PROLOGUE

Bangkok, Thailand

Near Midnight

The juiced-up fight crowd smoked Marlboro cigarettes, guzzled Singha beer, and popped yaa baa, a mixture of methamphetamine and caffeine. The percussion from their stomping feet rolled through the backwater warehouse like thunder.

Cold air from industrial-grade air handlers pushed against the humidity and the infused odors of too many people in a tight space. A Chinese triad controlled the illegal mixed martial arts matches and its bookmaking; they knew that chilled and strung-out customers wagered more and lost more.

Before each match, people bet on a variety of outcomes: the first fighter to bleed, the first one to run, the first knockout or submission, even the probability of death. Nimble Thai women quoted odds, took bets, and paid winnings at the end of each match.

The audience roared their impatience for the main event; they came to see blood on the Tiger Cage floor. The noise reverberated from the arena, down a long hallway, and vibrated the doors to the fusty dressing rooms. Inside one room, Jackson Tiberius Wade sat on a sweat-stained teak table. He let the echoed clamor wash over him. He wore tight board shorts, no shirt, and no shoes. His skin glistened with sweat and rubbing oil.

Wade was the main event.

The Thais valued nicknames. They called Wade “the Monk.” His shaved head and face in combination with his height and muscular build evoked a cross between a Shaolin priest and an NFL strong safety. He fit his fight moniker—he lived a reclusive life; he existed for training and competition.

Scars dotted Wade’s face. His heterochromic eyes made men look away and women smile. His crooked nose and mangled ears from thousands of hours on the grappling mats and in the Muay Thai boxing rings suggested a man who was at home with pain.

Wade’s unconventional face attracted the Thai working-class women who hung on the arms of the expats. They called him sexy-ugly and cooed his nickname, elongating the “k” in Monk. They threw silk panties at him as he walked to the cage, hoping to get a reaction; they failed.

Wade traveled to Bangkok with his Muay Thai boxing instructor, Palat Boonliang. He wanted to test his martial arts skills on the brutal fight-club circuit and replenish his meager savings.

For a percentage of any winnings, Palat agreed to be Wade’s cornerman and manage his wagers. The Chinese triad paid each main-event fighter fifteen thousand baht per fight, but they permitted the participants to bet on themselves to win; Wade won. Twenty-two straight times, he entered the Tiger Cage and left his opponent shattered on the canvas floor. Soon, by Thai standards, he and Palat became wealthy men.

Wade moved to a straw mat on the cement floor and did a series of wrestling and jujitsu stretches. He did not expect to be on the ground, but if the impossible happened, he had to be ready.

A light tap sounded at the door.

“Enter,” said Palat.

A squat, Thai woman waiied, the traditional Thai greeting of a slight bow with the palms pressed together in a prayer position. Palat returned the greeting. The woman helped Wade stretch his back, shoulders, quadriceps, and hamstrings and then bowed and left.

Wade returned to the table, and Palat spread T iger Balm on Wade’s shins. He forced the ointment into the blue veins and scar tissue caused by the constant kicking in Muay Thai boxing training.

Palat taped Wade’s little toes to the next toes and wrapped his hands with a combination of tape and gauze. Amateurs fought bare-fisted, and the Tiger Cage ate beginners alive.

Palat liked to practice his English. “How many bones, hand?”

Wade corrected him. “How many bones ‘are in the hand.’”

“I say this.”

“Sure, you did.”

“Answer.”

“The human hand consists of twenty-seven bones. Fourteen phalanges, five metacarpals, and eight carpals.”

“If bones break, what happen?”

Wade let Palat’s English slide. “They never heal.”

“How you know this?”

Wade pointed at Palat’s disfigured hands. Palat had won the last of his six Muay Thai Boxing Championships with both hands broken. He believed his nickname of “Stone Hands.” He was wrong; he never fought again.

Palat grunted. “Use elbows, forearms, knees, and shins. Save hands for body and grabbing.”

“Yes, Master.”

“No, not master. I business partner.”

Palat guided open-fingered gloves with gel-like material for added protection of Wade’s knuckles over the taped hands.

“Make fist,” Palat said. “How feel?”

Wade flexed his fingers. “Fine.”

“Concentrate tonight or lose bet.”

“What are the odds?”

