His cell phone rang and he flipped it open.

"Yes?"

It was one of his assistants, informing him that his chief bodyguard had not shown up because he was dead, gunned down in the streets. Kasama snapped the phone shut.

"Take me back," he ordered his current bodyguard, who relayed the order to the driver.

At that moment at each end of the street, container carriers that serviced the port appeared. Each one had a container held high in its crane, and the heavy objects were dropped to the ground, blocking both ends. The sound of metal thudding on pavement echoed through the alley.

Kasama sat back in his seat and took a deep breath as his bodyguard screamed orders into his radio. He knew it was already too late. It was a strange experience, realizing he would soon be dead. The only other time he'd felt like this was the interim between his father stabbing his mother to death and using the knife on his own stomach. Kasama had never understood why his father didn't kill him too.

A rocket-propelled grenade streaked into the alley, and one of the SUVs exploded, showering the narrow space with metal and body parts. Then a second SUV was hit, and Kasama caught a glimpse of the rocket being fired from the rooftop just before it hit. Everyone was piling out of the third SUV, firing at the rooftops.

The limousine jerked forward, the driver trying to make them a moving target within the confines of the kill zone. There were four sharp, loud cracks, and then the sound of thousands of steel ball bearings splattering against the side of the limousine. A series of claymore mines had been hidden along both sides of the alley, and their effect upon detonation was to kill every man who was outside. Their riddled corpses were splattered about the alley, and the limousine jerked as the driver ran over one of them.

An effective combination, Kasama thought as he was thrown against his seat belt when the driver threw the limo into reverse. Someone had anticipated possible defensive reactions. He was almost curious to see what would come next. His head bodyguard thrust out a spare submachine gun toward him; he looked at it, then shook his head. Enough face had been lost.

"Stop," Kasama ordered.

The limousine came to a halt. The frightened driver looked over his shoulder to the rear. His bodyguard stared at Kasama in confusion. The confusion turned to fear as Kasama reached for the door handle.

"Sir! You cannot."

Kasama ignored him. He pushed the heavy door open and stepped out of the armored car. He could smell the distinctive odors of explosives and human viscera. He slowly turned, looking about, trying to see his enemies. His body was tense, expecting a bullet to impact at any second, but all was suddenly quiet.

He spotted no one. His bodyguard exited the car, weapon in hand, and was promptly killed as a bullet from a hidden sniper hit him between the eyes, taking half his head with it as passed through. The limo driver took that as his cue and accelerated away, leaving Kasama, even though there was no escape route. The car made it about forty feet before rockets from either side of the alley hit, almost ripping it in two.

Kasama folded his arms and stood tall.

A door across from him opened up and a figure stepped out, a samurai sword in hand. Kasama's eyes widened as he made out the feminine body outline underneath the black one-piece suit. The ultimate insult.

CHAPTER 8

The Humvee that had picked Vaughn up at the airfield came out of the tunnel into an open chamber where several other vehicles were parked, including three more Humvees. Various mounds of supplies were stacked here and there. The driver still had not said a word to him, indeed had not looked at him once, either in the rearview mirror or by turning around. As soon as the engine was turned off, as if on cue, the door to the right swung open and people began stepping out, all wearing sterile camouflage fatigues. Vaughn slowly got out of his Humvee, and as soon as he was clear, it departed, back the way it had come.

My new team, he thought as he looked at them.

Several things struck him right away about his new teammates. First, one was female. A slender woman of Japanese descent with dark hair shorn tight against her skull and a white bandage on her forehead. One of the men was Korean. Vaughn had served long enough in the Far East to tell the ethnic differences among the races. Another was African-American. The other two were Caucasian, one a tall man with graying hair, the other short and powerfully built, with what appeared to be a permanent scowl on his face. And they all had the aura that Special Operations personnel carried. A sense of confidence without a need to press it upon anyone.

The short man stepped forward.

"I'm the team leader. Name's Orson."

Only five and a half feet tall, Orson looked like a human fireplug.

"I spent some time in the SEALs," he said vaguely.

"Including Team Six."

Vaughn knew that Team Six was the SEAL version of Delta Force – an elite counterterrorist unit. He'd worked with elements of Team Six several times on training missions but had never met Orson.

Orson turned to the others.

"Gentlemen – and lady," he said.

"Our latest and last addition to the team. Vaughn, formerly of Delta Force."

The "formerly" resonated in Vaughn's ears. For some reason, the way Orson said it made the finality of his decision strike home. There was no going back. He'd heard of people who, rumor said, had been recruited for covert units and then simply disappeared into the world of black ops. Vaughn also noted that Orson had not used his rank – another indicator that things were going to be very different. He followed as Orson led him down the line, introducing his new teammates.

"Hayes," Orson said, stopping in front of the black man.

"He spent most of his childhood in the Philippine Islands, so he is our area expert. Also qualified on weapons and demolitions."

As Vaughn shook the man's hand, he had to wonder why his Delta Team hadn't had access to Hayes as an area specialist. They certainly could have used more intelligence about the setup on Jolo. He also noted that there was a tremor in Hayes's hand, so slight it was almost unnoticeable. Almost.

"Vaughn," Hayes said, the greeting noncommittal. He stepped back with a glance at the Japanese woman next to him.

"Tai."

Orson said her name so sharply that Vaughn was uncertain for a moment if it was her name or some expression, but the doubt disappeared as she put her hand out.

"Welcome to the team, Vaughn."

"Tai is expert in demolitions, but her particular expertise is in intelligence and counterintelligence with a specialty on terrorism, particularly in the Pacific Rim."

Orson had already moved on to a tall gray-haired man. Before he could say anything, the man stuck his hand out.

"Hey. Sinclair's my name. Spent some time in Fifth Group and the schoolhouse at Bragg teaching at SWC."

He pronounced it "swick," which was what Special Forces people called the Special Warfare Center at Fort Bragg.

"Nice to meet you," Vaughn said, feeling a bit strange. Every other time he'd gone to a new unit, he'd at least known someone there, since the U.S. Special Operations community was still a relatively small one. Here he had no advance intelligence on these people and had to assume, or hope, they had none on him. He'd never met Sinclair, as far as he could remember, but Special Forces had grown into a large community in the nineties, and once he was in Delta Force, he'd little interaction with the Special Forces groups.

"Kasen," Royce said, stopping in front of the Korean.