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knocked them to the ground by the fire.
    The leader talked with several of his men, gesturing to the truck. Several of the Afghans started sorting through the gear. They liked the guns. They liked the pots and pans and cooking gear and food. Derek, shivering, hoped they didn’t associate the five or six duffels with three people and start looking for him.
    Once their gear was out, the men started loading crates on top of the truck and securing it with rope. They shoved as much as they could into the back. The leader walked over, a bag on his shoulder. He spoke to several of the men, gesturing at Johnston and Noa, then he and another man climbed into the truck. They drove away.
    Patiently, Derek waited. He counted the men. Eleven left. Two had gone. He hoped they were gone for a long time. The men in the camp came and went. A couple remained, guarding Johnston and Noa. Derek didn’t like the way they eyed Noa. Only bad things were going to come of this if he didn’t act soon.
    As he watched, one of the men crouched down by Noa. He reached out and pulled her scarf away. She said something, jerking away. He touched her face. Johnston said something. The other man stepped over and punched the general in the head. Johnston went down hard. Blood flowed from his nose.
    Derek coiled, ready to act if he had to.
    Johnston rolled to a sitting position, talking. Noa nodded, speaking to the men. The two men looked at each other. They talked to each other, furtively looking at Noa.
    Now was the time. Confident in the number of men and their various locations, he began a slow backward slither. He was silent and the wind blew the corn and wheat, so his movements wouldn’t be obvious. When he was deep in the corn, he slipped off his rucksack. It contained the chemical test kit, a bottle of water, two full clips for the Beretta, a basic first aid kit – his more extensive one had been in the truck – a couple energy bars, a cigarette lighter, a steel match, and water filter. In other words, basic survival gear plus high-tech equipment to test for chemical weapons.
    He pocketed the clips for the Beretta, the energy bars, and cigarette lighter. He drank from the water bottle and shivered. Whatever he intended to do, he’d better do it in a hurry before hypothermia set in.
    With the night vision goggles, the gun, and the seven-inch Yarborough knife he received when he graduated from the Special Forces Qualification Course, he was ready. Keeping the gun in the holster, he gripped the knife and began to crawl back toward the precipice that overlooked the village below.
    Within a dozen feet of his destination, he smelled cigarette smoke. Whatever else these guys might be, they weren’t pros.
    The wind blew harder, dissipating the smell and drowning out any sounds. Edging closer, he finally saw two men. Derek hid about a dozen feet away. They smoked cigarettes and murmured to each other. Their AK47s were slung over their shoulders. They stood on the edge of a terrace. If Derek remembered correctly, it was about twenty-feet high. He had climbed up it along a steep, winding trail.
    Slowly, he drew himself up into a coiled crouch.
    He exploded out of the corn. One of the men heard him and turned, struggling with his assault rifle. Derek slammed into him with his shoulder. With a cry the man flew off the terrace.
    Spinning, Derek slashed out with his knife at the other man. He instinctively raised his hands in defense. The razor-sharp blade tore through an upraised hand. Stumbling backward, the man balanced on the edge of the cliff, then caught himself and turned to run.
    Derek was on him in a flash, yanking the man’s chin back hard and slicing his throat. Hot blood gushed over his hand. The man sagged. Derek let him tumble off the edge of the cliff.
    He crouched, listening if anyone had heard their shouts.
    Confident in his continued anonymity, he disappeared back into the corn. There was another set of guards off to his right.
    Using the cover