“We get ten to one if he lasts less than minute and you drop with one blow.”

“How much did we bet?”

“One hundred thousand baht.”

“Easy peasy.”

“What is peasy?”

“Never mind. Is he a chump?”

“No. Chump. Yakuza. Win ten straight fights. Iron lifter. Strong. Have skinny legs.”

The blood sport attracted misfit and psychopathic combatants with tattoos, thick necks, battered faces, and cauliflower ears.

“What kind of punch?”

“Twisting elbow strike.”

“If he’s a grabber, that’s risky.”

“Easy peasy.”

Wade smiled.

“You need sweat more,” Palat said as he put on forearm pads, shin guards, a belly pad, and a pair of Mantis mitts to catch the punches.

Wade moved the smaller man around the room, rotating punches, knees, elbows, and kicks for two minutes. Pop, pop, pop, thwack, thwack, thwack, pop, pop, thwack!

Palat switched positions like a well-oiled machine. Wade’s sweat spattered Palat’s gear.

“Enough,” said Palat.

He toweled off Wade and placed an orange silk robe around Wade’s shoulders. “Keep on, till bell. Let yakuza get cold.”

Visuals flickered through Wade’s mind like a silent film. His eidetic memory kicked into gear, and he stepped back in time and place to embrace the noise of eighteen thousand screaming wrestling fans at Madison Square Garden. College wrestling immortality called his name. An impulse came, and he acted on it. His decision shocked the amateur wrestling world and changed his life forever.

A month later, he arrived in Brazil to study the Gracie style of jujitsu. He learned that his grappling skills meant nothing; too many Brazilian men turned his joints into jelly.

A year later, after thousands of hours of mat time in the martial arts dojos and small gyms of the Rio jujitsu subculture, he left Brazil with a firm grasp of Portuguese and the ability to roll on the ground with anyone in the world. He wanted more.

He flew to Thailand, traveled north, and found a Muay Thai boxing school near Chiang Mai that accepted farangs, white foreigners.

Wade lived and trained 24/7 in a prison-camp environment under the supervision of Palat. In a few months, he spoke perfect Thai, and in thirteen more months, he learned to strike, kick, and clinch with the best of them.

A voice outside the dressing room door said, “It is time.”

Wade shut down the memories, rolled his neck, sipped a small amount of water, and spat in a slop bucket. Palat rubbed Vaseline on Wade’s face, and they stepped into the hallway.

Five Thai men, all Palat’s relatives, waited. Each carried a small wooden baton; they acted as Wade’s security. On occasion, after a quick win, Wade and his protectors had to fight their way through a pissed-off crowd to the safety of the locker rooms.

Wade waiied to each man, and each man returned the bow. They wished him victory and meant it; they’d bet on Wade.

Wade trailed Palat and his security entourage. As they climbed a slight ramp, Wade exhaled short breaths and looked straight ahead. The arena noise accelerated in tempo and tenor as they entered the circus environment. “Eye of the Tiger” blared out over the sound system, and the odor from five hundred hyped-up bodies suffused Wade’s pores.

Lights bathed the arena. The Tiger Cage mirrored the UFC’s Octagon. The cage’s chain-link wire walls were coated with black vinyl and stood eight feet tall on a teak platform four feet off the cement floor. The cage’s mat was thin and black and slick with sweat and blood from the previous matches.

The cage offered two gates opposite each other. A thin-gauge wire encased the entire enclosure; it kept out the solids. The excitable Thais showed their displeasure by throwing beer bottles and burning cigarettes at the contestants.

Insults, praise, and silk panties rained on Wade. The cooing of “Monkkkkkk” from a hundred women filled the area. Wade’s indifference fueled their excitement. Individuals tried to touch him, but Palat’s relatives persuaded them to step back with their batons. He stepped through the nearest gate and squatted in his corner like a Thai waiting for a bus and absorbed the stench and sounds of the arena.

Wade watched and listened to three Cambodian men as they scrubbed at the fence and mopped the mat. They spoke in a Northern Khmer dialect and insulted the fight crowd and the fighters. Wade knew the language; he had learned it while attending Palat’s training camp.

His uncommon gift for dialects enabled him to mimic the pronunciation of a heard word immediately. If he read or overheard a word, it stayed with him forever. He was fluent in too many languages to count.

