Swearing over the subzero breeze, he skulked around the back of the house, drawing his Russian-made Tula Tokarev (TT-33) with silencer.

Brown wasn't fond of the old pistol, which was once a status symbol among the Taliban in Waziristan. He preferred the more accurate, more reliable, more-of-everything Px4 Storm SD, thank you. Still, familiarizing yourself with as many weapons as possible, especially those of your enemies, was part of every Ghost's training.

Brown unsheathed his Blackhawk Masters of Defense Nightwing and took it into his left hand in a reverse grip. He wasn't expecting to use it, but you never knew. The fixed blade had a fiberglass nylon handle with wing-walk inserts, a black tungsten diamondlike carbon (DLC) finish, and a serrated spine, giving him a secondary edge for back cuts and draw cuts. The blade was 5.9 inches of pure death, and he considered it the American Express card of knives--because he never deployed without it.

Some of the Ghosts teased Brown about his affection for the knife. Everyone carried one type of folder or fixed blade for utility purposes; you wouldn't find a soldier who didn't. Odd thing was, Brown had earned his reputation not as a knife-wielding martial artist but as a gunner carrying the heavy Squad Automatic Weapon (SAW) and its variants through the deserts of Africa during his early Special Forces assignments.

Prior to that he'd served with the Second Infantry Brigade in Iraq, and he rarely shared the story of that night in Fallujah, when his squad had been ambushed while on dismounted patrol--and his knife had kept him alive.

They'd been moving through an alley toward several residences where a suspected insurgent and his brother were living. They never made it. Withering gunfire came from everywhere, it seemed.

Brown pulled three wounded squad mates to safety and continued to hold off at least a half dozen insurgents for fifteen minutes until he'd run out of ammo and couldn't reach his fallen brothers' packs. Then, before his backup arrived, the bad guys moved in.

He could have panicked. He could have done something rash like trying to evacuate the others, one by one, but he knew that would only get him shot.

So he did something desperate, something he thought only worked in the movies. He'd had no choice.

Brown instructed the others to play dead, and he did likewise.

The first guy drew up on him in the dark, leaned over, and that's when Brown sat up and punched him in the heart with his Nightwing.

As the guy fell back, Brown seized the man's weapon, finished him, and reengaged the others. The ensuing firefight lasted another five minutes before his backup arrived, and Brown was twice wounded.

From that day forward, the Nightwing never left his side. Even in a world of high-tech warfare, cold, hard steel could never be replaced, and neither could a warrior's will to survive.

He always grimaced when he thought about being nominated for the Silver Star for his actions that night, not because the nomination made him feel awkward but because his parents had offered only a halfhearted acknowledgment.

Brown imagined them sitting in their million-dollar home in Lake Forest, cursing over the fact that he had thrown it all away, dropped out of the University of Illinois, abandoned his position as a defensive lineman on the Fighting Illini to what? "Join the army? Have you lost your mind?" his mother had said.

His father had screamed at the top of his lungs, "I was the first man in my family to earn a college degree! A graduate degree! We're creating a new legacy for our family, for our people! In a few years I'll be running for mayor of this city! You have a great future ahead of you in public service--and now you want to go backward!"

But Brown had just wanted so much more out of life than a business or a law degree could offer. He never saw himself sitting in meetings with city council members, discussing community issues. His methods of effecting change were much more aggressive.

Consequently, the guard who'd come out of the mud-brick house for a smoke never stood a chance.

Brown put a silenced round in the man's forehead and caught him before he hit the snow and made too much noise. After lowering him to the ground, Brown sheathed his knife and dug under the guy's arms to drag him round the side of the building, out of sight. That done, Brown crouched low near the corner to catch his breath, relief flooding through him like a warm cup of coffee. He issued his report to Captain Mitchell.

As confident as Brown was, there were more than a million ways you could screw up any mission, and he liked to joke that he had already discovered at least seventy-two of them.

Mitchell lifted his chin at Ramirez, who nodded and tucked away his tool kit. The door was open.

"Diaz, what do you see?"

"All clear now, Captain."

After taking one more look through the eyes of the drone and reconfirming the positions of every combatant, Mitchell waited as Brown returned and got into position.

Ramirez would take left, Brown right, and Mitchell would come in low, on his belly--an unconventional choice to be sure, but that's the way he rolled. Ramirez and Brown would draw first attention should the guys in the front room awaken, and that would give Mitchell his chance to fire from his elbows.

It would all happen in gasps and whispers, fingers of mist pulling triggers and hearts stopping. They would float in and float out with their package, leaving cold, still death in their wake.

That dog in the valley howled again.

Mitchell braced himself. "Ghost Team, attack!"

Chapter Eleven.

NORTHWEST WAZIRISTAN

AFGHANISTAN-PAKISTAN BORDER

JANUARY 2009

Picking the lock was one thing. Getting the door to swing open quietly was another, and Mitchell flinched as Brown placed his gloved hand on the icy wood and drove the door forward.

Ramirez wore a smirk of confidence, thoroughly convinced that their entry would be smooth and soundless. After picking the lock, he had sprayed the corners of the door with his own custom blend of lubricants that he insisted would seep down, get into the metal, and eliminate what he called those "Haunted-house-Michael-Jackson-'Thriller'-type door squeaks."

The hinges, of course, were located on the inside of the door, so Mitchell remained dubious about the amount of lubricant that had actually reached them from the outside. But lo and behold, the door glided open. However, the cold wind rushed in, a wind they had no control over. The two men lying in small wooden beds on either side of the fireplace stirred, and one lifted his head.

Before Mitchell could fire, Ramirez and Brown put their pistols to work, sending both men back to eternal rest, blood pooling on their pillows.

Mitchell bolted to his feet and moved inside, closing the door behind them.

A voice came from the other room: a guy complaining in Pashto about the door being open.

Mitchell shifted around the partitioning wall toward the voice and took in the scene at once: another two beds, two guys, hostages in the corner. One guy rolling over.

Mitchell directed his own silenced pistol at the first guy and cut loose a round, hammering him in the chest.

Continuing in one fluid motion, he turned to his right and targeted the second guy, who was reaching for the rifle propped beside him. The guy's head twisted as Mitchell shot him.

But now the first guy was moving again. Mitchell rushed up to the bed and finished him with two more rounds. One would have been enough, but his frustration got the best of him. "Clear," he grunted into the radio.

"Who are you?" someone called.

Mitchell stepped around a beat-up dresser, piles of wool blankets, and a half dozen or so crates of ammo to reach the man who had called out to him.