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those.”
    Gideon kept shaking his head as Parker continued. “Problem was he got so good at it, he became a target himself. He pissed off the insurance and shipping companies. He pissed off some of the more radical jihadists in Moh21;Áists in Man, who saw him as an outsider. Even worse, he pissed off the Sultan, the man he’d been sent over to help out in the first place. And now that the insurgency is gaining momentum—”
    Gideon finished his sentence. “The Sultan wants him dead.”
    Parker nodded. “He ordered his top operatives to hunt down Tillman. They’ve been spreading around lots of money, squeezing some captured insurgents pretty hard. Two days ago, they located him.”
    “How did you find out about this?”
    “From Tillman.”
    “You spoke to my brother?”
    “Not directly, no. He contacted me through a man named Prang. He’s a general in the Sultan’s army who Tillman worked with. Apparently, your brother kept a back channel open with Prang, even after he went dark. Prang warned Tillman about the hit, and he’s the one who’s brokering this whole deal.”
    “What deal?”
    “Tillman’s agreed to surrender himself and provide intelligence about the insurgency if the Sultan calls off his hit. He’s holding some big cards—safe houses, weapons caches, organizational structure, leadership, money flow, the whole nine yards.”
    “Then the Sultan agreed to call off the hit.”
    “Only temporarily. He’s giving us until tomorrow to bring him in. After that, it’s open season.”
    “And President Diggs signed off on this?”
    “Absolutely. He’s already getting pressure to send troops to Mohan. If this insurgency gets any bigger, he may not have a choice. He’d much rather let Tillman disappear into witness protection than be forced to put our troops in harm’s way.”
    Gideon’s head was spinning.
    “All right. So bring him in. I don’t understand why you need me.”
    “Because Tillman only agreed to come in under one condition. If he could choose who President Diggs sends.”
    “And Tillman chose me?”
    “You’re the only one he trusts.”
    Below the descending plane, the lush green canopy of the jungle was receding, giving way to the tar paper rooftops and steel containers of the sprawling shantytown adjacent to the airport. “How exactly is this supposed to happen?” Gideon asked.
    “General Prang is still working out the operational details. He’s meeting us at the airport.”
    Gideon sat motionless, turning over in his head what he’d just heard. As impossible as it sounded, he knew he had no choice but to see it through. At least until he’d heard more.
    “Tillman’s a grown man,” Parker said. “He made his own bed, I realize that . . . but I still feel responsible for him. I feel that way about both of you.” Parker’s eyes welled, and his voice had more gravel in it than usual. He cleared his throat, as if trying toghtÁf trying break through the delta of emotions that had collected there.
    The plane hit the tarmac with a jolt and a screech of tires. As the aircraft decelerated, Gideon stared down at the photograph and realized that his brother, his only blood relative, had become a complete stranger to him.

Gideon's War and Hard Target
    “You need to bring him home,” Parker said.
    Despite the sick feeling rising from the deepest part of himself, Gideon found himself nodding his head.
    CHAPTER FOUR
    “COULDN’T YOU AT LEAST have wiped off the poor guy’s blood first?” The artist frowned as he studied the passport.
    The bearded man in the camouflage baseball cap didn’t speak. The crown of his hat bore the prominent outline of some kind of pistol. The artist—his name was Barry Wine—had never met anyone he liked who wore a hat with a picture of a gun on it. Or a gun logo. Or a gun joke. Or a gun anything.
    Gun people were morons. Barry Wine detested morons.
    Wine was a freelance document forger. In the trade, document forgers are called “artists.”