We exchanged pleasantries, and the one named Larry, who had a distinctive Queens accent, said, "Follow me."

We did, walking over to a window that had been punched out, offering an unobstructed view of the street below and the target building across the street. On the floor directly beneath the window, I observed empty cans of pears, a large pile of balled-up candy wrappers, six empty soda bottles, and assorted other nutritional debris. Presumably this was the observation team Carl told me about, and from the evidence, they had been here all day, possibly the preceding night, and were now experiencing severe sugar overload.

Larry seemed to be in charge and he pointed a finger out the window. Speaking to Eric, he said, "Right there-your target building."

We all looked at the two-story rectangular warehouse on a street corner. The narrower side faced us, while the wider side fronted the intersecting road.

He continued, "One goombah on the roof… right"-his hand shifted slightly to the left-"there. See 'im? Okay, another slimeball's hiding inside the front entrance. We wouldn't know, right? Only this hump sometimes steps outside to burn one." He chuckled. "Smoking truly can be hazardous for the health. He's mine."

Eric spent a moment visually surveying the building and then, addressing his whole team, said into his microphone, "Target building's two floors in height. Standard construction. Stucco over cinderblock, probably steel girders for the skeleton…" And so forth. He had an impressive mastery of architectural detail, and I wondered if he had been a builder before he became a destroyer. He turned to Larry and asked, "Other entrances?"

"Yeah… a regular doorway on the far side. Donny can grease whoever comes out that one."

"Okay." Into his microphone, Eric said, "There's an exit-a door- on the far side. That's yours, Donny. Anybody comes out, shoot for the legs." After a moment, Eric instructed Carl, my old driver, "A three-story building's due east of the target. You get up on that roof. When I give the go, take out the roof guard. Repeat that to me."

Eric listened a moment before he said, "Uh-huh." He then said, "This goes down in two minutes. Synchronize with me. Time is two-fifteen."

He glanced at Bian and me for a moment, and seemed to recall that we were extraneous; I can do nothing without being instructed.

Larry, the New Yorker, dragged over a tripod I had not previously noticed from out of the shadows. The three-legged device was a sniper's stand, and on the swivel on top was mounted a wood-stocked specialist European rifle I didn't recognize, with a screw-on silencer and a high-end night-vision scope. These guys had all the bells and whistles. Somebody was deep into the Agency's pocketbook.

Eric checked his watch and said to Jack, "Time to move." He looked at Larry and said, "Don't let these two out of your sight till I give you the signal."

Larry nodded. Eric and Jack disappeared back down the stairs.

Larry turned to us and said, "Wanna watch?"

We did, so we morbidly edged closer to the window as Larry hunched over his weapon and began adjusting a knob I assumed was a brightener for his nightscope.

A moment later, a four-door sedan, silver in color, came rolling down the street, no faster than fifteen miles an hour. It pulled to a stop directly in front of the entrance, a man stepped out, and for a brief moment he looked around and observed his surroundings. The car windows were darkened, making it impossible to tell whether there were other passengers.

Larry concentrated on his task and whispered, "Tommy Barzani. He's Kurdish-American and speaks the local patois. 'Cause of that, he always gets the shit jobs."

The man appeared to be an Arab, and was dressed in Iraqi casual, tan slacks with an open-collared dark shirt with what looked like an AK-47 in his right hand. He moved confidently to the doorway and knocked, yelling loudly in Arabic.

Bian translated, "He says he is carrying an important message and please open the door."

Larry, staring through his nightscope, mentioned, "The jihadis stopped using cell phones and radios months ago. They know we're listening, they know we track the source, and they know it attracts missiles. Now they're low-tech. Mail by messenger." He drew a long breath and held it.

After a pause, the door opened and a head stuck out. I heard Larry's rifle spit, and I saw the head explode, then the body connected to that head tumbled out of the doorway and into the arms of Tommy Barzani.

Almost instantaneously, two men, one carrying what looked like an Uzi, the other hauling what looked like a SWAT battering ram, jumped out of the car, lifted the feet of the corpse, heaved it through the doorway, and barreled inside.

Larry directed a finger at his earpiece and said, "Just got a confirmation from Carl. Rooftop guard's out of the picture."

My goodness-these guys were good.

Next, I observed two figures, Eric and Jack, sprinting willy-nilly across the street, then through the now unguarded doorway, into which they disappeared.

"What are they doing?" asked Bian.

"The initial entry team," I told her, "should be clearing the ground floor. Eric and Jack will rush straight upstairs and begin securing rooms." I said to Larry, "Right?"

"Yeah… like that. But likely, I just nailed the only goombah on the ground floor. All five should be upstairs by now."

I asked, "The NYPD teach you to shoot like that?"

"I taught them to shoot like that. SWAT instructor. Ten years."

"What takes you from the NYPD to here?"

Larry looked at us and replied, very slowly and very simply, "They fucked with my city. Now I'll fuck with theirs."

Interesting perspective. Interesting guy.

He cupped his hand to an ear. "What? Yeah, yeah… okay."

He looked at me. "Eric says you should get over there right away. I stay here, covering the block."

A minute later, Bian and I were crossing the street, and then we were at the entrance to the warehouse. I stopped and stood with my back to the wall by one side of the door; Bian stood by the other side. I whispered to Bian, "Weapons off safe."

"Eric said-"

"Who cares?"

"Right."

I said, "Cover me." She took a crouch, and I announced, "Entering now."

I went in, rolling on the ground, and then, coming to my knees, began scanning the ground floor through my goggles. I noted a lot of heavy machinery. This seemed to be a factory rather than a warehouse, and the nature of the equipment suggested the purpose of this building had once been tool die work. I also observed a line of thirty to forty large artillery shells standing on their bases in neat, orderly rows. These were not an ingredient normally associated with automobiles, unless they are being outfitted for one-way trips.

I continued my sweep. Supposedly this entire floor had been cleared by Eric's men and thus was hypothetically safe. But I'd known guys who walked into "cleared" rooms and were carried out.

Aside from the heavy machinery, the artillery rounds, and a gory corpse with only half a head, I saw no living beings. I made my way to the base of the stairs and whispered to Bian, "All clear."

In two beats she was directly behind me and we went up the stairs, stepping lightly, with our weapons pointed up.

A voice at the top of the stairs challenged, "You're Drummond, right?" I sensed that a weapon was pointed at me.

I had this weird impulse to scream "Allahu Akbar," which was not a good idea, and probably was not really funny anyway. I asked instead, "Where's Eric?"

"Follow me."

We took a left at the top of the stairs and ended up moving swiftly down a narrow, unlit hallway lined with four or five doors on each side. The doors were all open, and several were splintered, presumably the handiwork of the SWAT ram I had watched one man haul inside. At the end of the hallway was the final office, which we entered.