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there."
    "No. They're at that age, Eric: always gone; always doing something. Do you remember when we were that way?"
    "I remember everything about you."
    The conversation fell silent. "Yeah. What you said. Me too."
    Moyer chortled. "You are a romantic."
    "You know how I get when you make these kinds of calls."
    He did know. Two years earlier, Stacy started having nightmares when his work separated them. It began while he was on mission in Venezuela. The dreams returned while he and his team were in Europe and then in Mexico. Stacy kept the last set of dreams from him for three months after his return.
    "Yeah, I know. I'm sorry."
    She sniffed and he could imagine tears welling in her eyes. His eyes began to burn. He looked at the far wall, as if doing that would take the sting out of his heart.
    "Don't be sorry. It is what it is. You were in the Army when I married you. At our wedding I got a husband and a large branch of the military. I'm proud of you and what you do. What you do isn't easy."
    "What you do may be more difficult."
    "Of course it is, but I'm a woman. I can take it."
    "There is not a doubt in my mind."
    Another pause passed without words but heavy with meaning.
    "You know I love you, right?" Her voice was a decibel above a whisper.
    "It's my reason to get up in the morning. Well, that and scrambled eggs."
    "And the kids?"
    "Let them get their own eggs."
    She laughed. "Hug yourself for me."
    "You too."
    Moyer hung up, then spent a minute stuffing his emotions into the basement of his mind. The conversation was tough, but something tougher was coming. He had to get control of his emotions before he stepped back into the hallway to meet the rest of his team. In order to keep his emotions in check, Moyer practiced a trick he learned years ago—stop thinking about his family and start thinking about everything he needed to do to keep himself and his men alive for the next mission.
    A dozen deep breaths later, he emerged from the office. His team waited in silence. Rich stood the farthest down the hall. J. J., who had been married less than a year, had his hands in his pocket and his face turned to avoid eye contact. Jose Medina, who was doing his best to bring up his own basketball team, gazed at his smartphone looking at pictures of his children. Pete, like J. J., had been married a short time. Crispin was unmarried, but he showed the good sense to give the others whatever time they needed.
    A few steps away, standing at the mouth of the corridor, Tim waited, his hands clasped in front of him. In the lobby, the displaced office workers stood in a group and off to themselves.
    Moyer and Tim made eye contact.
    "You good to go?" Tim asked.
    Moyer inhaled deeply and faced his men. "We ready to rock?"
    "Hooah!"
    Moyer turned back to Tim. "All right, Captain. Let's catch the first thing smokin' out of here."

    TESS RAND-BARTLEY CONTINUED TO stare at the phone as if she expected it to come to life, or better yet, ring again with her husband's voice saying, "Just kiddin', kiddo. Turns out I'll be home tonight after all."
    But she knew it wouldn't. She might be a new Army wife, but she had been around the military enough to know she wouldn't hear from J. J. until he was off mission. Unlike other Army wives, she was often "in-the-know." Her basic work didn't require keeping secret her identity or function. Those who saw the petite, auburn-haired twenty-something woman would not suspect she was an expert in terrorism, female suicide bombers, and international affairs. Although younger than most of her peers, none doubted her right to teach at the War College in Carlisle Barracks, Pennsylvania.
    Her exceptional expertise brought her to the attention of the military where she often served as a military consultant to Spec Ops. Although the material she had to deal with was emotionally distasteful, what she did often helped to save lives—including that of her new husband.
    Next to the phone was a military mug shot of J. J. in