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salesman’s eclectic collection. He wondered how many pockets the man had under his billowy robe.
    As they cruised along, Andy’s mind wandered back to the last time he’d been in-country. Then he’d been part of a beefed up convoy of Marine light armored vehicles (LAVs) who’d offered to give him and his squad leader a lift to Kandahar. There’d been no one to stop them. Hell, they’d even had gunships and drones providing overwatch as they moved. No such protection this time. Now it was Andy, Isnard, Latif, and his complement of some forty employees. Most looked to be no more than fifteen, but every one came armed and grim faced.
    The number of weapons did little to settle Andy’s nerves. They were still in the middle of Afghanistan being pursued by a force that could easily overwhelm the ragtag convoy.
    “This remind you of playing cowboys and indians as a kid?” Isnard asked over the heavy revving of their vehicle’s engine.
    “Feels more like General Custer’s last stand. Circle the wagons, right?”
    Isnard laughed. “Hey, man, if I’m going out, I’m going out shooting. But I’m not a proud bastard like Custer. I know when to duck and run.”
    That much Andy knew. While Isnard did, on the surface, look like a reckless operator, the guy was much more than most people probably realized. He was a survivor, a winner. It was what made him such a good spook. He was always analyzing the situation behind those bored eyes, tearing plans apart and rebuilding on the fly. Much like Cal Stokes, Rich Isnard inspired confidence in his men. It was probably the only reason Andy had made the decision to leave his post at 8 th & I. Well, that and a bit of adventure. The life of a newly minted Marine major was more paper-pusher than behind-the-lines operator. It was why so many of his peers left the Corps after their first tour as captains. Going from company commander to desk jockey didn’t sit well with hard-charging grunts.
    Isnard nudged Andy and pointed to the road ahead.
    “Another checkpoint.”
    “This one looks bigger,” said Andy, noticing the presence of high powered lights blazing in the night. Different than the last three posts that had had not much more than a rusty streetlight and a couple guys with flashlights.
    The convoy slowed as it approached, the screech of brakes bringing them to a stuttering stop.
    Andy’s heart beat a little faster as he squinted through the spotlights and saw what lay within the checkpoint perimeter. Instead of a collection of dented Afghan police and military vehicles, he saw the familiar outlines of humvees and armored SUVs.
    Andy watched as Latif walked out in front of his caravan and approached the cluster of guards. They seemed casual enough, all smoking cigarettes, weapons slung over their shoulders. Latif kept his distance, talking and gesturing with his hands like the good salesman he was. This time no money or goods were exchanged.
    A minute later, Latif walked up to the passenger side door of their truck.
    “They want us all out of the trucks. Inspection.” His face seemed placid, but something in his eyes rang alarm bells in Andy’s head. “Come. Help me tell the others.”
    Isnard and Andy climbed down and followed the Afghan as he went from truck to truck instructing his men to turn off their engines and step to the side of the road. Once they’d made it to the final vehicle, Latif went around the back of the last canvas-flapped truck bed. The Marines followed.
    “They are looking for two Americans. They say the men are criminals, possibly terrorists trying to destroy our country. There is even a reward for their capture.”
    No accusation in his tone or in his gaze. More like a flash of amusement. Andy could tell that this man lived for adventure.
    “We are Americans,” said Isnard.
    “Are you the men they are looking for?”
    “What if we are?”
    Latif gave a slight shrug, leaning against the back of the truck. “It could be that we have more in