"The recon team is just about on target for drop."

The man who announced this wore black combat fatigues, unmarked by any rank, insignia, or patch. He sported a pistol in a quick draw holster on his right hip. A fighting knife hung in a sheath on his left hip. He was addressing three other men, all dressed in black fatigues, all armed in one form or another. He had a satellite phone pressed to one ear.

"A fucking chick on a bloody mission," one of the men said with disgust.

The man who had made the announcement turned to the board near his right rear. Pictures of all six members of Section 8 were tacked there. He reached out with his free hand and ran his fingers over Tai's image, almost a caress.

"She's supposed to be a badass," he noted.

"That's what her file says."

"File," the second man snorted.

"I'll show her a fucking file."

The team leader gave a cold smile.

"I don't think she's going to be around for our reckoning with these fellows."

He was a tall man, head shaved completely bald. A jagged scar ran across his forehead. On top of the scar a barbed-wire tattoo had been laid, making it seem part of the artwork. His accent indicated he was from South Africa, with the trace of Afrikaaner showing through.

The other man who had spoken had an Australian accent. The third man, Sicilian, had a swarthy complexion, and was tumbling a throwing knife through the fingers of his right hand seemingly without paying attention. The fourth man was black and huge, his chest as wide as a barrel, his head also shaved, and gleaming under the fluorescent lights in the operations room they occupied.

The black man stirred uncomfortably.

"You have a link into their commo?" he asked.

The team leader nodded.

"We get copied on everything that goes on inside the team and that comes out of the isolation."

The black man frowned.

"Ever occur to you that they could be doing that to us also?"

"Who the fuck knows who they are," the Australian noted.

"What the hell are you talking about?" the team leader demanded.

"Well," the black man noted, "if we're spying on them, how do we know there's not a team spying on us?"

"A little paranoid, aren't you?" the team leader asked.

"Occupational hazard," the black man said.

The team leader stared at him.

"Just focus on your job, all right? Don't get to be thinking beyond what you're capable of."

The muscles on the black man's face tightened, but he said nothing.

Everyone was startled when, with a solid thud, the throwing knife slammed into the wall, dead center on Tai's face. The man who had been playing with it slowly got up, walked to the wall, and pulled it out.

The pressure equalized. With a hiss, the back ramp began to open, revealing a sliver of night sky. Vaughn focused on his breathing, making sure it was slow and steady. He had never liked being on oxygen. It made him very aware how hostile the environment around him was. A chill was already settling into his bones from the freezing air swirling into the cargo bay, easily overwhelming the plane's heaters.

"Goggles," Vaughn said over the FM radio.

Both he and Tai slid the night vision goggles mounted on their helmets down and switched them on. The cargo bay was lit only by a few small red night-lights, but with the goggles, everything appeared as if brightly lit. Vaughn looked out over the ramp and could see hundreds of bright stars. It was beautiful.

Ruiz lifted a single finger ever so slightly on his right hand, and the curtain behind him slowly began to open.

"Gentlemen and lady, it is time."

Vaughn could feel the weight of the parachute, reserve, rucksack, weapon, and combat vest all weighing him down. Over a hundred pounds, all focused on the top of his shoulders, pressing down on him. He remembered jumps where his rucksack had weighed over twice as much and his only thought after standing at the six-minute warning had been to pray for the green light to go on so he could get the hell out of the plane and get this weight off his shoulders.

He glanced to his left at Tai. She stood ramrod straight, as if denying the weight on her shoulders.

The plane was descending. Even without access to the cockpit, David could tell that. Looking out one of the windows, he saw the ocean slowly approaching. He estimated that he had already passed through 10,000 feet, and the descent seemed to be picking up speed.

His attempts to get into the armored pilot's compartment had all failed. Whoever prepared this plane had done a good job. Naturally, there were no convenient parachutes lying around. His attempts to wake up the other passengers had also failed. Whatever had been in that gas was very powerful. David figured he had a couple of minutes left. He stared at the unconscious occupants of the passenger compartment and almost envied them. They would simply pass out of this life without the terror of seeing their end coming. For people in this profession, it was almost a mercy.

He went back to his seat, took out his PDA and satphone. The message he had begun earlier was still there.

He began typing.

There was a collective gasp in the room as the object behind the curtain was revealed. This from people who had more money than many small nations and were not known to gasp at anything.

A slight smile curled at the sides of Ruiz's mouth. It was as he'd hoped. He had picked this particular item to be first for shock value. A jewel-festooned golden box over two feet long by one foot wide and high, it was a unique piece, dating back over six hundred years to the height of craftsmen at the Chinese Imperial Court. It was well-known among collectors – known for its extreme value and beauty, and known to have been lost during World War II, disappearing during the Rape of Nanking.

Ruiz left the podium, went to the box and carefully lifted the lid. The box had just been a precursor. Out of its interior he lifted a jade sculpture. The half-dozen in the audience, stunned already by the box, could only sit there with jaws agape at this even rarer, and greater, treasure.

"The bidding will commence on this," he announced, bringing the object forward and showing it to the six people.

The first of the six to collect his wits immediately shouted out a number. An insanely large number to begin the bidding with. The smile grew larger on Ruiz's face as a second person topped that number by over a million U.S. dollars, the currency of all world business.

In his other hand, Ruiz held a stopwatch, which he now showed to the bidders.

"As agreed, the bidding will be over in sixty seconds."

The amount escalated at a pace the person taking in the numbers could barely keep up with as the buyers scrambled under the dual pressure of little time and even greater greed.

"One minute," the crew chief announced, holding up a single finger.

Vaughn and Tai edged closer to the ramp, side by side. Glancing down, he could see that they were over open ocean. The plan was to offset from Jolo over ten miles. That would keep anyone on the island from being aware a plane was anywhere nearby. They would fly their parachutes to the island.