Camille rubbed her eyes and felt her chest tightening. She hadn’t expected a vet’s office to answer, let alone one that could identify the dog. Government spy agencies weren’t that thorough with backstops for their agent’s covers. Even in her days at the CIA, the best she ever got was a fake name, a recently-issued social security number, a PO box in Tysons Corner and a listing as a member of the board of a CIA propriety company. Force Zulu was military and no way were they even that thorough.
The woman came back on the line. “You’re in luck. Julia and Greg Bolton have a yellow lab mix named Jordan.”
The receptionist’s words blurred as Camille stared at the file.
It’s true.
Hunter had really wanted this Julia woman more than he had wanted her. Two years ago when she had cried so hard over his death, something inside her had died with him. Now she realized the happiness she wanted back so badly had never really been hers in the first place. It was all a monstrous lie.
Every man Camille knew was afraid of a true Amazon, but Hunter understood. She had always believed that they had challenged each other to develop further, train harder and think faster. Together the two warriors became a force.
She put her head down on the desk and tried to hide her tears. The Hunter Stone she had loved since high school was no more.
Camille Black was alone, an army of one.
Chapter Fifty-One
Camp Tsunami, Abu Ghraib Prison
Hunter clung to the gift that Stella had given him as he was being taken prisoner, her full sweet lips mouthing “I love you.” For two days, he had been pounded with over a hundred decibels of Chinese opera while waiting for his interrogation to begin. The bastards knew what they were doing. Time set the imagination loose and boredom numbed the will to resist. He pinched his forearm. The skin was taking longer and longer to spring back. He needed water soon and he would have to cut back on the exercise regime which he designed to do in the cell to keep himself in shape.
Without warning, the door swung open. Two men and a woman in gray prison uniforms with the Rubicon logo stood at the door; one man pointed an AK-102 at him.
“Time for your first therapy appointment, haji,” a petite woman with a self-inflicted haircut said. “My friend here is kind of jumpy and the boss gets real pissed when he kills a prisoner, so do us a favor and cooperate. Put your hands behind your back and turn around.”
Hopeful that he would eventually find his opening, Hunter complied as they tightened plastic cuffs on his wrists and shoved an olive-drab hood over his head. It reeked of vomit and instantly made him feel nauseous.
Fourteen stairs and two hallways later, the guards led Hunter into an air-conditioned room and shoved him down on what felt to his bare butt like a cold metal stool. The air conditioner was blasting on him and it had to be set as low as it would go. Then suddenly someone threw ice cold water on him and laughed. A door slammed and locked, but he wasn’t alone. He could sense the presence of at least one guard.
He sat and waited, shivering.
After what he guessed was an hour, he tried to meditate, but couldn’t. Screeching Chinese opera was still running through his head and every time he started to dry off, a guard doused him with ice water again. He rubbed his fingers over his missing fingernails and focused on an image of Stella, standing in the village, bulked up with body armor and telling him how she really felt.
She loves me.
The door opened and he felt a breeze and movement, then it closed. Silence. Papers rustled, then a voice spoke. “Remove the hood.”
A guard walked over, unbuckled the hood and pulled it off him. Hunter squinted from the bright fluorescent lights. A middle-aged man sat behind an old metal desk. He seemed fit, but Hunter was confident he could take him out, even in his dehydrated state.
“If it isn’t the one and only Master Sergeant Stone. I finally get to meet you,” the man said with a heavy New York accent.
“Greg Bolton, Staff Sergeant, 491-83-1430.”
“You can call me Mr. Zorro.”
“Greg Bolton, Staff Sergeant, 491-83-1430.”
“You think you’re fucking cute, don’t you? Sergeant Stone, your own Force Zulu has designated you an ‘enemy combatant.’ The Geneva Conventions don’t apply here. You’re free to talk to me and I’m free to do whatever the fuck I want.”
Zorro reached into his attaché case and removed a bottle of water and placed it on the desk in front of Hunter.
