I am Mark Stoner. American.

Romania. Moldova.

And Asia before that.

This was Zen Stockard. Zen. Breanna’s husband, Jeff.

He remembered the beer. He remembered Dog. And Bree. Danny Freah and everyone else.

“Where the hell were you fifteen years ago?” Stoner asked. “Why didn’t you help me?”

“We didn’t think anyone could have survived that crash.”

No, no one could have survived. No one had survived—they’d taken what was left of him and shoveled him into this—a body of two phony legs from the hips down, a phony arm, a brain held in what was left of his skull by plastic.

A body that needed drugs to survive, drugs he thirsted for now.

“Stoner, we have to go back,” said Zen.

“There’s no going back, Jeff. We’re gone.” He pointed at his legs. “You know that.”

“Black, there’s a flare ahead,” yelled the helicopter pilot from the cockpit.

“Evade,” said Stoner flatly.

Turk let off a volley of flares and checked his speed, lowering it to 200 knots. This was considerably slower than the aircraft liked, and it whimpered slightly, lowering its nose like a chastised pony.

“Contact at two o’clock, altitude sixty feet AG,” said the computer, telling the pilot its radar had spotted something about sixty feet off the ground to his right. “Distance at one-point-two miles.”

“Identify aircraft,” said Turk, glancing at the plot screen.

The helicopter was heading southeast at about 98 knots. He pulled to his left, starting a circle that would take him around so he could approach from the rear.

“Type is Russian-made Mil, Mi–16,” said the computer. It used the video cameras to capture the image and identify it in its library of types. “No identifying marks. Paint scheme similar to Czech air force.”

“Is it a Czech helicopter?”

“Camouflage is similar to Czech air force.”

“Similar but not the same?”

“Out of visual contact. Insufficient data.”

“We can fix that,” said Turk, coming out of his turn. The helo had ducked even lower: it was now just under ten feet from the ground, running along a road through the Czech hills.

Turk switched to the emergency or “Guard” band, a common frequency monitored by all aircraft.

“Mil helicopter, this is U.S. Air Force Tigershark. You are ordered to land at Kbely Air Field. Do you copy?”

There was no answer.

“Mil helicopter, I have orders to get you on the ground,” he said, improvising. “I can do that in any number of ways. Most of them not good for you.”

The helicopter took a hard turn right, flying over a field. Turk, who was already going almost twice as fast as the chopper, couldn’t follow; instead, he banked in the other direction and came around, lining up again on its tail.

What was he going to do? He had no missiles in his bays and no bullets in his gun. Even if he had, he’d be reluctant as hell to use them. His childhood hero was aboard the damn aircraft, for God’s sakes.

Only one option: bluff the crap out of him.

Stoner leaned over the pilot’s shoulder, looking at the terrain. They were five miles from Plegeau, a town outside of Mestecko and one of their alternate escape points. Two vehicles were stashed in a barn there.

The aircraft chasing them was American. It would be hard for him to coordinate with ground units. They could get away.

“Give me your map,” Stoner told the pilot.

The copilot handed him a folded-over chart. It took a moment for him to orient himself, then pick out the location.

“Fly to this spot,” he said, pressing his finger there. “You will see a barn painted green at the top of the hill. We will land next to a red barn on the next hill over, just to the east of that one. Do you understand?”

“The pilot of the aircraft is warning that he will shoot us down,” said the pilot.

“He’s an American,” replied Stoner. “He won’t dare.”

“Tigershark, are you on this channel?”

Breanna’s voice came loud and clear in Turk’s headset.

“Hey, roger that, boss—can you hear me?”

“Affirmative. What’s your situation?”

“I have the helicopter in sight. Not answering hails.”

“Describe the helicopter.”

“Hold on.”

Turk throttled back again as the helicopter jinked hard to the right. It was very close to the ground—so close that he thought it was going to hit a house as it turned.

“Mi–16. If this isn’t the helicopter, it’s sure doing a great impression,” he told Breanna. “Brown on tan camo in a scheme similar to the Czech air force, but not precisely the same.”

“I’m going to attempt to make contact,” Breanna told him. “In the meantime, I have a Czech air force staff officer ready to contact you. Stand by for the frequency.”

Zen looked at the two other men who’d gotten into the aircraft. They were watching Stoner, not him. But there was no way he could overpower even one of them, let alone both.

“Where are we going?” Zen asked them.

They pretended not to hear. He asked it again. It was Stoner who answered, coming back into the cargo area.

“We’re getting away,” he said. “We can go anywhere. Our network is worldwide.”

“Do you work for the Russians?” Zen asked.

“I work for myself.”

“Really? Who put you back together?”

Stoner frowned, then shook his head. “I wish it had never happened,” he said. “I wish I had died that day.”

“You don’t really wish that, do you, Mark?”

But he could see that Stoner did. There was real pain in his eyes—deep anguish.

Regret, maybe?

Zen wanted to say that they could fix things, but knew it would be impossible. He had to say something, though. Not to save himself, but because he felt as if they owed Stoner somehow.

He did owe him. Stoner had saved his wife.

“Mark, listen to me—”

Stoner reached into his pocket. His phone was ringing.

Not his phone. Zen’s.

“What do you want?” Stoner asked.

“Mark, this is Breanna Stockard. We know you’re in the helicopter. We’re following it. Listen, we found a box that has records of your treatment. They used powerful drugs on you. We can help reverse them.”

Breanna Stockard. It was full circle now.

“Mark, listen to me,” she continued. “You helped me once. I can help you. Let me help you.”

“I’m beyond help.” He reached his thumb for the End button.

“You’re not,” he heard her say before he clicked the phone off.

He tossed it at Zen.

“That was your wife,” he told him.

Two MiG–35s appeared on the radar screen just as Turk made contact with the Czech air force colonel assigned to liaison with him. The aircraft were coming off the runway at Caslave, a base about fifty miles north of him. They weren’t walking either—once off the tarmac, they poured on the afterburners, juicing over Mach 1.

Good luck with that, thought Turk. You’ll never stay close to the helicopter going that fast.

Their radars couldn’t locate the Tigershark, even when he gave them a position. The two aircraft turned a circle some 10,000 feet above him.

“American aircraft, please restate your position,” said one of the pilots.

“This is Tigershark. I am about ten angels below you, five miles south, uh, on your nine o’clock. Helo looks to be slowing down. He’s low, real low.”

“Tigershark, Checkmate One acknowledges,” said the Czech pilot, giving his call sign. “Please stand clear.”

“Uh, stand clear? Repeat?”

“Please remove from area. We are going to engage the enemy aircraft.”

“Negative, negative. Do not engage—they’ve got a hostage aboard.”

“We have orders, Tigershark. Please stand clear.”

Shit on that, thought Turk, pushing closer to the helicopter.

“Two kilometers,” said the pilot.

Stoner saw the green building ahead in the distance. The other barn was still out of sight.

“MiGs!” warned the copilot. “We are being tracked.”