I kept telling myself, You’re Captain Scott Mitchell, D Company, First Battalion, Fifth Special Forces Group. This does not happen to you.

My emotions flew in chaotic orbits. One second I was furious, wanting to curse and scream and shove my way out of the car. The next moment I was scared out of my mind, picturing myself hanging inverted from a rope and being tortured in ways both medieval and merciless.

We drove, with Treehorn in the seat next to me. He kept trying to talk, but our captors shouted for him to be quiet. They knew a little English. I assumed they wouldn’t answer our questions, so there was no reason to talk until we arrived at wherever we were going.

I took only small comfort in the fact that Gordon could still locate Treehorn and me via the signals from our Green Force Tracker Chips (unless, of course, we were taken to a cave or the chips were removed from our bodies). And yes, I had assumed we were being captured by the Taliban—initially, at least. As the car ride continued, I began counting off the seconds and trying to estimate how far they were taking us from the village.

I tried to make myself feel better by concocting some elaborate scheme that involved Bronco and his CIA buddies capturing us for some reason—maybe to threaten us or force a conversation, something. Bronco did wield some power in the village, having longstanding relationships with all the players, so I wouldn’t have put it past him to engage in a little payback and some threats. He could have paid off some local guys to pick us up and deliver us to him.

The road grew very rough, jostling us in the seats, and the driver directly in front of me began arguing with the passenger. I focused on the conversation, tried my best to ferret out the words, but they always spoke so rapidly that my hearing turned into a skipping CD, just . . . getting . . . a word . . . here . . . there . . .

“Boss, I’m a little worried,” said Treehorn.

“I know. Don’t talk,” I snapped.

The men hollered back at us.

At that point I began to feel sorry for myself. I’ll admit it. I’d grown a little too comfortable in the village, believing that since Burki wanted me to kill Zahed, I could move a bit more freely and not be threatened. Sure, we dressed like the locals and were beginning to grow out our beards, but I’m sure it wasn’t difficult to ID us as foreigners.

I heard my father telling me, Son, you really screwed up. You watched a guy murder another soldier and lied about it. You basically got two of your men killed. And now you’ve gone and gotten yourself captured. Are you having a bad day or what? What the hell happened to you? Don’t you remember what your mom told you? You’re destined for some great things . . . so I have to ask you, son, what the hell happened?

My eyes were brimming with tears. I kept calling myself a fool and wanted to apologize to Treehorn. He was going to die because I’d made poor decisions. All of the axioms of leadership didn’t mean a goddamned thing to me anymore. The Special Forces creed was a joke. I had a sack over my head and was being driven to hell, where a fat man lounged near a pool of lava, sipping on tea.

I started reflecting on everything: my pathetic relationships with women, how I’d tortured poor Kristen for so many years, how she kept lying to me and saying this was the exact relationship she wanted, long-distance and infrequent, when I could see the ache in her eyes. What kind of a life had I made for myself? Was I truly happy? Were all the missions and the sacrifices really worth it?

Like I said, I was really feeling sorry for myself.

Any operator who tells you he has no doubts, that he is fully committed to the choices he’s made and the sacrifices to come, is, in my humble opinion, lying. There will always be the doubts, and they were, at that moment, all I had left.

More chatter from the driver and passenger. The zipper cuffs were digging into my wrists and my shoulders were on fire by the time they opened the door and yanked us from the car. We were guided about twenty steps away, and then one man said, “Stay.”

“Boss, I say we make a break for it. I’d rather get shot trying to escape.”

“Relax, brother. We’re going to be okay.”

“Dude! We’re not okay!” he shouted.

That drew the reaction of the men. I heard a thump, Treehorn groaned, and I hollered, “Treehorn, you okay? You okay?”

“Yeah.” He gasped. “They just whacked me!”

The wind was tugging at my loose shirt and driving the sack deeper into my face.

We weren’t in the village, and we hadn’t crossed the mountains. I was sure of that. We would’ve felt the mountain road, heard the engine groaning. The road had been relatively flat.

Suddenly, the sack was ripped off my head, and I was blinded by the glare. It took a few seconds of squinting for my eyes to fully adjust.

Treehorn stood next to me, squinting as well.

They’d taken us west down A01, the main road, to a little truck stop area where several tractor-trailers were lined up. I wasn’t sure if the place was a gas station or what, but I definitely knew we’d headed west because off to the east I could see Kandahar in the far distance and a plane taking off from the airport.

Without a word, the two men got back in the car, threw it in gear, and left us standing there on the side of the road, our hands still cuffed.

“What the hell?” Treehorn gasped.

I whirled, faced the truck stop. A small, blue booth stood near several large trees whose limbs were being thrashed in the wind. I wondered if that was a phone booth, so I gestured with my head and Treehorn and I started walking over there, the wind kicking sand in our faces.

From behind several of the parked trailers came a half dozen more gunmen, AK-47s swinging to come to bear on us.

“Oh, great,” I said. “And I just thought they were playing a prank on us.”

“Remind me to laugh later,” said Treehorn. “Or at least before they kill us.”

From behind the gunmen came a familiar face that left me with a deep frown.

Shilmani.

And then, from behind him, came Kundi, the village headman and land owner, shaking his head at us.

I called to Shilmani and quickened my step toward them. “What the hell is this?” I added.

“Please, Scott, it is very unexpected.” Shilmani’s eyes were bloodshot, and blood was dripping from one of his nostrils.

“You guys better release us right now,” said Treehorn.

