen what had happened. Her face went pale when she heard the news. As project leader, it was her job to make all the important decisions-what they did, where they worked, and so on-and to take responsibility when things went wrong. And until then, she had accomplished it with remarkable ease. She had fifteen years' experience in the field and was recruited for her expertise. She was so gifted at her job that the project financier, the Arab who had hired her, was willing to overlook the fact that she was a woman-a remarkable concession in this part of the world.

But a murder? That was way beyond anything she was prepared to handle.

She was a religious archaeologist, not a detective.

Obviously this was a situation she couldn't handle on her own, not with all the politics involved. So she did the one thing she was told to do if there was ever a major problem.

She called her boss, Omar Abdul-Khaliq.

He answered the phone on the third ring, his voice as composed as ever.

"What is wrong?" he asked.

She explained everything-the delivery, the murder, her concerns. The entire time he said nothing. He just listened, occasionally taking notes.

"This is troubling indeed." He paused for a moment. "But it can be handled."

"Handled how?"

"You must listen to me and do exactly what I say."

She knew not to question him. So far he had proven his worth at every turn. Not only did he finance the project with his deep pockets, money his family had earned in the oil business, but he'd done a remarkable job of getting work permits from the Saudi government, a minor miracle since they were digging right down the street from the Great Mosque, and keeping the police away. Several times she wanted to ask him how that was possible, but she realized it was one of those questions better left unasked.

"Have you touched the body?"

"No! We checked to see if he was dead, but other than that we haven't touched anything."

"Good. This is good. You must not touch the body. Leave it as it is."

She grimaced. "For how long?"

"It will be removed today."

"But-"

His voice grew stern. "Please allow me to finish."

She nodded, regretting her mistake.

"I will send a new team of guards, men more equipped to handle this crisis. They will remain at the site, night and day. You shall brief them when they arrive. They'll need to see everything."

"Of course."

"Activity around the mosque will only increase as pilgrims arrive. The old city will be crowded, filled with millions of witnesses." Abdul-Khaliq paused, thinking things through. "Until the hajj is over, all work should be stopped at the site. No workers, no digging, no attention. No one but the guards to protect our work…. Do you not agree?"

She answered carefully, realizing it was a loaded question. "Whatever you think is best."

"Besides, you and your team deserve some time off-a reward for all your efforts. It will help you forget this tragedy…. Mecca is a historic city, one you've barely seen. Use your time wisely. Roam the streets, observe the celebration. It is one to behold."

Shari was quite familiar with the hajj and its customs. While preparing for her dig, she read several firsthand accounts, tales of tragedy and triumph, loss and salvation, written by men and women whose lives were changed by their journey. Deep inside she knew she would never participate as a pilgrim-she was a nonpracticing half-Muslim- but as an academic, she realized her observations would be invaluable.

Maybe he was right. Maybe this was the best thing to do.

Considering the circumstances, it was certainly the safest.

"Before we conclude," he said, "there is one more item to be discussed."

"Which is?"

"The delivery of my package. Did it arrive safely?"

She held the sealed envelope in her hand. "Yes. I have it right here."

"Good. That is good." He paused briefly. "Is it unopened?"

"It seems to be."

"Excellent!"

She was dying to find out what was inside, especially since the man who'd delivered it was dead in her tunnel. Still, she knew not to ask too much. "What should I do with it?"

"Hold it at all times. One of these days, it will come in handy. You shall see."

The guards showed up sooner than expected, less man an hour after she'd called Abdul-Khaliq.

They were highly trained and highly unsociable. Only one of them spoke to Shari, and even then it was to tell her to stay out of their way.

Their first order of business was the body. One of the men went through Nasir's pockets, finding the keys to the Toyota Camry, while another man backed a van as close to the tunnel entrance as possible, until his rear bumper nearly hit the chain-link fence that protected it. They unloaded an Arabic rug that had been purchased at a nearby bazaar and unrolled it next to Nasir. Two of the men moved him to the edge of the rug, then rolled him up inside like a burrito.

Seconds later, the body was in the back of the van.

The bloodstain was even less of a challenge. Since most of the blood had dried on the wooden planks that lined the floor, they simply lifted the boards and replaced them with fresh ones from the building supplies that filled the vacant lot outside. Two men tossed the stained wood onto the rolled-up rug, closed the van door, and sped away.

The whole process took less than five minutes.

"Anything else I should know?" asked the lead guard.

Shari shook her head, stunned at their efficiency.

"In that case, please take me below."

She led him underground, giving him a brief tour along the way. "Most of this digging was done before I even arrived at the site. They were laying water pipes for the Abraj Al Bait Towers up the street when the discovery was made. That complex is so humongous they had to build their own pumping station just to handle the demand."

She pointed out where the tunnel branched. "The water pipes go that way toward the towers, but our site is back here. We only had to dig this small stretch. It was rather simple."

He listened to every word, studying the layout. Searching for weaknesses.

"Just about the only water in the old city is the spring that feeds the Zamzam Well in the Great Mosque. Have you heard of it?"