Hunter looked away from it and repeated, “Greg Bolton, Staff Sergeant, 491-83-1430.”
“You want the water, don’t you?” Zorro twisted the top open and took his time pouring it into a plastic glass. “I’m a reasonable man. I’ll willing to give you all the water you want.”
Hunter flashed back to the waterboard in North Korea and instinctively gasped for air and held his breath.
“Did that bother you, Master Sergeant? I thought you’d be happy with an offer of water. Did something bad happen with water? Maybe in Pyongyang?”
“Greg Bolton, Staff Sergeant, 491-83-1430.”
“I’ve read your dossier, Sergeant Black-Stones. Those nuts look pretty bad, by the way. You really ought to see a doctor.” Zorro drank some water. “I’m so sorry. I’m not some goddamn torturer. I’m a civilized man and I’m here to help you.”
Hunter repeated his cover identity’s name, rank and social security number, barking out the words like a drill instructor.
“You do need to know I’m a man with very little time. I’m not here to dick around with you. Here’s the deal: You give me something; I give you something. It’s that simple.” Zorro shrugged his shoulders and smiled. His teeth were yellow, probably from too much nicotine.
“Greg Bolton, Staff Sergeant, 491-83-1430.”
“I’ll make you a deal.” He shoved the glass of water toward Hunter. “All you have to do is tell me your real name and the water’s yours. Hell, I’ll throw in the whole goddamn bottle—a liter and a half of pure desalinated water.”
Hunter took a deep breath. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry and his throat burned. “Greg Bolton, Staff Sergeant, 491-83-1430.”
“I know you’re Hunter Stone. What’s it going to hurt if you tell me what I already know? You’re only spiting yourself.”
Hunter ran his parched tongue across his cracked lips. He looked at the water and knew it wouldn’t be more than a day or two until his organs started shutting down and dying. Rubicon already knew who he was. They knew. He wouldn’t be betraying anyone. “Hunter Stone,” Hunter said as he reached for the glass. “Master Sergeant Hunter—”
“No, no, no.” Zorro grabbed the water glass and pulled it back, sloshing water onto the desk. “I only asked for your real name, not your real rank, too.”
Hunter burned with hatred toward himself as he said, “My name is Hunter Stone.”
“Help yourself to the water, Hunter Stone.”
Hunter snatched up the water bottle and gulped it down before the guards could take it away.
“Maybe we can help each other again some time soon.” Zorro walked toward the door, then paused and turned around. “Sergeant Stone, if you find there’s something you want, let the guards know and give them something in return. They’re authorized to make trades for me. Tell me everything Zulu knows about Rubicon and SHANGRI-LA and you can have run of the house.”
Chapter Fifty-Two
Camp Raven, The Green Zone, Baghdad
The sun went down and the trailer had grown dark except for the blue glow of a digital clock. Camille sat alone with her head on the desk. Her face was sticky from tears and snot. Her head throbbed and her nasal tissues were so swollen, she had to breathe through her mouth, and that only dried out the membranes more. She heard someone come into the trailer, but she didn’t look up. A hand stroked her back.
“I told you to go,” Camille said, her voice hoarse.
“You’ve been alone here for hours,” Pete said as she turned on a lamp.
The bright light burned her eyes and Camille shielded them with her hands. “Get that off.”
“You can’t stay like this in the dark.” Pete switched the lamp back off.
“Just go.”
“Can I get you something? Water? Something to eat?” Pete moved beside her and ran her fingers through Camille’s hair.
“Get me a bottle of vodka.”
“That’s the last thing you need right now.”
“Get it.”
“Whatever you want,” Pete said, her voice now stiff and cold. “You’re the boss.”
Camille didn’t know or care how much time had passed when Pete returned. She hadn’t moved, though it felt like even more of her world had fallen away. Her tears had dried into a salty crust.
Pete placed something on the desk. “Honey, you shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach. Not when you’re like this. I got you some kind of a lamb stew and rice. Best I could do at this hour.”