He told the cleaners to bet on him to win in the first minute. Reddish-black teeth, caused by chewing betel leaf, smiled back at him.

As the cage cleared, Palat said, “Concentrate.”

Wade turned his attention to the 250 pounds of Wagyu beef entering from the opposite side. Snake and dragon tattoos covered the yakuza’s body. The man pranced and preened like a Japanese Hulk Hogan. The crowd roared their approval.

Wade stood and blocked out the crowd noise. He tensed and relaxed his muscles; he started with his feet and worked up to his neck. He touched his chin to his chest, rolled his neck, and snapped out a few jabs. The crowd went nuts with each punch.

As they often did before a fight, Wade’s thoughts turned to his mother. He emailed her once a week and gave a sanitized travelogue on his training and life in Thailand. He never talked about his fights.

His mother never judged him or asked why he did what he did. She provided unconditional love. When he left for Brazil, she hugged him and said, “Remember, my son, your choices define you. Make yourself proud and ignore what others think.”

She is so right.

After tonight’s fight, he intended to choose a new path. He planned to return to the United States and enlist in the US Army, as his father had done thirty years ago. The US invasion of Afghanistan had triggered a dormant level of patriotism; he was a modern-day rōnin, looking for a master.

The rising crowd noise snapped him back to the here and now. In the Tiger Cage, no referee separated or counted out the fighters. The men fought to the end. One rule reigned: no foreign objects or substances on the gloves or between the fingers or toes. Two opponents in Wade’s previous fights broke the rules. Wade crushed the hands of one man and fractured the feet of the other; word got around.

The match started with a bell clang and ended with an unconscious fighter. Some contestants ran or crawled for their lives. He stared at his opponent’s feet. Long toenails sliced like razor blades.

Short nails.

The glowing twenty-four-hour digital clock clicked toward midnight.

The crowd chanted, “Five, four, three, two, one.”

Palat removed Wade’s robe and whispered, “You are a tiger. He pig with skinny legs. Don’t let grab. Kick skinny legs fast. Set up elbow.”

Wade nodded.

“No lazy. I want see perfect form.”

The clock showed 00:00:00, and the bell clanged. Wade charged across the mat and struck with a leaping hammer fist that bounced off the yakuza’s left ear. The yakuza telegraphed a straight right hand, and Wade sidestepped the punch and drove his shinbone into the yakuza’s left thigh. Whap, whap.

The yakuza stumbled and grabbed Wade’s right arm. Wade stepped forward and slammed the point of his left elbow into the man’s right pectoral. The yakuza grunted and released Wade’s arm.

In the dah-dump of a heartbeat, Wade torqued his shoulders to the left, turning his back to the yakuza for a split second before he exploded back to his right, slamming his elbow into his opponent’s head. The iron pusher dropped as if hit by an ax handle.

The digital clock clicked to 00:00:41. The crowd screamed, and bottles and debris splattered against the wire mesh. Wade stepped over the twitching yakuza; liquids dripped off his face.

As Wade passed Palat, the old champion said, “Good form.”

 

CHAPTER 1

Ten Years Later

Quetta, Pakistan

“They’re onto us,” she said in Pashto, staring in her side mirror of their Toyota.

Her driver glanced in the rearview mirror and said in Pashto, “I know, a couple of beat-up Nissans.”

The driver dodged an overloaded truck and leaned on the horn.

She said, “Are we in trouble?”

“Yes.”

“Options?”

“Few.”

The simple exchanges helped hide her anxiety.

She said, “The American consulate is off-limits. We are not here. Do you understand?”

He said in unaccented English, “I understand. Your Pashto is quite good.”

She glared at him. For the past ten days, they knew each other by code names. He was Patman; she was Starbuck. His name meant a man of honor in Pashto; hers was a science-fiction character. She knew he thought her code name comical.

“You speak fucking English?”

Each morning, he had picked her up near her safe house, guarded her while she toured the Afghan section of Quetta, and then dropped her off; he never spoke English. Until that moment, she thought him an Afghan Pashtun hired as a CIA bodyguard and translator. He excelled at both. His physical presence made other men step aside, and he moved from Pashto to Dari to Urdu without missing a beat.

