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but only for an instant.
    Jankovic tried to digest what he’d just seen. The shape had been . . . nightmarishly alien, terrifying, with some kind of harness or vest heavy with equipment, with something like goggles or a camera over its face. A second shadow joined the first. They moved so stealthily, so silently, that Jankovic kept losing sight of them. He wanted to run, but he suppressed the urge, knowing that if he so much as moved, they would see him.
    Russian Spetsnaz? The only Russians in Yugoslavia, apart from a UN brigade present solely for cosmetic purposes, were advisors secretly helping the JNA. Americans, then?
    Everything he’d been told about the Americans said that they were cowards, afraid to fight save from behind the screen of their near-magical technology. Jankovic’s superiors warned almost daily of the danger of American air strikes, impressing on the men the need to capture any downed pilots alive. But ground troops? It seemed impossible.
    But as Jankovic lay in the snow, watching the two shadows quartering the grounds behind the monastery, he became convinced that they must be Americans, possibly even their legendary Delta Force. They had so much expensive equipment—personal radios, night-vision goggles, silenced submachine guns—they must be Americans, because only Americans could afford that kind of lavish, high-tech gadgetry.
    Did their gadgetry include infrared goggles? Could they see him beneath his blanket of snow? Jankovic had worked with Russian IR equipment and knew that his body heat must be glowing as brightly as a bonfire against the cold ground. Even starlight optics allowed some vision at infrared wavelengths. If they saw him ...
    But no, the shadows moved within ten meters of his hiding place, giving no evidence of having seen him. Silently, the shadows passed him by, circled the west end of the monastery, and vanished.
    Even so, it was several minutes before Jankovic could force trembling legs to support him. He didn’t dare head for the road, not when more of the invaders could have an ambush posted there. Instead, he started climbing the mountain behind the monastery. The road angled back across the face of the mountain, perhaps five hundred meters up the slope, and from there it was another three kilometers to a local militia outpost.
    There was a radio there, and he’d be able to call for help. This was definitely a job for the JNA, and they would have to work fast to trap these high-tech shadows, before they could make their escape.

0252 hours
St. Anastasias Monastery Southern Bosnia
    Magic and Professor showed up a few minutes later, silently materializing out of the darkness like wraiths. “No trace of that runner, L-T,” Magic said. “He must’ve decided it was time to get the hell out of Dodge.”
    â€œShit, that son of a bitch’s feet won’t touch the ground twice before he hits the Bulgarian border,” Doc said, coming up on Murdock from behind. “Skipper? Our spook friend checks out okay. I gave him a one-grain tab of phenobarb to kind of quiet him down, like.”
    â€œOkay, Doc. See to the women, will you?”
    Doc’s painted face split in a toothy grin. “Hey, my pleasure, Skipper.”
    â€œCut the crap, Doc. They’ve just been through hell and they don’t need any shit from you.”
    The smile vanished. “Aye, aye, sir.”
    Damn, he hadn’t meant to snap at Doc. The guy had a wild rep with the ladies on liberty, but on duty he was always strictly professional, except for his sometimes quirky sense of humor.
    The aftereffects of the firefight, and the fact that one of the bad guys had escaped, had Murdock on edge. He hurried over to where Mac was sitting on the ground with the CIA man. Squatting next to him, Murdock tried to give a reassuring smile, an expression that he knew well could not be all that reassuring delivered through all of this camo face