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hundred feet off the deck, two Alouette III helicopters, olive drab and bearing the green-and-white dot of the Pakistan Air Force, flared to slow and hover as they moved down the trail on the other side of the ambushers and directly in front of the fleeing jihadi. Designed for the rigors of operations at extremely high altitudes, the Aérospatiale Alouette IIIs were a favorite of both the Pakistan and Indian Air forces.
    Quinn shielded his eyes with a forearm trying to block the swirling gray cloud of glacial dust. The lead chopper inched forward a few yards at a time, searching the rocks like a hunter kicking the grass to flush a bird. A moment later, a rocket hissed from the cylindrical pod on the Alouette’s struts, slamming into the ambusher’s nest. The blast was close enough that bits of stone and dead jihadist rained down on Quinn and Thibodaux where they knelt behind their boulder. The choppers loitered over the area for another full minute, no doubt using a FLIR or Forward Looking Infrared scope to search for remaining threats.
    Quinn could see Khalifa through the dust, lying stunned on the gravel at the side of the trail, his uniform reduced to a pile of rags. The concussion had likely rendered him half deaf, but he was still alive.
    Both Quinn and Thibodaux shielded their eyes as the Alouettes settled onto the gravel and the engine sounds whined down. A steady mountain wind pushed the dust away in a matter of moments, revealing a team of six extremely fit-looking men in maroon berets and camouflage battle dress. Each carried a Steyr AUG Bullpup rifle in his hands and a dour expression on his face.
    “They don’t look too awful happy,” Jacques said, letting the butt of the rifle slide down to his boot toe, holding it by the barrel, but not giving it up completely. “Reckon they’re here to help us or shoot us in the beak?”
    “We’re about to find out,” Quinn said. “See the guy standing out front?”
    “He’s the one you told me went to the US Air Force Academy?” Thibodaux said. “The one with a mustache the size of a Kleenex box?”
    “For a semester.” Quinn nodded. “We were roommates.”
    “Friends then.” Thibodaux nodded.
    “There was one little thing.” Quinn took a deep breath. “We had a little boxing match the last day of the semester.”
    “Great,” Thibodaux groaned. “I guess I’ll understand it if they shoot us then.”
    The apparent leader of the squad stood out front, arms folded across a narrow chest. A gleaming gold tooth peeked from behind a bushy black mustache that looked far too wide for his face. He’d always been thin, but the years since the academy—and likely the weight of command—had added depth to the hollows of his cheeks. Two men slung their rifles and stepped forward to grab the panting Abu Khalifa. One punched him in the belly, doubling him over in pain before the other cuffed his hands behind his back. The first soldier unslung his rifle and pointed it at Khalifa’s head while the other patted him down for weapons. When it was apparent that he didn’t have any, they kicked his feet out from under him to send him sprawling to the rocky ground with no means to catch himself. He landed with a thud and writhed on his side at the wing commander’s feet. The commander studied the jihadist for a moment from behind his big mustache, and then turned to peer at Quinn. There was a glint of mischief in his brown eyes. Hands clasped at the small of his back, he breathed deeply from the mountain air as if he owned the place.
    And that was not far from wrong. A smile formed on the man’s face, just a hint at first, but by the time he reached Quinn, it had turned into a full-blown grin. The slender Pakistani embraced him in a full hug, grabbing both shoulders and then stepping back to give him a once-over.
    “It has been too long,” the man said.
    “It has.” Quinn smiled, glancing at Thibodaux.
    “Jacques,” he said. “I’d like you to meet Wing