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keep their faith strong during times when they'd wavered. Some had considered taking American offers of privileges in return for information; even the offer of an early release. Like Omar, Abu had a simple philosophy, strict adherence to Islamic principles, or death. During the past twelve months, they'd killed two traitors by means of faked suicides. The rest of the fighters had stayed loyal, though Omar wasn't sure if it was from faith or fear. Did it matter?
    "Abu, what is it? We have to leave."
    "Daoud Khan, he's missing."
    "Shit! Have you searched for him?"
    "Of course, but there's no sign of him."
    "I don't like to leave him behind, but we don't have a choice. Do you think...?"
    "No!" Bakr shook his head emphatically, "Daoud would never betray us. If he is missing, it is for a good reason. Maybe he lost his way and blundered into a guard, who knows? But his faith is strong. Perhaps it is the will of Allah he stays behind."
    "Perhaps. Very well, we go without him. They'll punish him severely when they learn of our escape."
    Bakr shrugged. "As long as he stays silent. And he will."
    He nodded and looked at the two Colombians. "Señores, we are ready."
    "About fucking time," Diego snarled, "Get into the water, and take hold of the grab rails on the submersible. Stay low in the water, and keep your heads down."
    Omar heard him muttering, "Fucking no good camel jockeys, don't know their head from their ass."
    Another man to kill.

    * * *

    Nolan reflected on the difference between Colombian jails and Panamanian jails, or the lack of a difference. It was a close call.
    They’d relaxed after they crossed the border and drove straight to Panama City. Brad persuaded them to visit a bar to celebrate their new won freedom. They were sitting in the bar enjoying ice-cold beers, the glasses dripping with condensation in the heat. All conversation in the room ceased, and they became aware of a commotion outside. He went to take a look and came back.
    "Do you guys believe in déjà vu?" They looked mystified, "It's happening again. We're surrounded by cops and paramilitaries. I'd guess about forty of them, a re-run of Colombia. They know we're here, no question."
    "What the fuck…"
    Before Will could finish the sentence, a loudhailer blared outside in the street.
    "Americanos, you are surrounded. I have a warrant for your arrest and extradition to Colombia."
    "Don't try anything stupid. I'll go talk to them," Nolan advised them, "We're outgunned. Ditch the weapons; we'll have to go along with this until our people can pull us out. We haven't broken any laws in Panama, so it shouldn't be a problem. Will, there's a phone on the bar. Before we go out there, use it to call Admiral Jacks. He'll get us out. Make it fast. I won't be able to delay them too long. Call me when you're done."
    “Copy that.”
    Admiral Jacks, based at Coronado Base, San Diego, California, was the commander of their branch of the Seals. When they entered Colombia, they had in their possession encrypted communications gear to contact their controller. Everything had been taken when they were captured, and they were forced to fall back on old-fashioned means; like the telephone on the bar.
    He walked to the door and put his hands in the air.
    "Don't shoot. I'm unarmed."
    "Come out with your hands up!"
    He stepped outside into the sunlight. Facing him was an officer standing in the rear of a Humvee, with a loudhailer in his hand. Next to him was a trooper who manned a machine gun. Unless he was mistaken, Nolan identified it as an American-made M-60. Belts of ammunition hung down from the breech, the shiny brass cartridge cases glinting in the sun.
    American vehicle, American machine gun. Shit.
    The M-60 was aimed directly at his guts, and he was careful to move very slowly.
    "Lie down, flat on the ground," the officer, a captain, grated. His voice was harsh and tense. Nolan had little doubt he would give the order to shoot without a second thought. But it was too