3

DSS OPERATIONS CENTER, ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

It was 2:22 a.m. when the DSS watch officer took the call.

Not sure he had heard right, the officer asked the commander of the Joint Personnel Recovery Agency to repeat what he’d just said. When he realized the magnitude of what was unfolding, the officer spoke quickly. No, he hadn’t received any direct word of DSS agents operating on the Israel-Lebanon border on an advance trip for the SecState. Yes, he would certainly work to confirm the information while also alerting his superiors.

A moment later, he was barking orders to his colleagues to try to establish contact with Special Agents Ryker and Curtis and to wake up the director. Meanwhile, he picked up another line and speed-dialed the national security advisor at home.

Neither Marcus nor Kailea was in uniform.

They certainly were not wearing helmets, flak jackets, or combat gear of any kind. They were not military, after all. They were DSS agents. Typically they would be in suits. But this was not a protective detail. The secretary of state wasn’t arriving until the following day. This was an advance trip, so they were wearing street clothes.

Marcus wore black jeans and a black T-shirt, which was now soaked through. The heat thrown off by the three fires was unbearable, and between the smoke in his eyes and the sweat pouring off his forehead, it was becoming difficult to see. Mopping his soaked hair and beard, he reminded himself that at least he had the element of surprise.

Just then Marcus spotted two fighters coming around the corner. Reflexively switching from single shot to automatic, he opened fire. Two quick bursts and both men were down. Marcus charged forward around the back of the jeep, spotted another fighter, and unleashed two more bursts. This one, too, dropped to the ground. Marcus ejected the spent mag and reloaded as he continued his advance.

He swept his weapon from east to west but saw no one else. Then he heard an eruption of gunfire at the other end of the convoy.

Kailea was in trouble.

Marcus’s first thought was to come all the way around the burning convoy and race forward along its northern side. That would give him the best chance of ambushing the fighters from the rear. Yet he quickly rejected the idea. To leave the cover of the burning convoy was too great a risk, exposing him to any Hezbollah sniper who might be hiding in the supposedly abandoned homes on the other side of the ravine.

So Marcus reversed course and worked his way up the southern side of the convoy. Suddenly two fighters came racing through the gap between the first and second vehicles. Had Marcus been another ten feet forward, they would have blindsided him and shot him in the back. As it happened, he saw them first and opened fire. The first man died instantly. The second was hit at least once, possibly twice, in the right shoulder or upper chest. He staggered forward several steps, dropped his AK-47, kept moving several more steps, and then collapsed.

Marcus pivoted to his left, lest anyone else was coming through the gap. No one was there. He turned back to his right and found the man on the ground, covered in blood, writhing in pain. Marcus raised his weapon to finish him off but stopped himself.

The IDF was on the way. The Israelis would vastly prefer a live prisoner to another body to bury. And they, Marcus knew, could make this guy talk. In all probability, they’d get valuable intel out of him, then stash him away as leverage for some future prisoner exchange. Besides, the man was now unarmed. It would be murder—a war crime, no less—to kill him now.

Marcus kicked the weapon well out of the fighter’s reach and scanned in every direction for Kailea. He was surprised and worried not to find any sign of her. On instinct, he wheeled around to see if anyone was behind him. No one was. All was clear. Yet he still saw no sign of his partner. Where was she? He couldn’t call out for her. There were tangos out there, and the last thing he wanted to do was draw their attention. But what alternatives did he have? He couldn’t radio her. Their handhelds still were not working—most likely being jammed.

Marcus preferred to go look for Kailea, but he knew he could not leave the wounded Hezbollah fighter unattended. So he picked up the man’s rifle, popped out the magazine, and cleared the chamber of the additional round. Then he pointed the barrel of his M4 at the man’s face and shouted at him to remove his mask. Though shaking, the man did not comply. Realizing he likely didn’t speak English, Marcus motioned for him to remove the mask. Still there was no response.

Marcus was in no mood for games. He fired a single shot at the dirt, barely six inches from the man’s head. This certainly got his attention. Except it was not a man. When the hood finally came off, Marcus found himself staring into the stricken eyes of a boy no more than fifteen years old.