According to Islamic tradition, Hagar, the wife of Abraham and mother of Ishmael, was desperately seeking water for her son in the scorching heat of the valley. She ran back and forth seven times between the hills of Safa and Mar-wah, searching for water. God sent the angel Gabriel, who scraped the ground with his heel, causing a spring to bubble forth from the sand. When she found it, she collected the water in a tiny pool, reinforced by small stones.

To this day, pilgrims still honor her during the hajj, walking between Safa and Marwah seven times. They also drink from the Zamzam Well, water that many Muslims believe to be blessed.

"Some people actually bottle that water during their pilgrimage and sell it on the Internet. You wouldn't believe how much money it costs."

Her keys jingled in the tunnel like a bell as she unlocked the gate that protected their discovery. She started putting them away when he grabbed her hand.

"You better leave those with me."

Angry, she yanked her arm away. "You'll get a copy when I leave. Not a moment before."

He stared at her with unblinking eyes. Annoyance filled his face. A look that said he was accustomed to getting his way, especially with women.

Suddenly, Shari realized she was alone with this guy. Several meters underground. With nowhere to run or hide. The thought was unnerving. Even to a courageous woman like herself. An old Middle Eastern proverb flashed through her brain, one that explained her status in their society. Women belong in the house or the grave.

She gripped her keys a little tighter, just in case she had to use them as a weapon.

"What's up ahead?" he asked, not showing any remorse.

"The main site."

"You better show me. After all, that's what I'm here to protect."

18

From a distance Payne and Jones watched the conversation between Kia and Kim. Far enough to give them space but close enough to intervene. Violently, if necessary.

"You're sure she can handle this?" Jones wondered.

"She was doing great before you showed up. Let's hope your lips don't distract her."

Jones ignored the joke about his initial encounter with Kia. "Good. Then let's talk about our mission. We were brought in to rescue Schmidt, even though one glance in that cave proved he was dead several days ago. Colonel Harrington must've known that long before he talked to us in Pittsburgh. So the question remains. Why were we brought in?"

"My guess is revenge. Cold-blooded revenge."

"You think?"

"Why else was this village unsecured? The moment that cave was discovered they should've sent men here to look for hostiles. And within minutes he would've known about the slaughter. But guess what? He wanted us to find it. Otherwise this place would've been swarming with forensic teams long ago. But he assumed our discovery would fuel our rage, making us even more motivated. First Schmidt, then this. He wants us to do his dirty work."

Jones considered the facts, trying to decide if Payne was right.

"And all that bullshit at the cave? Making us tour the scene but refusing to tell us anything? Nothing but theatrics. And Dr. Sheldon? Not only did he lead us on, but he was smiling the entire time. Like he was having fun."

"So you don't trust him?"

"I don't trust him at all. In fact, I snapped his picture before I left the cave and sent it to Randy Raskin. No telling what we'll get on him."

Jones nodded, glad to see that Payne was thinking clearly. "Have you heard back from him?"

"Not yet. But when I do, I've got several questions."

"Such as?"

"Who was Schmidt's prisoner? That might have something to do with why we're here. Maybe it's someone we've dealt with before. Who knows? Maybe Harrington didn't give a rat's ass about Schmidt. Maybe he cares about the prisoner."

"You know, that's a possibility."

Payne smiled. "Just because you're smarter than I am doesn't mean that I'm dumb."

"Well, let's talk about that some other time. In the meantime, let me ask you something. How do you want to proceed?"

"In regard to what?"

Jones lowered his voice. "In regard to Harrington. I say we keep digging but don't tell him anything until we get some answers of our own."

Kia finished her conversation with Kim and then watched as he was escorted inside, where an armed guard kept an eye on him at all times. Even though she trusted him, Payne and Jones did not. And it would stay that way until they found out what had happened in the village.

She filled them in on everything-from the appearance of the young boy to the burning of the bodies in the fire pit-before they started asking questions.

Jones began. "Did he take anyone from the cave?"

"No way. He's scared to death of that place. Too many bad memories. Plus, I don't think he's strong enough to push a wheelbarrow up that hill. And even if he could, there's no way he would've risked it. For all he knew, the soldiers were still up there. Besides, he was concerned about his neighbors, no one else."

"Speaking of which," Payne asked, "any theories on the boy and his father?"

"He thinks they left the village but probably not the island."

"Why's that?"

"First of all, he warned them about being spotted at the airport or any of the major docks. Kim is highly paranoid about all authority, so he stressed how important it was to avoid departure points. Second, he feels confident that Chung-Ho wouldn't abandon his family. Odds are they were going to rendezvous somewhere close so they could decide what to do next. The only reason he took his boy was because Kim told him to, but he wasn't going to leave the rest of his family behind."

"So Kim talked to them?" Jones asked.

"The father, yes. The boy, no. Yong-Su was pretty incoherent, just mumbling something over and over about the black stone. In fact, that's all he said the entire time."

Payne frowned. "The black stone? What the hell is that?"

Jones glanced at him and shrugged. He was unfamiliar with the term. "Maybe he was talking about the interior of the cave? There's nothing but volcanic rock in there."

