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that now he had to find a way to get them out.
    â€œWell, shit,” he said grimly. “Someone get Anderson on the phone. Tell him I need an extraction team in the air in ten minutes, and get a fucking satellite diverted.”
    â€œAlready done, sir. It should be coming online right about now,” a man said, pointing up to the screen just as another feed appeared.
    The general put the empty Styrofoam cup on the edge of the table and reached into his pocket for an unopened can of dip. He used his thumbnail to pierce the thin paper that separated the lid from the can and said, “Find Boland.”
    Â Â â€¢Â Â â€¢Â Â â€¢Â Â 
    The Reaper Brantley had “borrowed” from the CIA banked to the left, and the operator panned out with the powerful camera.
    â€œGot him,” an NCO—or noncommissioned officer—said, pointing out the light-blue Toyota Corolla that was pulling up to the objective.
    Vann lifted the gold lid off the can of Copenhagen Long Cut, and used his fingers to pinch the dark tobacco together. It burned against his lip, and the nicotine coursing through his body was tinged with guilt.
    â€œWhat do you think?” he asked Brantley, never taking his eyes off the two men who got out of the car and jogged toward the building.
    â€œDepends on what you want, sir.”
    Besides Vann and Captain Brantley, the only other people who knew the real reason they had launched the mission were SecDef Cage and National Security Advisor Simmons. Like many others who’d served with Cage, Vann considered him the only man still dedicated to purifying America’s honor after the shame of Iraq, and he would do whatever was necessary to insure that he carried out his boss’s mandates.
    â€œI want to clean up Boland’s mess and get on with the plan,” he said honestly.
    â€œWell, then, I think you know what to do.”
    â€œStriker has activated his beacon,” one of the men said as Boland disappeared into the building.
    â€œHow could Boland have been so reckless?” Vann asked, knowing the answer already.
    â€œEveryone has a breaking point, sir.”
    The easiest thing for the general to do was call in a flight of F-18 Super Hornet combat jets and level the building. If Khalid al Hamas was really in there, he could end half of his problems with one strike—but there was just no way of knowing until Boland did his part.
    Vann had a special hatred for the Iranian operative, and for spies in general. The fact that Khalid had strong ties to al Nusra and al Qaeda made him a very attractive notch for his war belt. He itched to give the word to fire. And if the American died, well, so be it.

CHAPTER 12
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    O peration Save Boland was under way as Mason stepped cautiously out into the street. He was hurrying to cover when a yell drew his attention to the end of the block. A group of fighters emerged from the shattered doorway of a building, firing as they caught sight of the American. Mason ducked below the rounds that splintered into the wall and brought the Kalashnikov up to his shoulders and fired.
    The Russian assault rifle wasn’t as accurate as the HK he liked to carry, but at close range, it was much more effective. The heavy 7.62 round smacked his target with enough force to knock him off his feet, and Mason smoothly transitioned over to a fighter lining up on him with his RPG.
    The jihadist managed to squeeze the trigger a split second before Mason fired, and the rocket-propelled grenade screamed over Mason’s head before detonating in a cloud of black smoke.
    The heavily damaged buildings and rubble-strewn streets were a nightmare of tight spaces and improvised cover, and the enemy knew how to use it to its advantage. Mason knew that if he and Zeus were pinned down, they would die in the street. He ducked under the flying debris and shouted, “Zeus, we gotta move.”
    Bent double, the Libyan ran to an adjacent