“That’s right,” I said.

“No,” said Kundi, shaking his finger at us. “We talk first. Right here.”

“Shilmani, tell this asshole if he wanted a meeting, he could have asked for it.”

Shilmani glanced away, and, his voice cracking, said, “Burki is dead.”

My mouth fell open. “Say again?”

“Burki was just shot and killed. Right after you left. My cousin betrayed us. He told Kundi everything—about us hiring you to kill Zahed.”

I remembered the conversation I’d had with the old man that Bronco had taken me to see:

Of course Kundi was loyal to Zahed. Like father, like son.

I widened my eyes on Kundi and started toward him. The half dozen guards he’d brought along cut me off—but what was I going to do with my hands still cuffed? “You killed Burki?” I asked the old man. “Wasn’t he your friend?”

Shilmani translated. Kundi threw up his hands and rattled off something about betrayal. I thought I caught a word of that.

“He says Burki was altering the deal on the water. It was not Zahed who had changed the terms of the agreement.”

“Do you believe that?” I asked Shilmani.

“No, I do not. I was there when Zahed’s man came and told us about the new terms.”

“Tell him to let us go. Tell him if doesn’t let us go, I’m going to make a few phone calls, and there’s going to be a lot of trouble. And we’ll cut off access to the well, that’s for sure . . .”

Shilmani took a deep breath and reluctantly translated.

Kundi’s eyes grew wide and maniacal. He marched up to me, got in my face, his crooked yellow teeth bared. “You . . . go home . . .”

I felt like saying, Let me go and I’ll catch the next flight out. To hell with the politics, this place, the mission. To hell with it all.

But the bastard challenged me, managed to capture me, even, and I wasn’t going to take any more of his bullshit. So what I did say was, “I’m not going home until I either capture or kill your good buddy Zahed.”

Shilmani translated.

Kundi stepped back. The gunmen lined up.

“What the hell, boss?” groaned Treehorn. “Are they getting ready to shoot us?”

Kundi heard the whomping first. He whirled around, lifted a hand to his brow.

Then I heard it. We all did. Two choppers: a Blackhawk and an Apache screaming in from the east, from Kandahar.

“We’re late getting back,” I told Treehorn.

“Good deal,” he said.

Suddenly, Kundi waved for his men to retreat behind the trailers. They ran off, as did the old man, who was shouting back at Shilmani.

“I’m sorry, Scott. Really. I am,” cried Shilmani. “And Scott, maybe you can help me! They took my daughter! They took my daughter!”

With that Shilmani bolted off.

During the chopper ride back to the FOB, Gordon contacted me to say that while they’d been scanning for Green Force Tracker Chips they’d picked up a brief signal from Warris’s GFTC. Intel indicated that he was being moved, and Gordon had pinpointed the entrance to yet another tunnel complex.

It was time to make our move for a rescue.

We sat in his office, me still rubbing my wrists, him intent on filling our drinks to the brim.

I took mine and sucked it down like a man who’d found an oasis. The burn nearly made my eyes roll back. After a long exhale, I said, “I’m so over this.”

“You and me both.”

“It’s tearing us up. All of us.”

“It is. You ever think it’d be like this? I mean when you first joined up?”

“Oh, yeah, of course. I was totally stoked about the futility of war.”

He snorted. “Me, too.”

“But maybe now we’ve caught a break.”

That drew his frown. “Really? You know they’ve gone back on the TV. They’re going to kill Warris if we don’t meet their demands in twenty-four hours. Keating has stepped up plans for the offensive.”

“And you know what’s going to happen,” I said. “If I don’t get out there, they’re going to kill Warris, they’ll launch that offensive, and the media will report on all the innocents who were killed. W’ell be the bad guys all over again.”

The XO knocked, then entered. “Sir, the governor’s back. He’s screaming again.”

“Tell him to fuck off,” snapped Harruck.

I laughed under my breath.

“Tell him I’m in a meeting,” Harruck corrected.

“Okay, and Dr. Anderson is outside, too. She says all the workers just walked off the job. They just . . . left . . .”

“What?”

“I don’t know what’s going on, sir, but I’m willing to bet it all goes back to Kundi.”

“That’s a safe bet,” I told the XO. I stood. “I’m gearing up. I’m taking the team out tonight. We’ve got actionable intel on Warris’s location. We’ll find him. And maybe we’ll find Zahed.”

Harruck was already shaking his head. “There’s nothing to talk about here. Like you said, they’ll kill Warris, the offensive will happen, and all my work here was for nothing. Actionable intel is just an excuse for C-4 and gunfire.”

I raised my brows. “I’m taking one more shot, and all I need is a little evac if it all hits the fan.”

“You’re dreaming, Scott.”

“I’m not. If I can find Warris—if I can do that, they won’t have to launch the offensive. If I can take out Zahed, that’s icing on the cake.”

“We’ve got more enemies than the Taliban here. Bronco wants Zahed rich and alive and feeding the agency information. Kundi wants the status quo. Even the people here would rather deal with Zahed. We’re the only idiots that want him dead. If you kill him, the Taliban will retaliate.”

“We’ll dismantle and demoralize them. By the time I’m done, they won’t know what hit them.”

“I don’t believe you anymore, Scott. And I can’t support you.”

“I know when it comes down to it, you’ll do the right thing. You won’t leave me hanging out there.”

He took a deep breath. “Just get out.”

I returned a lopsided grin. “Thanks for the drink.”