Payne nodded, no other theories in mind. "Did the father say anything to Kim?"

"Not really. He went to Kim for advice, not the other way around."

"And what was the advice? To leave ASAP?"

"Yes," she said. "And considering what happened next, it proved to be wise."

The vibration of Payne's phone broke his concentration. The caller ID said Randy Raskin, so he stepped away to answer it while Jones continued to debrief Kia.

"Randy," he said, "how you been?"

"Overworked. People like you are always calling in favors."

"Those selfish bastards. Do you want me to take care of them?"

Raskin laughed. As a computer researcher at the Pentagon, he was privy to many of the government's top secrets, a mountain of classified data that was just there for the taking if the right person knew how to access it. His job was to make sure the latest information got into the best hands at the most appropriate time. Over the years, Jones had used his services on many occasions. Eventually Raskin fostered a friendship with Payne, too, and realized he probably could eliminate anyone he wanted. Of course, that made Payne's comment even funnier.

"Is suicide out of the question? Because you seem to bother me more than anyone."

"Sorry, pal, it ain't gonna happen. I know I'm going to hell someday. No need to buy an early ticket."

"In that case, let's talk about your message." Raskin stared at the photo on his computer screen, toying with the brightness and contrast of the image until he saw a man wearing a surgical mask standing in some sort of underground lair. "What do you want to know?"

"Anything you can tell me. Background, specialty, whatever. My guess is he isn't who he says he is."

Raskin hit a few keys and pulled up the personnel records on Dr. Ernie Sheldon. No photo was included with the file, but it didn't take a computer genius to tell there was a discrepancy. "Score one for you, big guy. I just spotted a critical fact that's pretty important."

"What's that?"

"Dr. Sheldon is dead. Has been for three years."

Payne nodded, all kinds of theories floating through his head. "Yep, I'd say that's important."

"That's why they pay me the big bucks. I point out the obvious."

"What about the nonobvious?"

"Such as?"

"Prisoners in black-op facilities."

Raskin grunted. "That might take me a while. I'll have to check your clearance on that one."

"You're not serious."

"I'm dead serious. That's one of our extra-special secrets. So you might not qualify. Unless, of course, you have a permission slip signed by the right person."

Now it was Payne's turn to grunt. Mentioning Colonel Harrington's name was bound to get him the answer he needed. Unfortunately, it would also tip off Harrington to their current line of pursuit, which was something he wanted to avoid. "Let me get back to you on that."

Raskin nodded, reading between the lines. "Anything else? Or are you done using me?"

"Just one more thing, then I'll let you go. Do you have any information on something called the black stone?"

He punched in the term and scanned the results. Hundreds of possibilities. "What part of the world are you calling from? Or is that classified?"

"South Korea."

More typing, followed by a pronounced sigh. "Dude, you didn't tell me you were on vacation. Why didn't you invite me? You never take me anywhere."

"What are you talking about?"

"You're in Jeju, right?"

Payne raised his eyebrows, intrigued by the question. "How did you know that?"

"Don't play dumb with me."

"I swear, Randy, I'm not. I have no idea what you're talking about."

Raskin sighed again. "If you're lying to me, you know I'll find out. I can check your credit card statements with a touch of a button. I can cancel them, too. I don't care how rich you are, I can mess with your credit. You won't even be able to buy a Twinkie at Seven-Eleven if-"

"Randy, I swear I'm not lying. I'm on company business here. Honest!"

"Fine," he said with a grunt, still not believing him. He wrote himself a note to make sure. "On the west coast of Jeju, there's a brand-new world-class golf resort. I hear it's amazing. The PGA even had a tour event there."

"So? What does that have to do with anything?"

"It's called the Black Stone."

19

Route 12 is a scenic beltway that encircles Jeju Island. Meandering along the 157 miles of rocky coastline, it provides some of the most breathtaking views in all of Asia.

The SUV, borrowed from the military and driven by Jones, hummed along at 40 miles an hour, just under the legal limit. Payne rode shotgun, staring out the window, while Kia sat in the backseat, stressing how important it was to drive slowly because of all the surveillance cameras on Jeju. Tourists and speeding tickets were two ways the local government made its money.

An hour earlier, Payne would have laughed at the mention of tourists. Back then he was standing in the middle of a dreary village, surrounded by gray skies, bare trees, and the omnipresent odor of death, pondering what to do and where to go next. The concept of tourism would have seemed ridiculous to anyone but the most morbid of Stephen King fans.

Suddenly things were different, almost like night and day. Thanks to a tip from Randy Raskin, they were driving toward the Black Stone resort, passing palm trees, tropical beaches, and the type of architecture that can only be found in the Far East. A perfect example was the Jeju World Cup Stadium, which was designed to look like an oreum-a parasitic volcanic cone topped by a large crater that was unique to this island. Adding to its grandeur, the stadium was half-covered with a teu-shaped roof that symbolized the traditional fishing boats in the region. To Payne, the roof looked like a giant white sail, pulled tight by a strong gust of wind, anchored down by diagonal metal poles and thick white cables that contributed to the visual effect, as if the entire stadium were slowly being pulled across the terrain and into the nearby sea.