“You get the vodka?”
“I shouldn’t have.”
Camille heard a glass bottle clink against the desk, but couldn’t identify the sound of what else Pete set down. She heard the click of a lighter and immediately shut her eyes.
“You can’t drink in the dark. I brought some candles.” Candles presumably lit, Pete kneaded Camille’s shoulders. “You want to talk?”
“Nothing to say.”
“Can I get you anything else? Water maybe?”
“No water, two shot glasses.”
Pete made some noise in the kitchenette, then put three glasses on the desk. “You’re getting water anyway.”
Camille heard Pete pour the vodka, then say, “What are we drinking to?”
“We’re not. Go.”
A few minutes after Pete left, Camille raised her head. Her neck was so stiff, she could barely move it. Everything ached, but she was too numb to care. She opened the desk drawer and reached inside. She pulled out another USP Tactical, a replacement courtesy of the Black Management armorer. She checked the magazine, then positioned it on the desk to her right.
The vodka was some Polish brand she didn’t recognize. She screwed off the top and filled the two shot glasses. Using a candle, she lit the vodka in one of the glasses. The blue flame flickered.
“This is for you, Hunter—for us,” she said out loud, holding up the second glass in a toast. As far as she was concerned, the Hunter Stone she had loved really was killed in action in Iraq two years ago. She downed the vodka in a single shot. “I loved you so much. We paid the ultimate price.” Her voice cracked. Reaching for the vodka to pour herself another shot, she glanced at the gun and decided to drink from the bottle instead. She pressed it against her lips. The alcohol burned her raw throat.
She watched the blue flames dance and thought about what had been. She remembered tracking one another in the Mark Twain National Forest, armed with paintball guns, but she could no longer feel the delight as they’d blasted away at one another. She recalled the times their martial arts sessions had gotten out of hand, turning into serious violence, then dissolving into tender lovemaking, but the passion wasn’t there anymore. She was but a voyeur. Pain had stripped away joy and the memories were now flavorless. Everything was a blue blur as tears welled in her eyes and dripped onto the manila file folder. She looked down at it, then grabbed for the vodka. The alcohol rush made her feel warm and calm.
Half of the shot had burned off. It was almost over. She reached over to the pistol and flicked the safety off, but kept her thumb on it, hesitating.
She was happiest when she was with him, but it wasn’t like she couldn’t be happy without him. Before he had resurfaced in May, she was moving on with her life, missing him, but moving on. She loved Hunter and it hurt like hell that he didn’t feel the same way, but she was a warrior.
A Warrior.
Warriors don’t quit.
She shoved the gun aside.
She sat there staring into the air for several minutes, then she opened the top folder and looked at a picture of Hunter. He really was Greek-god gorgeous. She turned the page and looked at the next one. Why wasn’t she the woman lying in his arms after that picnic?
Camille took a deep breath. The flame was nearly gone. She stared at the photo, wedging herself into Hunter’s arms in place of that bitch. The other woman kept butting in and she was left staring at a snapshot. Then she noticed the date in the print’s lower right-hand corner and squinted to be sure—May 11th of this year.
“Oh my god,” she whispered to herself. “May 11th—Granny’s funeral—he was with me.” Tears streamed down her face and her body shook as she wept. He loved her. He really did.
She leaned over and blew out the flame before it could extinguish itself.
Semper Fi, Hunter. Semper Fi.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Global Risk Strategies is a UK company which has developed an entrepreneurial edge to win lucrative military contracts from the US in Iraq. Where British or US ex-special forces soldiers can command more than £300 a day—sometimes a lot more—for their services, Global need only pay around £35 a day to its 1,300 force of otherwise unemployed Fijians and Gurkhas.
—The Guardian [Manchester], May 17, 2004
Camp Raven, The Green Zone, Baghdad
Camille tripped down the stairs of her trailer, shouting for Pete. She stumbled, but caught herself before she hit the ground. She heard the loud bam-boom of a rocket fire in the distance. A few moments later, Pete came running from her trailer.
