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was painted in desert camouflage.
     
    The three members of the BRF who met her looked like local tribesmen. Baggy old trousers, ragged sheepskins, and soiled headcloths like her own. They carried AK-47 rifles, were decidedly unshaven, and stank to high heaven.
     
    One of them said, “Captain Gideon?”
     
    “That’s right. Who are you?”
     
    “We dispense with rank in our business, ma’am. I’m the sergeant in charge, but just call me Frank. This rogue on the machine gun is Alec, and Wally handles the wheel and radio. You can use the rear seat. You’ll find a box of RPGs to one side, just in case, ma’am.”
     
    “Sara will be fine, Frank,” she told him, and climbed in as the engines started up and the trucks nosed out of the gates in procession.
     
    “Convoy to supply outposts in the Taliban areas,” Frank told her. “Best done at night. We tag on behind, then branch off about fifteen miles up the road and head for Abusan, cross-country.”
     
    “Sounds fine to me.” As she climbed into the seat, he said, “Have you done much of this kind of thing before?” Another truck eased up behind them.
     
    “Belfast, Bosnia, Kosovo, Iraq, and this is my second tour in Afghanistan.”
     
    “Forgive me for asking.” He climbed into the second bank of seats. “Get after them, Wally.” He lit a cigarette and shivered. “It’s cold tonight.”
     
    Which it was—bitter winter, with ice-cold rain in bursts and occasional flurries of wet snow. The canvas roof offered a certain protection, and Sara folded her arms, closed her eyes, and dozed.
     
    She came awake with a start as Frank touched her shoulder. “We’re leaving the convoy soon and going off to the left.”
     
    She glanced at her watch and was surprised to see that an hour had slipped by since leaving the compound. As she pulled herself together and sat up, a tremendous explosion blew thelead truck apart, the sudden glare lighting up the surrounding countryside.
     
    “Christ almighty,” Frank said. “The bastards are ambushing us.” As he spoke, the rear truck behind them exploded.
     
    Passing through a defile at that part of the road, the convoy was completely bottled up and the light from the explosions showed a large number of Taliban advancing.
     
    Guns opened up all along the length of the convoy, and Alec started to fire the machine gun as Wally called in on the radio. There was general mayhem now, the tribesmen crying out like banshees, firing as they ran, and several bullets struck the Sultan. Sara crouched to one side in the rear seat and fired her Glock very carefully, taking her time. Frank leaned over, opened the box of RPGs, loaded up and got to work, the first grenade he fired exploding into the advancing ranks. There was a hand grenade hurled in return that fell short, exploding, and Sara was struck by shrapnel just above her left eye.
     
    She fell back, still clutching her Glock, and fired into the face of the bearded man who rushed out of the darkness, the hollow-point cartridges blowing him back and the man behind him. There was blood in her eye, but she wiped it away with the end of her headcloth and rammed another clip into the butt of the Glock.
     
    Wally, behind the wheel, was firing his AK over the side into the advancing ranks and suddenly cried out as a bullet caught him in the throat. Alec was standing up behind the machine gun, working it furiously from side to side, while Frank fired another grenade and then a third.
     
    The headcloth pressed against the shrapnel wound stemmedthe blood, and Sara fired calmly, making every shot count as the Taliban rushed in out of the darkness.
     
    Frank, standing behind her to fire another grenade, cried out, staggered, dropped the launcher, and fell back against the seat, hit in his right side. Above him, Wally was blown backward from his machine gun, vanishing over the side of the Sultan.
     
    Sara pulled off her headcloth, explored Frank with her fingers until she found