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“You can't do that. Just walk away from the deal.”

“I can't screw Iggy over. Without some kind of an understanding with the Agency, Black Management is finished.”

The elevator arrived with three men inside. They stared at them in silence as they waited for it to leave. It gave Camille a chance to try to figure out a solution. Several seconds later the elevator doors closed.

“You know, I just thought of something,” Camille said as she let go of Hunter's hand and started to move back toward the conference room to see if he would follow. “There might be a problem with that contract.”

“There are a lot of problems.”

“Yeah, but this one could be a deal-breaker, one that could let me save face if I back out.” She flashed him a conspiratorial smile. “I know you were one of the guys who caught bin Laden. I need you to tell me what you know about the joint CIA-Pentagon operation running him.”

He took a deep breath and pursed his lips. “Stella.”

“I'm pretty sure you're not read into the project, so you wouldn't be divulging any secrets you were officially entrusted with. Just tell me rumors.”

“I don't believe the rumors. It's just wrong. The Agency bastards would kiss the devil's balls if that's what it took, but I can't imagine soldiers, stroking that fucker's ass, even if it meant neutralizing al Qaeda. You know it's the civilians in the Pentagon that brought us to this. Just watch. Some operator is going to blow him away; it's the only honorable thing to do. Hell, if I'd known what they were going to do with OBL, I would've taken him out myself when I had the chance.”

“The rumors.” Camille tugged his arm.

 

A few minutes later, Hunter returned to the conference room with Stella. He felt like a war was raging inside him; the casualties were serious and the outcome still undetermined. Part of him wanted to get the hell out of there before things got more screwed up between them, but he was a warrior. And this time with Stella, he had to fight to the end.

Stella sat down with Hunter on her right side, Iggy on her left. Director Doherty was directly across from them. She looked him in the eyes and said, “I have one condition before I commit to the project.”

Come on, Stella. Stick to the plan. Don't get greedy
.

She continued, “Now I know that the Agency and the Pentagon have been holding bin Laden for years, running a joint covert op that put you two in control of al Qaeda, keeping its followers busy, constantly sending them on fool's errands—”

The Director raised his hand and interrupted. “Ms. Black, do you want the contract or not?”

Iggy shot her a quizzical look. She gave him a quick reassuring nod, then turned back to the CIA Director. “Hear me out. Al-Zahrani and Abdullah popped onto the scene a little over two years ago, fighting each other for control of al Qaeda. I can't help but notice that's around the same time that things really started heating up between the CIA and the Pentagon.”

“Jesus,” Iggy muttered under his breath. Hunter sat there, proud of her.

Stella took a deep breath and paused for an agonizing moment. “Before I take on the contract, I need to know that your joint bin Laden operation didn't break down. I want absolute assurance that Abdullah isn't the Pentagon's man.”

The Director's face suddenly turned ashen and his jaw clenched. He paused for a few moments, then said, “I'll have to get back to you on that.”

Hunter smiled as he listened to her and thought of swimming together in Hawaii. Then she glanced at him with a familiar twinkle in her eye that made his gut clench.

“Don't misunderstand me.” She continued speaking to Director Doherty, calculating inflated costs in her head. “The prison contract is a totally separate issue. I'm ready to move forward on that immediately. Just a rough estimate, but I figure you're running a surge capacity of one hundred, so with a three to one staffing ratio, each detainee will cost around fourteen-hundred dollars a day, plus transportation and—what's your term for the cost of bribing the local officials?”

“Host country fees,” Iggy said. “A simple cost plus fixed-fee work order contract.”

“And without start-up costs, we're realistically looking at around ninety-five million for a firm fixed-price contract. Interrogation costs would be extra, of course, unless you want to provide the service yourselves.”

“Stella, what are you doing?” Hunter whispered.

She turned to him, her eyes glistening with excitement. He really did love watching her in action.

“You didn't say a word about secret prisons,” she said. “And besides, we've got to have some way to pay for our Hawaii trip and your tooth implant. Not to mention your new Gulfstream.”

R J Hillhouse has run Cuban rum between East and West Berlin, smuggled jewels from the Soviet Union, and slipped through some of the world's tightest borders. From Uzbekistan to Romania, she's been followed, held at gunpoint, and interrogated. Foreign governments have solicited her for recruitment as a spy. (They failed.) The
St. Louis Post-Dispatch
wrote that “she's truly like James Bond and Indiana Jones all rolled into one.”

A former professor and Fulbright fellow, she earned her Ph.D. in political science at the University of Michigan. She is fluent in several languages. An expert on international affairs and national security, she has published in major academic journals and has lectured at such diverse institutions as Harvard, the Smithsonian, and the Soviet Academy of Sciences.