“He loves me, Pete. He loves me.”
“Camille, sweet pea, you’re drunk.”
She put her arm around Camille and led her to a bench someone had constructed from shipping crates. The generators were so loud, she could barely hear the palm fronds rustling in the warm breeze. A crescent moon hung low in the sky.
“It’s a forgery,” Camille said, slurring her words and breathing through her mouth.
“Even the vet checked out. You’ve had too much to drink. You need to down some water and sleep for a while.”
“No.” Camille shook her head. “The dates are wrong. The pictures. They’re wrong. May eleventh.”
“Why don’t you let me help you take a shower and put you to bed?” Pete brushed the hair from Camille’s face. It was soaked from tears. “You poor thing. You’ve cried a lake.”
“He couldn’t have been with her. On May eleventh Granny Lusk was buried. No one knew he was there. No one but me.” Camille stifled a yawn.
“I know how badly you want to believe him, but you’re not making sense. You need to sleep. If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll take it and get some of our resident spooks to look over it and check it all out.”
“No. It’s a fake. Oh god, they’ve got him. We’ve got to get him away from Rubicon.”
“We don’t know where he is or even if he’s alive.”
“He’s alive. I know he is. They want him to talk. They can’t break him, but they won’t know that yet. That gives us time.” Camille stood, but Pete stayed on the bench. A mortar whistled in the distance. “What time is it?”
“Almost two.”
“Bars still open?” Camille swayed.
“You don’t need any more.”
“Are they open?”
“Yeah.”
“Get a dozen men down here immediately.”
“With all due respect, you’re drunk and heartbroken and you look like shit. And that’s coming from someone who thinks you’re one of the most stunning women she’s ever seen.” Pete stood and put her hand on Camille’s back, nudging her toward her trailer.
“Get the boys. That’s a fucking order.”
Pete’s square jaw was clenched. “Yes, ma’am. What do you want? Hunters? Pilots? Spies? Technicians?”
“I don’t care. Whoever’s up. Civilian dress is fine—no gear. I expect them in front of my trailer in ten minutes.” Camille weaved more than she liked as she walked away. She had ten minutes to sober up, p
rint some pictures and try to make herself look like a boss—one who, under the right circumstances, they would follow to their deaths.
As soon as Camille got back into the trailer, she flipped on the computer, grabbed a stack of twenties from petty cash and shoved them into the pocket of her running shorts. While waiting for the computer to boot up, she shoveled the rice and lamb stew into her mouth, barely chewing before swallowing. She would’ve preferred her favorite peanut M&Ms, but she didn’t have time to search for a bag.
The laptop was finally displaying the Windows desktop and the wallpaper was still the picture from three years ago that Hunter had taken at arms’ length of them laughing together, both splattered in Day-Glo fuchsia and orange paintball paint. She smiled this time as she remembered the high of that day. God, they had had so much fun.
She leaned over and clicked into a personal file and opened a more easily recognizable picture of Hunter. She set it to print two hundred copies, hoping to get as many as she could before time was up. On her way to the bathroom to clean up, she stopped to shovel in a few last mouthfuls of food and to guzzle as much water as she could stand. She had no doubt she really did look a wreck. A few splashes of cold water, a Black Management baseball cap and some sunglasses would have to do the trick. At least vodka didn’t taint her breath.
Iggy entered her trailer without knocking just as Camille was putting her hair into a pony tail and threading it through the back of a baseball cap. Papers were falling out of the printer tray. Then he noticed the candles, the empty bottle and the .45. He picked up the gun and flicked the safety back on.
“What’s going on, Cam? Pete told me you ordered her to muster my troops. She also told me you’re sauced.”
“I love you, Iggy, but no time.”
She snatched up the pile of papers from the printer. They all had Stone’s picture on it. She weaved toward the trailer door and Iggy grabbed her arm with his artificial hand.
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