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extending his senses. He smelled smoke. The only sounds he could hear were the rain and the wind bending the corn and wheat.
    Dropping into the mud, he crawled from his location to a nearby tree. Taking his time, he slithered into the wheat and corn, moving until he was still hidden but could see the camp.
    There were tents and lean-to’s and a cave. A dozen men sat around a fire that was roasting something – he could smell the meat, but couldn’t identify it. They all looked Afghani or Pakistani, wearing traditional clothes – salwar kameez , turbans, coats. They all had long, thick beards. They all had AK47s nearby.
    Continuing to study them, he patiently waited to sort out everything he was seeing. Off to his right was a rough corral with a dozen horses or mules huddling together in the rain. He assumed there must be an easier way off this terrace than the route he’d taken. Horses would never have made it up that trail.
    Further back, behind the men, he saw several crates. He adjusted the binoculars on the NVGs. The writing on the sides appeared to be Cyrillic.
    The sound of gunfire broke the silence. Gunfire from down below. In the village.
    Tensing, heart pounding, Derek watched the men jump to their feet. One of the men shouted at several of the others. They grabbed weapons and sprinted into the darkness. Everyone picked up their AK47s. Two disappeared into the cave. Three took up posts at strategic locations around the camp. Three moved toward the edge of the terrace, toward the route Derek had come.
    He stayed as still as possible. They walked around the cornfield, only a dozen feet from where he lay hidden.
    The person who appeared to be the leader of this group paced inside the mouth of the cave, AK47 clenched in one fist, smoking a cigarette. Minutes crept by. Several of the men reappeared, reporting in. It continued to rain. Derek, chilled to the marrow, was lying in six inches of mud.
    Almost forty minutes later, Derek heard the sound of a truck engine. To his surprise, their Land Rover appeared from between a cut in the terrace and pulled up alongside the makeshift corral. One of the Afghans was driving. The doors opened and General Johnston and Noa Shoshan climbed awkwardly from the rear doors, their hands tied behind their backs. One of the men prodded Johnston in the back with his assault rifle. Johnston and Noa walked toward the encampment.

7
    The man Derek had pegged as the leader of the group stalked toward Johnston and Noa. He studied them a moment without saying anything, smoking his cigarette. Finally he said something. Johnston shrugged. Suddenly the leader struck Noa with his fist. With her hands tied behind her back, she went down hard and awkward. Derek thought maybe she’d said something the leader didn’t like, or perhaps he was the type of conservative Muslim who didn’t want women speaking out of order at all.
    Johnston stepped between the man and Noa. Derek couldn’t hear a word. His rifle was back in the truck. He carried a .45 Beretta in a holster on his belt. Taking it out now, he braced it in front of him, aimed at the leader. It was a shot he could make. Maybe.
    Derek was one of that strange breed of shooters. Put him in range with stationary targets and he was a fair shooter, maybe a little above average. Stick him in a tactical shooting range like the FBI’s Hogan’s Alley and he was one of the best around. He performed best under pressure.
    Still, it would be a hell of a shot in shitty conditions.
    He waited. As he did, the rain became more mixed with snow.
    I lead a charmed life, he thought.
    The leader spoke to one of his men, who roughly hauled Noa to her feet. Johnston spoke to her. She said something to the leader. The leader seemed to be listening. A three-way conversation ensued.
    Two more men appeared. A more spirited conversation took place. Lots of gesticulating. Then the leader pointed at Johnston and Noa. Two of his men pushed them across the compound and