Minutes later they were stopping at Cheonjaeyeon Falls. Flanked by a thick forest of trees, three waterfalls cascaded from one pond to the next until the water reached the ocean below. Legend claims that the falls were named after seven nymphs who descended from the heavens to play in the crystal-clear water. They are still honored at the site, their images carved into Sonimkyo, a large bridge that arches across the pine-strewn valley, passing near a small pavilion that overlooks the main pond.

After parking the SUV, Jones dropped to his knees and glanced under the dirty frame, checking for tracking devices. He found one near the front left wheel and quickly pried it off. He handed it to Payne, who attached it to a nearby tour bus that was filled with a group of singing Germans, who either didn't notice him or were having too much fun to care. Jones kept searching, eventually finding a second device, stuffed under the base of the dashboard. This one was used for listening, not tracking. The military's way of keeping tabs on their investigation. Payne took it as well, this time pitching it into a nearby ravine.

"For the time being, let's assume we're still not clean," Jones said as he walked over to the guardrail. "If we need to talk, we should do it away from the car."

Kia nodded, realizing the comment was for her benefit. "Since we're outside, does that mean I can ask a question? Because I'm really curious about something."

"Go on."

"What are we hoping to find at Black Stone?"

Both Payne and Jones shrugged, neither of them prepared to answer.

Kia translated their body language. "In other words, you have no idea."

"Nope," said Jones.

"None at all," said Payne with a laugh.

A cold gust of wind blew through the valley, gently tossing Kia's hair across her face. Although she grew up in South Korea, she was accustomed to the warm temperatures of the Marshall Islands, not the cold gusts of winter. Shivering slightly, she leaned closer to Payne, trying to absorb his warmth. If he noticed, he said nothing. He just stood there, staring out over the falls, watching the water surge over the rocks and splash into the pond below.

It was a tranquil moment in an otherwise horrendous day.

One they hoped would improve as time marched on.

The phone call came from America. Within seconds, the signal was transmitted halfway around the world, where it was received by a hotel employee at the Black Stone resort. She double-checked the client's name and financial status before transferring the call to the appropriate extension. In an instant, the phone started ringing in Mr. Lee's office.

He answered the call in English, his voice warm and welcoming, an equal mix of personality and professionalism. He wrote all the details in Hangul, the Korean alphabet. Spaces between words. Western punctuation. Rows from left to right, not columns from top to bottom, as in yesteryear. The traditional style of his language had slowly become Americanized. Not that he was complaining. He always had an affinity for the Western world, which was the main reason why he took this job. It gave him a chance to meet the best and the brightest, to network with power brokers, to make contacts for the future.

Technically, this was the off-season at his resort. The winter temperatures made golfing unpleasant, the grounds less scenic. Sailing was downright brutal because of the rough waves and stinging spray. When the flowers were in bloom, honeymooners from all over Asia would descend on his island like locusts. Horny, lovemaking locusts. They often stopped by his resort for spa treatments or fancy meals, rarely staying overnight because of the expense. This was a place that catered to the wealthy. People who didn't blink when they got their bill.

And on those occasions when the ultra rich were in town, Mr. Lee got a call.

The SUV pulled up to the main hotel, which looked more like a Scottish fortress than a Korean resort. Thick pillars supported a large overhang that sheltered arriving guests from inclement weather. Beige stones, cut with laser precision, made up the bulk of the exterior, occasionally giving way to arched windows that soared toward the stone banisters on the second floor.

"Nice place," Jones remarked as he threw the car into park. "Maybe too nice."

Payne was about to agree with him. He was about to say there was no way that the father and son from the village could ever afford this place. That this was a waste of their time. That they'd be better off pursuing other leads instead of going inside and looking like fools. But before he could open his mouth, the resort staff, wearing tailored uniforms and crisp white gloves, swarmed their SUV. Smiles plastered on their faces, as if the king of Korea had just decided to pay them a visit. Everyone bowing and paying respect. It was borderline creepy.

The passenger-side door was opened with a flourish, a young man mumbling greetings in Korean while giving a theatrical bow. The same was done with the back door, only this time a gloved hand was proffered to Kia, who grabbed it and stepped out of the car. She smiled, bemused by the pageantry of it all. A third man reached for the driver-side door, but Jones glared at him and opened it himself. Strangely, this made the staff smile even wider, for they interpreted it to mean that Jones was treating them as equals. Not servants.

Payne stepped out last, suddenly cognizant of his casual clothes, which probably reeked of smoke and blood. Not to mention their dirt-splattered vehicle. None of that would have mattered at an out-of-the-way hotel. But here it was sure to be frowned on.

His concerns disappeared a moment later, when Mr. Lee strode out of the hotel. He wore a tailored Italian suit, freshly polished shoes, and a grin the size of his head. Jet-black hair framed his boyish face, although he was probably in his midthirties. He stood a foot shorter than Payne, but that didn't prevent him from staring directly into Payne's eyes with a confident gaze, the look of a man who was used to dealing with the rich and famous. Someone who wasn't intimidated by it.