She had walked two steps behind him in a full burqa through the Afghan quarter of Quetta. She talked to him through a throat microphone behind her veil. Patman used an earbud hidden by his shaggy hair and a throat mic under his beard.

They followed a simple routine. Patman guided her on a predetermined route around a known Taliban sanctuary called the Blue Madrassa. She took video by way of camera glasses that she wore behind the lattice slit in her veil and stored on a micro hard drive on her hip.

He dodged a dog and said, “One’s mother tongue is best in situations.”

“Situations?”

“When you’re about to be taken or killed.”

Relax. You knew the risks. You’re ready.

She said, “Are they Pakistani Intelligence?”

“Yes. I saw the assholes around the Blue Madrassa.”

“You should have warned me.”

“You don’t take suggestions well.”

He’s right. Stupid!

Her guardian shifted his gaze to the rearview mirror; she trusted him to get them out of the “situation.”

He said, “Listen to me.”

“I’m listening.”

“They’ll try to stop us. I count five men. Three in the lead car and two in the second.”

He moved the vehicle through the traffic and dodged a man crossing the street.

She said, “You like driving in this shithole.” She knew she was babbling. Get a grip.

He ignored her comment. “Have you killed someone in a close-in gunfight?”

“I haven’t killed anyone at any time, and I’ve never been in a shootout, close in or otherwise. I did want to shoot my cheating ex-husband. Does that count?”

“Tell it to your shrink.”

“You?”

“You what?”

“Have you killed someone in a close-in gunfight?”

“Too many to count.”

“Impressive.”

“I’m a soldier. It comes with the territory.”

“You’re a Navy SEAL?”

“Piss off.”

She laughed. She wanted him to take charge. Protection was his domain. He swerved around a truck, honked, and dodged a donkey cart. The Nissans followed, blowing their horns.

He said, “Tighten your seat belt and turn off our airbags. It’s that button on the dash. Turn it to the right.”

“Done.”

“Check your Glock and crank one in the chamber. Take mine and do the same.”

She chambered a 9mm round. She reached across and slid the Glock 21 out of his shoulder harness and cranked a .45-cal round into the chamber and returned it.

He said, “Did you transmit your video?”

Shit.

She downloaded the data from the micro hard drive into her secure satellite phone and pressed send.

“Done.”

“Call ‘Control’ and tell them we are Code Six.”

Code Six meant they were about to be killed or taken.

She called. A man answered, “Identity.”

She put the call on the phone’s speaker.

She said, “Zebra, Echo, Charlie, six hundred, inside baseball.”

The man said, “The square root of X?”

“Two.”

“Confirmed.”

“We are Code Six.”

The man said, “Hold.”

In five seconds, the man said, “Force is authorized. Confirm.”

“Confirmed.”

She hung up and gripped her Glock in her lap. “You heard?”

“They’re worried about the equipment in the car, not us.”

The mockery in his voice made her laugh again, a nervous tickle in her throat. They might be killed or captured, and he made wisecracks.

He continued, “Get ready. Pull off your burqa; you’ll move better. Put on your headscarf and cover your face. There could be traffic cameras, and our pictures might be on CNN and the Pakistani networks.”

She did as he asked.

Driving with one hand, he wrapped a scarf around the lower portion of his face. “When they try to stop us, brace yourself. I’ll ram the blocking car. With luck, they won’t be wearing seat belts. Those cheap Nissans don’t have airbags.”

How does he know that?

“Got it?”

She nodded.

“Say it.”

“I got it.”

“You’ll clear the rammed car. I’ll take the trailing car. You’ve been trained for this. You must kill everybody in the first car. If they survive the crash, they’ll come out firing. Keep calm. They’re nervous rascals and poor shots. Tell me what you will do.”

“I’ll clear the rammed car and kill everybody.”

“Right. Don’t think. If you do, you’ll freeze and die. Let your training take over. If they call for reinforcements, we’re done.”

“I understand.”

“You do know how to fire your Glock?”

“I qualified expert.”

“That will do. If the agents try to run, what will you do?”

“Kill ’em.”

“Right answer. This is critical. We escape and evade together, or we die together. Got it?”

She said, “I got it.”

“I’m serious. Don’t think about surrendering. If these assholes take you alive, terrible things will happen.”