She lives in Hawaii, on the slopes of Mauna Loa volcano. She blogs about the outsourcing of national security at
www.TheSpyWhoBilledMe.com
.

No spies or soldiers were harmed in the making of this book. Any revelation of classified national security information is purely coincidental and is the product of a rigorous analysis of open source materials coupled with a vivid imagination. I am indebted to the many fine journalists who have brought many of the inner workings of the War on Terror into the public domain. I am particularly grateful to the many professionals, including friends and family, who have shared their knowledge of unclassified matters with me.

Like countless other Americans, the War on Terror touched me personally, as friends and family were sent to Iraq. This novel was conceived during the long hours, and sometimes days, of waiting for an email from a loved one who was in combat. My deepest thanks goes to LtGen James Mattis, LtGen Richard Natonski, and BGen Joseph Dunford, USMC, who keep bringing my cousin home safely.

My cousin, SSgt Grant Smille, USMC, has been an inspiration and a teacher, without whom this book would not have been possible. A decorated Marine, internationally ranked martial artist, and a true patriot, Grant has not only taught me rudimentary tactical, infantry, and combat skills, but has also given me a glimpse into the passion behind being a Devil Dog. From him I gained the highest admiration for the men and women of the US Marine Corps. There is truly
No Better Friend
.

My favorite bomb-maker, LCDR Jim Froneberger, USN (ret.), has kept my characters from blowing themselves up. LtCol Ben Fuata, Hawaii Army National Guard, and his staff generously shared their extensive knowledge of combat helicopters, as did CW4 Robert Nance, US Army (ret.), and CW4 Jeffrey Crandell, US Army/CA ARNG. My cousins LtCol Jerry “Rebel” Summerlin, USMC (ret.), and Pam Summerlin went to great efforts to help me understand the mid-air refueling process. Fellow thriller writer and former USAF C-5 pilot Cindy Dees provided additional flight assistance. Rob Krott, former Senior Foreign Correspondent for
Soldier of Fortune
magazine, author, and mercenary extraordinaire, helped sketch in the fine details about contract soldiering in Iraq. GySgt Scott Stutler, USMC, was the official armorer for Black Management, assisting with weapons choices, their functioning and limitations. My sister and medical advisor, Renée Walker, D.O., F.A.O.C.O.O., kept the characters alive, and me out of trouble. My father, Charles Hillhouse, has been to me what “Q” was to James Bond, creating and testing unusual approaches to escape, evasion, and sabotage, including some that actually worked and made it into these pages; I'm grateful to my mother, Donna Hillhouse, for keeping Dad from killing himself in the process, as well as for her constant encouragement.

I am grateful to the many others who have donated their technical assistance, including SrA Cecily Okimura, USAF; 1Lt Charles Newman, Hawaii Army National Guard; Reef Hardy, Ph.D., criminalist, LAPD Scientific Investigation Division; Keith Yamakawa, D.D.S.; Keith Shiigi; fellow writer Lauren Baratz-Logsted; ACO Sgt Kathy Wheeles; and Paul Wheeles. Bobby Carmichael is for the OR crews in Joplin.

Michael Lukson, my first reader, partner in crime, and Web guru has come to my rescue countless times. Leah Wilson's keen insight and suggestions helped the manuscript reach its full potential. Sarah Wang has provided outstanding legal counsel to me, as well as to Black Management, and her keen eye for detail has made this book a much smoother read.

My editor, Eric Raab, has worked diligently and tirelessly to champion this novel and to ensure it was not only the best book it could be, but that it was published well. Tom Doherty has my gratitude for his preserving belief in my work. The staff at Tor, including Linda Quinton, Kathleen Fogarty, Elena Stokes, Tom Espenscheid, AJ Murphy, Mike Rohrig, Patricia Johnson, Christine Jaeger, Patty Garcia, Edwin Chapman, and others behind the scenes, have done truly exceptional work.

Scott Miller, my literary agent, has a gift for making just the right observation at the right time, one of which was the springboard for the structure of this novel. He is golden. My thanks also go out to Holly Root and others at Trident who've worked diligently on the project. Sarah Self's enthusiasm and hard work are greatly appreciated. My publicists at PTA—Brian Feinblum, Jessica Church, and Peter Horan—are exceptional.

This is the point where an author usually thanks a spouse for processing endless scenes, plot, and character ideas, but instead I have to thank my dogs LynnDy, Jordan, and Suzie-Q for listening to these ramblings—even if it did take many boxes of biscuits to ensure their rapt attention. I am so blessed that my partner gives me a book-free space, where I can get away from the shadowy world I'm writing about so I can focus on the people, things, and dogs that really matter. My deepest love and appreciation are for Cynthia Curatalo, who makes it all worthwhile.