With a slight bow, he handed Payne his business card and welcomed him to the Black Stone Resort. Payne smiled at the card's simplicity. It said Mr. Lee and listed his cell phone number.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Lee. I'd give you one of my cards, but I'm fresh out."

Lee nodded at the gesture. "It's not necessary, Mr. Payne. We've been expecting you."

20

The lobby glistened under the recessed lights; the black and gold pattern of the stone floor appeared three-dimensional due to a fresh coat.of wax, giving it the illusion of depth. A circular atrium soared above the center lobby, interspersed with decorative black railings fifteen feet above the main desk. Several guests waited in line. But Mr. Lee ignored them all. The only people he cared about had just arrived. Jonathon Payne, party of three.

"I like the color scheme," Payne said, trying to make small talk. Despite his large inheritance, he wasn't comfortable with the trappings of wealth. He was more of a beer and burger guy than wine and caviar.

Mr. Lee nodded appreciation. "Did you know Hines Ward is South Korean? When he won Super Bowl MVP, we redecorated the lobby in Pittsburgh Steelers colors. We were very proud."

Payne glanced at Jones, who stared back, both of them stunned by the statement.

Eventually Mr. Lee started to laugh. "I am just joking.

The colors never changed. They have always been black and gold. I make joke since you are a Pittsburgh fan."

Payne laughed at his own gullibility. "How did you know that?"

"Because Mr. Lee knows all."

"Glad to hear it, Mr. Lee. Because I have a bunch of questions you could help me with."

"And I have a bunch of answers. But first, allow me to show you to your room. Perhaps all you need is a hot bath and a gourmet meal to help you discover some solutions on your own."

Payne's room turned out to be a massive suite, three small bedrooms separated by sliding doors from the living area. It was equipped with a plasma TV, multiple couches, a wet bar, and a small kitchen. The parquet floor blended perfectly with the light stone in the only bathroom. A two-person sauna sat underneath a tinted bay window, offering sweeping views of the Yellow Sea, where waves crashed in the distance, barely audible yet somehow comforting.

Kia showered first, dying to wash the smell from her hair. While they waited, Payne and Jones went to the far end of the suite, turning on the TV to drown out their conversation.

Payne spoke first. "I'm sorry about all the fuss downstairs. Randy must've called the hotel and told them we were coming, just to make a point."

"In that case, I wouldn't be surprised if a hooker knocks on our door."

"Yeah, a fat one."

Jones laughed loudly, glad to have a moment of levity in an otherwise dreadful day. Back when they were with the MANIACs, they often relied on laughter to get them through the tough times. That's one of the reasons the nickname suited their unit. No matter how deep the shit, the humor never quit. So much so that other squads thought they were crazy. Actual maniacs.

"So," Payne said, changing the subject, "how do you want to handle this? Should we snoop around the hotel, asking about the father and son? Or is that a waste of time?"

"We can try. But we don't have much to go on. All we have is the picture."

Jones pulled out a photograph of the Park family that they'd taken from their house before leaving the village. They'd rummaged around a little bit, checking closets and drawers, trying not to step in any blood in case the cops were eventually called in, but the place was so small, so cramped, it was obvious that the Parks didn't have much money. As far as they could tell, there were nine people living in a house that was built for four. No way they were staying there.

"What are the other possibilities?"

"There's no guarantee the old man heard correctly," Jones suggested. "Or maybe he mistranslated the term. Or the boy was just muttering about black stones he saw inside the cave. There are dozens of explanations that would make more sense than this place."

Payne rubbed his eyes, half-regretting his seat on the couch. It was soft and plush and made him want to sleep. "Let's go back to the cave for a sec. Let's focus on that. What do we know about the operation?"

"Schmidt's team consisted of himself and the three squad members who weren't killed at the hospital. That means five of them in total. Dr. Sheldon said Trevor was in charge of the facility, doing torture or whatever. Forensics found three samples that weren't in the system, probably from the prisoners or the men who killed Schmidt's crew."

"In other words, professionals."

"Definitely. No way they got to Schmidt otherwise."

Payne sighed, still trying to grasp the situation. "Professional soldiers mean one of two things: we captured a foreign official that was important enough to be rescued. Or-"

"We snagged a terrorist with a lot of secrets."

"Exactly. Someone big. Someone worth saving."

"That makes more sense to me. Terrorists are off-the-grid to begin with. No reason to bring them into the system. Smuggle them to a cave and let Schmidt work them over until he got them to talk." Jones paused, thinking things through. "Let's face it, Schmidt and his men would've been perfect candidates for that type of work. Still angry from the hospital attack."

"Plus it explains the village."

"How so?"

"A foreign national wouldn't cover up his escape. If anything, he'd blow the whistle on the cave, showcasing the evil nature of America. But a terrorist? He'd want everyone dead."

"Good point."

"Speaking of which, did I mention that Dr. Sheldon is dead?"

Jones arched his eyebrows. "No."

"Raskin searched his personnel file, and he was listed as dead. Died three years ago."