She nodded.

He said, “Say it.”

“I got it.”

She knew what the Pakistanis would do to a covert CIA operative who killed or tried to kill a Pakistani intelligence agent; it wouldn’t be pretty.

Traffic congestion caused them to slow.

She said, “I’ve enjoyed teaming with you.”

“Shit, Starbuck, I’m your Captain Apollo.”

He never called her by her code name. It made her smile.

Starbuck and Apollo.

It happened as he predicted. The closest Nissan passed them and slid crossways to block the street.

“Brace yourself,” he said as he accelerated and struck the Nissan. The weight of the Toyota’s reinforced front bumper crushed the Nissan’s passenger doors.

She exited the car and moved to the front of the rammed Nissan. The man in the front passenger seat appeared unconscious. The driver’s face was a mask of blood. He tried to bring his pistol to bear. She shot him through the front windshield.

Pop, pop.

A man burst from the driver’s side back door, fired two wild shots, and started to run. She shot him twice in the back at ten yards. She got close and put a 9mm round in the back of his head.

She heard a series of pops and turned to look for Patman. She felt a bump and burn on her right hip. She shifted her eyes to the rammed Nissan. The previously unconscious passenger fired at her. It missed.

I should have shot him, unconscious or not.

Pop, pop.

The passenger’s head exploded. She shifted her eyes back to Patman. He stood in front of the crumpled Nissan, his arm extended. He lowered his weapon and motioned her toward their Toyota.

Thank you.

Pandemonium reigned. People yelled and screamed, horns honked, and dogs barked as adrenaline and excitement surged through her system.

A real fucking gunfight.

She ran toward their auto and slid into the passenger seat.

He gunned the engine and accelerated. Starbuck hoped the traffic guards would resist being heroes; she was tired of killing.

They took a hard left, and the pain in her right buttock increased. She pulled down her blood-soaked trousers. “I’m hit.”

“Where?”

She rose out of the seat and probed her right hip. “There’s a groove in my right cheek.”

“This I gotta see.”

“You wish.”

 

CHAPTER 2

A Hundred Miles Away

Eastern Afghanistan Desert

Ali squatted in the shade of a stack of mica-encrusted rock slabs. He surveyed the scrub grass that extended the length of a soccer field before it turned to rock and funneled into a narrow trail. If he wanted to use the western exit of the plateau, he needed to drive the flock of sheep across the field and down the path; that worried him.

We should have gone back the way we came.

At Ali’s thought, a grayish Kuchi spay stepped from behind the slabs and brushed against him. The burly canine weighed in at forty kilos and stood two-thirds of a meter at the shoulder. Kuchi spays were known for their independence, fearlessness, and vigilance at guarding livestock and took their name from Ali’s nomadic tribe, the Kuchis.

The outsize dog growled and showed his teeth. The sounds made Ali smile.

He is worried.

Ali stood and kept his hand on the dog’s neck. “I see that you agree.”

Sometimes Ali and the Kuchi dog communicated without words, gestures, or sounds, even though the Kuchi dog responded to a hundred Pashto words, a dozen hand gestures, and many whistle commands. Unknown forces bound them together like twins.

At sixteen, Ali was the youngest of five brothers. His nomadic clan lived a simple life. They chased the seasons across the eastern Afghanistan desert to the hills and mountain valleys of Pakistan. Ali’s family owned a large sheep and goat herd. Ali and the Kuchi dog protected the flock against men or beasts.

Ali turned his attention back to the field.

It will be dark soon.

He whistled, made a hand gesture, and said, “Seek.”

The Kuchi dog walked toward the scrub grass and paced along an invisible line. He snuffled a few inches above the ground. He made no effort to advance into the meadow. The Kuchi dog returned to Ali, sat, and growled again. Ali knew the sound.

I was right.

Ali’s grandfather was mujahideen; he fought the Russians and used that experience to instruct Ali to recognize and disarm the long-forgotten Russian mines and Taliban bombs, or IEDs as the Americans called them.

Ali had taught the Kuchi dog to identify the scent of explosives. The great dog’s sense of smell had saved them and the flock more than once.

