Cold Barrel Zero (28 page)

She was old and seemed harmless. Treating her as the threat she was would only embarrass her interrogators. They were always men. In time, they would grow complacent. There were ways out. A prisoner swap, perhaps, or one of the American Congress's periodic retreats into isolationism and penny-pinching. She was a patient woman, and Americans were a forgetful people. They didn't like to think about the darkness in the world.

Through it all, one thought gave her strength. Among all the lies, there was one truth that mattered. She had found her son. Caro had grown into a great fighter. And she had been able to tell him the truth of where he came from, and who she was, and why she had done it all. And they were able to use his curse—the blue eyes of the infidel—as a weapon. In the end he understood everything, and that was enough. The Americans could never take that from her.

Hayes heard the growl of engines in the streets, and through the window he saw the militiamen arrive. Two Toyota Hilux trucks sped toward the villa, .50 cals mounted on their beds.

He lifted his radio and called the quick reaction team. “How we doing?”

He checked his watch, took a C-4 charge, and went to the landing. He primed it for six seconds, then threw it toward the front door. He ran back into the office and began pulling hard drives and files and dumping all the intelligence he could grab into trash bags.

The charge blew. The wreckage at the front door would hold off the militants for a few more minutes at least.

He threw Nazar over his shoulder and stepped through the French doors leading to the terrace. It looked out on a courtyard and, beyond that, the Mediterranean. Gunfire popped in the streets below. The Little Bird helicopter started as a speck in the sky, chugging toward him, its rotors growing louder. There was nowhere to land, so the pilot nosed down until one skid rested on the terrace railing. Hayes threw the garbage bags through the door.

Inside were six operators, kitted out for a raid.

“Sorry, guys,” he shouted above the rotor wash. “It's over. I just need a lift out.”

He looked inside the bird. Typical. It was full up. Everyone wanted in on the action. There was nowhere for him to sit. They took Nazar, and Hayes planted his ass on the narrow pod above the skid as the helicopter rose, spun, and took off for the last red glow of sunset streaking over the desert.

A hand reached out and tapped him on the shoulder. The medic handed down a four-by-four square of gauze and pointed to Hayes's neck.

Hayes touched it, felt the blood. The big guard must have gotten a touch in with the knife. He'd barely noticed with all the adrenaline. He pressed the gauze down, let his rifle fall to the end of its sling, and watched the bombed-out city flash by underneath his boots.

He remembered what Lauren had whispered just before he left.

Finish this. Then come back to me, John. This is where you belong.

He was going home.

My wife, Heather, joined me on countless brainstorming walks as this novel developed and always steered me right. My family patiently acted as a sounding board as I untangled the plot. Shawn Coyne, my agent, provided invaluable help editorially and professionally as I struck out in a new direction. He is a story guru, business sage, and great guy.

Hachette Book Group and Little, Brown and Company are publishers of exceptional talent and principle, and I have the good fortune to remain part of their family as I join the ace team at Mulholland Books.

My editor, Wes Miller, brings an extraordinary level of care and insight to his craft and vastly improved the manuscript. Hachette Book Group is full of great people, and I am indebted to all of them, but I would particularly like to thank Reagan Arthur, Michael Pietsch, Pamela Brown, Joshua Kendall, Lauren Harms, Nicole Dewey, Heather Fain, and Sabrina Callahan.

Dr. Drew Wilkis and Dr. Steven Davis helped me with the trauma scenes and procedures. Tracy Roe is a superb copyeditor
and
a physician. She saved the day with her artful edits and medical expertise.

I couldn't have written a book about war without getting to know the subject through the work of correspondents I have long looked up to: Mark Bowden, William Langewiesche, Jeffrey Goldberg, James Bennet, Sean Naylor, Jon Lee Anderson, George Packer, Dexter Filkins, Robert Young Pelton, Spencer Ackerman, Mark Kukis, and Graeme Wood. I am especially grateful to the last three for their help with this novel and their friendship over the years.

Dozens of books and other resources were consulted in my research, but a few were particularly indispensable:
Delta Force,
by Charlie A. Beckwith;
The Mission, the Men, and Me,
by Pete Blaber;
Black Hawk Down,
by Mark Bowden;
The Command,
by Marc Ambinder and D. B. Grady;
Locks, Safes and Security,
by Marc Weber Tobias; and
Not a Good Day to Die,
by Sean Naylor.

 I sought to be as realistic as possible for a thriller. The Special Operations folks I talked to reminded me that my first task was to tell a good story, so I have taken liberties to that end.

Thanks to Kevin Reeve and everyone at OnPoint Tactical, a company that provides survival, evasion, resistance, and escape training to elite military units and civilians alike, for kidnapping me and chasing me through Los Angeles. Deviant Ollam, Chris Gates, and Matt Fiddler advised on technical security matters. David Swinson, a former special investigations and major crimes detective with the Metropolitan Police Department of Washington, DC (as well as a terrific author with Mulholland Books), helped with law-enforcement questions. Abraham Sutherland, who spent three years with the State Department in Kunar Province, Afghanistan, brought that dangerous world to life for me.

Roger Pardo-Maurer, former deputy assistant secretary of defense and Special Forces veteran of Iraq and Afghanistan, was a continual source of inspiration, good sense, and laughs. Lieutenant Colonel James R. Hannibal, a former stealth bomber and predator UAV pilot (and a first-rate military-thriller writer), kindly guided me on drone details. Don Shipley, a retired Navy SEAL senior chief, very generously answered my questions about combat diving missions, and army captain Cornell Riley took the time to review the manuscript and saved me from many errors. And to the others who will go unnamed here: thank you.

It has been an honor to hear the stories of all those who serve and all those who put themselves in harm's way. I am in awe of and profoundly grateful for the work they do and the sacrifices they make.

Matthew Quirk studied history and literature at Harvard College. After graduation, he joined the
Atlantic
and spent five years at the magazine reporting on a variety of subjects, including crime, private military contractors, terrorism prosecutions, and international gangs. Quirk's bestselling first novel,
The 500,
is currently in development as a major motion picture. He lives in California.

The 500

The Directive

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