"Wow. He was a little pale, but he didn't look dead."

"Just because he's white doesn't mean he's pale."

Jones smiled, no racial tension at all. "What else did his file say?"

"Not much. Randy was supposed to see what he could find. Maybe we'll luck out."

"Maybe we already have."

"How so?"

"Think back to our meeting with Colonel Harrington. When he talked about Schmidt, he said he ceased to exist after the incident. That term's been bugging me ever since. At first I thought he meant Schmidt went nuts. But maybe he was talking in different terms. Maybe that's when they recruited him into black ops. One minute he was in the system, the next he wasn't."

"And you think the same thing happened with Sheldon?

They killed him on paper so he had more freedom overseas. … That's not a bad theory."

"I have my moments." Jones yawned, suddenly feeling tired. "What else did Randy mention? Anything about the prisoners?"

"Unfortunately, he was pretty tight-lipped on the topic. He hinted that Harrington could get us clearance, but if you don't mind, I'd prefer to fly solo for a while. I'm still pissed about his lack of disclosure. He should've told us about Schmidt from the very beginning. It would've saved us a lot of legwork."

"Any thoughts on where we can get the intel?"

Payne nodded. "Don't worry. I've got someone in mind."

Nick Dial was known for two things: one professional, one personal. He ran the homicide division at Interpol, the first American ever promoted to such an illustrious position in the French-based agency. But to his friends, he was known for his chin. His world-class chin. The type that movie stars would pay big bucks for. It sat at the bottom of his face like a perfectly sculpted granite masterpiece. Very heroic-looking. Like Dudley Do-Right.

Because of his job, Dial kept strange hours, often flying from country to country to cut through red tape or handle border disputes whenever they interfered with a case. Never knowing where he might fly to next. Or when he might get there. Interpol was a worldwide organization, which meant his duties were international. And his knowledge was extensive.

The sound of Dial's phone was followed by a low growl. One of utter frustration. He was sitting at his desk in Lyon, France, trying to catch up on his paperwork. But this was one of those days when his phone wouldn't stop ringing- six times in the past fifteen minutes-and his only recourse was to growl at it, trying to intimidate it. Hoping it would stop. Yet the damn thing kept ringing over and over again. Finally he felt obligated to pick it up.

"What?" he barked.

"Oh, crap, someone's cranky."

Dial grinned, recognizing the sound of Payne's voice. "Sorry, Jon. Long day."

"Me, too. I'm getting too old for this shit."

"You mean lounging in your corporate penthouse, counting your cash? Yeah, tough life."

"Not today I'm not. They pulled me back in."

No further explanation was necessary. Dial knew who they were. He'd met Payne and Jones several years ago at Stars amp; Stripes, a European bar that catered to Americans who worked overseas. They were in the MANIACs at the time, and Dial was still rising through the ranks at Interpol. The three of them hit it off, and they'd kept in touch ever since-occasionally bumping into each other in the strangest places. Last time was in Italy. At the airport.

"Anything I can help you with?"

"That depends. How secure is this line?"

"Hold on." Dial stood from his leather chair and walked over to his office door. He locked it with a loud click. "Okay. We're good."

"How good?"

"The phone's encrypted. The office is soundproof. And we sweep daily for bugs."

"Good enough for me."

Dial leaned back in his chair, intrigued. "What's going on?"

"Can't get into specifics. But it looks like we hooked a big fish."

Fish was a slang term for international fugitive. "We talking shark?"

"I'm talking whale."

"That's great news, isn't it?"

"It was until he slipped off the hook. Took a lot of fishermen with him."

Dial knew he wouldn't-get any further details, so he didn't bother to ask. "Sorry to hear that, Jon. How can I help?"

"Pardon the pun, but some things are radier fishy on my end. I'd appreciate if you could talk to some of your sources and let me know what you find. Facts, rumors, anything."

"Not a problem. Of course, things would go much smoother if I had a name."

"Yeah," Payne agreed. "That makes two of us."

21

For the first time since her arrival in Mecca, Shari Shasmeen did not want to be in the tunnel.

The murder of Fred Nasir had spooked her. The lack of an explanation from Abdul-Khaliq, who normally had an answer for everything, made things worse. But the final straw was her isolation with this new guard. It was unbearable. There was something about him that creeped her out. Maybe it was the way he grabbed her hand when he tried to take her keys. Or the detached way that his men disposed of the body. Or the way he looked at her.

Whatever it was, he made her squirm.

At first, she figured she'd be allowed to leave as soon as she'd given him a short tour. But he stopped halfway through to make a phone call to one of his men. Followed by another. And another. Any other place and she would've left the site and gone back to her hotel. Her time was valuable, and he was wasting it. On purpose. But in Saudi Arabia, women weren't allowed to walk the streets alone. They had to travel with a close male relative, who could protect their virtue, or several other women, who could protect their reputation. Abdul-Khaliq had provided her with phony paperwork that claimed kinship with the other American scholars-it's what allowed her to work with them in close proximity." But the lead guard had sent her coworkers away when he first arrived, and they wouldn't return until they were summoned.