The Kuchi dog leaned against Ali’s hip, causing him to step sideways. Ali reached and scratched the big dog’s ear stumps. He felt the Kuchi dog’s pleasure. Ali’s family cropped the ears and tails of their spays to prevent other spays and predators from grabbing them.

Ali’s Kuchi spay was one in a thousand. On rare occasions, one of the clan’s female Kuchi spays went to the hills and mated with a mountain wolf. Sometimes, one of the sired pups was thought to have mystical powers; Ali’s Kuchi spay was such a dog.

Ali’s father had said, “This male is worth his weight in gold; he selects his master, and he picks you. Listen to him and talk to him; he will keep you safe.”

I cannot lose a sheep.

For the third time, the Kuchi dog growled.

He reads my mind.

Ali slipped the Kuchi dog a chunk of cured sheep meat. The big dog gulped it whole, licked his shearing teeth, and demanded more with a look. Although loyal and protective of Ali, the Kuchi dog often challenged Ali’s position as the alpha male. Ali knew that the Kuchi dog was an alpha in his own right.

Ali reestablished his dominance with a firm voice. “Chew it a few times—it will last longer.”

The Kuchi dog snorted. Ali sensed the dog’s disappointment and rubbed the big dog’s ears again. He loved the Kuchi dog like no other being. When the Kuchi dog got sick or injured, which was rare, Ali cared for him like a brother.

He never even gets fleas or ticks. I have fleas and ticks.

Three sheep wandered near the invisible line. Without instruction, the Kuchi dog left Ali’s side and drove the straying animals back to the grazing herd. The flock obeyed, fearing their protector.

When younger, the Kuchi dog had killed a few lambs with rough play. Over time, he accepted his role as a guardian. Ali wondered if the Kuchi dog would protect the flock if he were dead.

His wolf blood will take charge.

Ali turned and surveyed the field. He had practiced the mechanics of disarming mines and IEDs but had never tried it alone. Ali stared into the Kuchi dog’s mismatched eyes. A steady, all-knowing gaze returned his look.

“Stay with the woolies.” A hand movement reinforced his verbal command. The Kuchi dog stared up at him.

He smells fear.

Ali moved forward and squatted. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Five meters in, he found some disturbed dirt. He blew on the ground, revealing a corroded Russian land mine the size of his hand. He placed rocks around it and crawled right and found another. He crawled left and found another.

Minefield. Too many.

He stood and reversed his direction. Fear rushed along his spine to his legs. He forced his feet to take small steps. He saw the Kuchi dog stand and step toward him. Ali whistled, made a hand movement, and said, “Go back.”

^^^ ^^^ ^^^

The Kuchi dog halted. He had smelled the menace in the ground and the alpha’s fear. He stepped forward. He heard the mouth-sound, wheeeeeet, and saw the “go back” hand signal. He hesitated and growled his disapproval. He obeyed; they were pack, and the man-called-Ali was alpha. He stepped back, paused, and stopped. His eyes never left the pack leader. He felt the alpha’s fear grow.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

The concussion from the explosions slammed the Kuchi dog to the ground. Dirt, rocks, and dust struck him. He howled and snapped at the air. His ears rung. His eyes stung. His hackles rose as he regained his feet, ready to fight.

He saw no enemy and shook the debris from his coat. He snorted out the dust and pawed at his face. He rocked his head until the ringing noise in his ears ceased.

The woolies mewed, bellowed, and scattered. A mixture of dust, man blood, and smoke filled the air. The Kuchi dog stepped toward the alpha’s body, waiting for instructions; there was no mind-talk, no mouth-sounds, no hand signals, and the man-called-Ali’s smell changed. The Kuchi dog growled. There was no response.

The light and heat arrived. The woolies regathered, mewed, and fed. The Kuchi dog waited. He left the alpha’s side and found the pack leader’s water skin and dry, wooly meat. He drank and ate in the shade of the rocks and watched. On occasion, he rose to scatter the sky creatures that came to peck and feed.

As the darkness started, the smell of the pack leader changed. The Kuchi dog knew the alpha would never give commands again. He back-kicked dirt and sand on the body.

He gathered and drove the woolies across the meadow to the narrow trail, down to the desert floor, and toward the pack leader’s camp. When the barking from his tribe sounded, he drove the woolies forward and trotted in the opposite direction.

He was alpha now and alone.

. . .