His instinct was to hold the door for them, but doing so would not only have confused them, it could have drawn the ire of any of the men they were most likely traveling with. While he thought it was stupid and didn’t like acting that way, Harvath knew it was often best to pretend the women weren’t there at all.

In the corner of the lobby was a registration desk. Harvath greeted the young man sitting behind it and gave him the name of the doctor he had come to see. The man picked up his phone and, as he dialed, handed Harvath a pen and asked him to sign the log book.

With Gallagher standing next to him, Harvath printed the names Samuel Colt and Jack E. Collins. Though he couldn’t be sure, he thought he heard Gallagher sling the F word at him under his breath.

After hanging up the phone, the young man pointed to the waiting area and said, “Please, five minutes.”

“Tashakor,” Harvath replied. He and Gallagher grabbed seats along the wall and sat down. The waiting area was packed, especially for a Saturday.

“Best medical care in Afghanistan,” said Gallagher. “Lots of volunteer docs from the West. This is a first-rate hospital.”

Harvath looked around. Everything was clean and there was a faint odor of antiseptic. It was better than most of the hell-hole medical centers he’d seen across the Third World. Even so, it still wasn’t someplace he’d want to have to undergo a procedure.

The waiting area was filled with families. All of their women were shrouded in burkas, so the only adult faces he could see belonged to the men.

Afghanistan was a hard place to live, and that was reflected in their countenances. They looked drawn and haggard, their faces as weather-beaten and craggy as the jagged mountains that surrounded their country. Dark, solemn eyes stared off in different directions. The only vitality in the room came from the children, who were running and laughing.

Sitting near Harvath and Gallagher was a family of adults who did not speak. An older man peeled an orange and silently offered slices to the other men sitting near him. Harvath couldn’t tell if they were waiting to go in or waiting for someone to come out.

His question was soon answered when a young Afghan doctor in a white lab coat entered the waiting area and asked the man at the reception desk a question. The man leaned forward and pointed in Harvath’s direction.

Harvath gave Gallagher a jab with his elbow and nodded at the approaching doctor. While he wasn’t the American medical director they had come to see, Harvath assumed the young doctor had been sent to collect them.

As he neared, Harvath began to stand, but then noticed the doctor’s eyes were not on him, but on the family sitting next to them.

Easing himself back into his chair, Harvath watched him. He could tell by the young man’s face and his body language that he wasn’t bringing good news.

When the family saw the doctor, the men quietly rose, their faces masks of apprehension.

As the young Afghan spoke to them in Pashtu, Baba G translated as best he could. The patient-a woman-had died. Several of the men seemed to have expected this. One of the men, though, became angry.

As the doctor tried to calm him down, Gallagher told Harvath that he was the woman’s husband.

The doctor explained that the hospital had done everything it could for her, but that she had arrived with injuries that were beyond treatable.

Gallagher translated the words “comfortable” and “no pain.” Despite the doctor’s reassurances, the husband flew into a rage.

Everything in the waiting room came to a complete stop as the husband raged at the doctor. Every pair of eyes, even those of the staff, was watching the commotion unfold.

The husband was well over six feet tall and quite broad-shouldered. Standing behind him were two more relatives, who were equally broad and almost as tall. Harvath’s instincts, as well as his Secret Service training, told him that this situation had the potential to go bad very quickly.

Nevertheless, it wasn’t his problem. There was no need for him to get involved.

To the young doctor’s credit, he kept calm, even with the husband right in his face. Everyone could see, though, that he was slowly losing control over the situation. The highly agitated husband’s anger, along with the volume of his voice, continued to rise.

Someone at the registration desk must have made a phone call because a hospital security guard armed with an AK-47 suddenly appeared.

Approaching calmly, the guard politely asked the husband to relax and lower his voice. In response, the husband shoved him backward.

Harvath was tempted to do something, but reminded himself that this wasn’t his fight. The doctor now had backup, and together with the security guard, the two of them could take care of themselves. He watched as the husband continued screaming at the doctor for letting his wife die.

Showing exceptional restraint, the guard once more stepped in and politely asked the husband to calm down. This time, though, the husband did more than just shove. In the blink of an eye, he had snatched away the guard’s AK-47. Harvath had just become part of this fight.

Launching out of his chair, he came in on the edge of the husband’s peripheral vision. He struck hard and fast. Grabbing the weapon with his left hand, he pointed the muzzle in a safe direction while he popped the giant Afghan behind his left ear with his right.

It was a simple yet effective move that completely short-circuited the Afghan’s brain and dropped him onto the floor.

Harvath spun to engage the two large relatives, but discovered that Baba G already had it taken care of. Even though he could have said several things to them in Pashtu, the look on the Marine’s face was all that was necessary. The Afghans wisely decided not to tangle with the two Americans.

Instead, they bent down, picked the giant up off the floor, and helped carry him out the door. When they were gone, Harvath handed the AK-47 back to the poorly trained security guard.

The shaken young doctor looked at him and said, “Thank you,” before turning his attention back to the remaining family members and carrying on with his duties.

“Well, I think that certainly calls for a Red Bull,” Baba G joked as he and Harvath retook their seats. “There’s a canteen outside and I’m buying. What do you say?”

“I think my heart rate’s high enough,” said Harvath with a laugh. “That’s probably about the last thing I need right now.”

Gallagher smiled and put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “You could have really put the boot to that guy and no one in this room would have blamed you.”

Harvath imagined the husband’s grief, and while grabbing the guard’s weapon had been a stupid thing to do, he didn’t deserve to have the shit kicked out of him on top of everything else.

“You were right there ready to mix it up,” Harvath said, shifting the focus off him. “I’m glad to see you’ve still got it.”

“We all think we’ve still got it,” replied Gallagher. “The key is in knowing how much is really left.”

He was right. One of the secrets of survival in this business was knowing your limitations.

Harvath nodded, and as he did, an American doctor in his early fifties appeared in the waiting room and began heading in their direction.

“It looks like we’re up.”