That meant she was trapped in the tunnel until he said she could leave.

To kill time, she entered the main site and made sure everything was all right. Like a protective mother who was about to go away for the weekend, worried about leaving something so precious in someone else's hands.

Plus, she wanted to see it one last time before she left for the week.

A mental snapshot of her progress.

Right now it didn't look like much, nothing more than the outer shell of a document chamber. Simple in design, it was assembled out of local stones, carved by Muslim craftsmen, and then buried underground for protection. Just like folklore had said. Her team dug around four sides, exposing four walls that could be measured, photographed, and tested. The bottom remained rooted in soil, holding it in place. The top remained undisturbed since its accidental discovery by a construction worker. Preliminary research proved it was built in the seventh century, not ancient by biblical standards but the perfect age for what they were hoping to find.

Staring at it, memories of the initial phone call from Abdul-Khaliq came flooding back. His interest in her research. Questions about her training and background. And eventually, an invitation to join the dig. A week later she was flown halfway around the world to run a project in the heart of Islam, right down the road from its most holy shrine. It was the type of opportunity that all archaeologists dreamed of.

A chance to shatter myths or reaffirm history.

But she wouldn't know which until she looked inside.

The Qur'an is the central religious text of Islam. Muslims believe it is the literal word of God, revealed to Muhammad over the last twenty-three years of his life. Unlike Christians, who believe Jesus Christ is the Son of God, Muslims do not worship Muhammad as a deity; rather they honor him as their most important prophet, the man responsible for establishing Islam in its purest form.

According to Islamic scholars, Muhammad was born in Mecca in 570 AD. He was orphaned by age six and eventually lived with his uncle, Abu Talib, who was the leader of the Banu Hashim, one of the clans in the Quraish tribe. At the time, Mecca was a thriving economic center, partly because of the Kaaba, the great Islamic shrine that Muslims still worship, which attracted throngs of merchants during the pilgrimage season because violence between the various tribes was outlawed. Muhammad eventually became a merchant himself, traveling to Syria and other parts of the world, opening his eyes to many beliefs and cultures.

During his middle years, Muhammad often retreated to the peak of Jabal al-Nour near Mecca to fast and meditate. In 610 AD, while inside the Cave of Hira, he received his first revelation from God, delivered to him by the Archangel Gabriel. At first, most people were skeptical- including Muhammad himself-but when the revelations continued, he began to preach and eventually attracted a small band of followers that continued to grow until his death.

Despite his privileged upbringing, Muhammad never learned how to read or write; therefore it was incumbent on his companions to record his recitations, often on pieces of loose parchment or whatever materials they could find, including leafstalks of date palms and scapula bones.

Remarkably, during his lifetime, Muhammad's revelations were never bound into a single book.

The modern form of the Qur'an is widely attributed to Uthman ibn Affan, the third caliph of Islam, who formed a committee to compile a standard version of the holy book, based on all the teachings they could find. Upon its completion sometime around 650 AD, Uthman sent a copy to every Muslim city and town and ordered all other versions of the Qur'an destroyed, his way of guaranteeing a unified message.

Unfortunately, despite the claims of some, many modern-day historians doubt that any of Uthman's original copies have survived. Some feel the oldest existing Qur'an was written in the eighth century, nearly a hundred years after the Uthman version was distributed. Barely a blip on the radar screen in terms of human evolution, but a wide chasm in religious history. Obviously, many Islamic scholars have wondered what changes might have occurred during that century. Even the slightest alteration of syntax could have a profound effect on Muhammad's original message, thereby affecting an entire religion.

One of those scholars was Shari Shasmeen, who had spent many years searching for one of Uthman's Qur'ans, only to have her dream crushed at every turn. That is, until she received a phone call from Abdul-Khaliq, who implied that he might have found something better.

Something so astounding that it dwarfed what she had been looking for.

The guard made all of the arrangements on an encrypted cell phone. He spoke with his crew. He ordered equipment. He coordinated times and places. If this was going to work, there could be no mistakes. Nothing could be overlooked. Everything had to be perfect.

He glanced at his watch and noted the time.

Right on schedule.

Now all he had to figure out was what to do with that bitch archaeologist. She was going to be a problem-he could tell that already. The way she fought back when he tried to take her keys. The way she stared at him. Defiant. Unyielding. The exact opposite of what he expected from a Muslim woman. Weren't they supposed to bend to the authority of men?

In a perfect World, he would slit her throat and dump her in the same place they took Nasir. That would make things much easier, giving him all the time he needed to accomplish his mission. But her death would bring too many questions. Questions he didn't have time to answer. At least for now. In the near future that was bound to change, and the moment it did he would teach her a lesson about the power of man.

Until then, he would simply have to work around her.

22

Payne closed his eyes for just a moment. When he woke up, it was two hours later, and Kia was standing in front of him, quietly whispering his name. Her hair was done, her makeup perfect. A light floral scent filled the air. She wore a tight black sweater and even tighter jeans, which showed off her feminine figure, something Payne hadn't noticed until that very instant. Stylish black boots and simple earrings finished her outfit.

"Wow," he said, searching for adjectives. "You look great."

She beamed at the compliment. 'Thanks." He stared at her for a few more seconds, temporarily at a loss for words, a combination of grogginess and unexpected thoughts. "How long was I out?"

"Not as long as D.J. He's still sleeping in the other room." "That's because he's old and creaky. Not a world-class athlete like I am." Payne held out his hands for Kia to grab. "Now do me a favor and help me up."

She grunted as she pulled him to his feet, pretending it took all the strength she could muster. Despite her tall heels, she was still several inches shorter than he was. "Are you hungry?"

"I'm starving."

"In that case, why don't you get cleaned up and take me out to dinner?"

He laughed. "Wow, you're being kind of forward, aren't you?"

"Not really. You're the one taking me to dinner. So you 're the one who's out of line."

Payne smiled. "I guess I am."

"But don't worry, I'm not going to report you. I mean, you did save my life today."

Thirty minutes later they were walking into one of the restaurants at the Black Stone, where they were given a window seat that overlooked the Yellow Sea. Compliments of Mr. Lee. Payne was dressed comfortably in jeans and a dress shirt, not as formal as the other diners, but nobody seemed to care. Everyone was too busy eating and drinking, soaking in the atmosphere, to pay much attention to them. The entire dining room was bathed in candlelight and romance.

"Thank God we're alone," Payne joked as he helped her with her chair. "If D.J. was here, he'd probably get liquored up and try to kiss me."

"Please don't remind me. Been there, done that."

"That's right. I almost forgot about the kiss! That was, what? Almost two days ago?"

She did the math in her head. "Oh, wow. That seems so long ago. Two days doesn't seem possible. Two weeks, maybe. Not two days."

"Well, that's something you'll learn. Clocks tick at a different rate of speed in the field."

Kia paused while a busboy filled their glasses with water. "Speaking of the field, I'd like to officially apologize for my behavior. I shouldn't have wandered away from the cave without telling you where I was going. I put you in an awkward position, one where you had to swoop in and rescue me. I never should've let that happen."

"Don't worry about it. In fact, I should be thanking you for your efforts. There's no way we could've gotten Kim to talk without your help. He opened up because of you."

She smiled, appreciative of his praise.

"Of course, that being said, you might want to stay a little bit closer in the future."

Her smile grew wider. "Why do you think I'm here?"

It was a rhetorical question but a good question nonetheless. The truth was Payne didn't know why she was there. There had been some innocent flirting during the past hour, but up until then he had viewed Kia as a member of his squad. Nothing more. Now all of a sudden he was sitting across from her, staring at her in candlelight as waves crashed upon the rocky shore, romantic thoughts dancing through his head. He had never been put in this position before, working so closely with a beautiful woman. He wasn't sure where to draw the line.

Hell, he didn't even know if a line was necessary.

In reality, he was no longer in the military, meaning he was no longer bound by their strict rules and codes in regard to social interaction. Still, she viewed him as a superior; there was no doubt about that. However, he wasn't sure if that was even important on such a temporary assignment. For all he knew, their official mission-to rescue Schmidt and his men-was already over. So if something happened between them, was there really any harm?

To him, it was a question that needed to be answered before he'd let anything progress.

"You know," Kia said, breaking the silence, "this isn't my first trip to Jeju. When I was a young girl, my father brought me here to see the haenyo, the women divers of the island." She pointed out the window to the Yellow Sea, where three yachts, their lights twinkling against the horizon, floated on the rolling darkness. "To watch them work was amazing. Most of them were in their forties or fifties, but some were in their sixties or seventies. They'd tie rocks to their belts and jump into the deep water, sometimes sinking more than twenty meters down to the ocean floor, where they'd collect abalone and sea urchins and a variety of other treasures. They'd stay down there for several minutes, longer than I thought was possible to hold one's breath, before they'd untie the rocks and swim back to the surface with baskets full of goods."

She took a sip of water before continuing. "For some reason it's taboo on the island for men to do any diving. No one's really sure why. Some say it's because women have more fat on their bodies, which allows them to endure the cold waters of the deep. Others say it's because women are more buoyant, allowing them to swim to the surface faster after filling their baskets. But whatever the reason, they're some of the best divers in the world. Male or female."

Payne nodded in agreement. He had heard stories about the women divers of Korea but didn't know they were based here. Some Navy SEALs even used their breathing techniques.

"To be honest," she continued, "that's one of the reasons I pushed so hard for this assignment. I've been a translator for many years, working for military bases around the world, but I've always wanted to work in the field. It's something I've always wanted to do. Sadly, I never had the guts to pursue any openings until this assignment became available. As soon as I heard Jeju, I figured a higher power was telling me something. My father brought me here to learn from these courageous women. Now I have a chance to show some courage of my own."

He smiled at her story, glad to know something about her background that wasn't found in a personnel file. "I have to admit I was skeptical at first. But truthfully, things have worked out well. Of course, I'm still not sure how you convinced Harrington to give you a chance. There had to be dozens of other applicants who spoke Korean."