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shattered with a high-pitched ring and the shards fell. A stash of computer disks and papers were in a cavity in the wall behind it. She pulled them out and stuffed them into her cargo pockets. An oriental carpet hung on the wall and a kilim and pillows covered a sofa. She threw the pillows onto the floor and ripped away the tapestry, revealing a long wooden crate. The lid was not nailed shut, so she picked it up and moved it aside. Inside was a three-inch diameter tube, about a meter and a half long with Russian markings. Camille immediately recognized the SA-7, an old Soviet missile that could shoot down a low flying aircraft. Packed around it were slabs of plastic explosives and various types of detonators. She picked up several and looked them over. They had Chinese and Russian markings.
    Quality .
    Camille yelled at Hunter, who was hurrying outside with the prisoner. “Someone here’s planning a big party, but then I guess you were already invited. So this crap is the big trophy Rubicon was trying to snatch away from me?” Camille motioned toward the crate. “What the hell does Rubicon want with a cache of Russian weapons?”
    â€œI don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hunter said as he stood at the side of the doorway with the prisoner.
    â€œYou’ve crossed about every line I have. Now get the hell out of here and take your men with you. I don’t ever want to see you again unless you’re in my crosshairs.” Now she wished she had chosen a shotgun over the XM8; she wanted to pump it for the sound effect.

Chapter Two
    [S]ome critics say…that the US government employs private security workers to skirt restrictions by Congress on what US troops can do on the ground, as well as on troop numbers.
    â€” The Christian Science Monitor , April 2, 2004, as reported by Ann Scott Tyson
    Camp Tornado Point, Anbar Province
3:00 A.M ., Two hours later
    At a bend in the Euphrates River, a hodgepodge of hastily constructed plywood structures, prefabricated metal buildings and one of Saddam’s bombed-out palaces housed most of the private military corporations and the command center of the Marines in that area of operation. Skirting political pressure not to deploy more troops to Iraq, the Pentagon had quietly increased the number of boots on the ground with soldiers from private military corporations. Other companies were there, claiming to work for the State Department, even though everyone knew there were no diplomats in Anbar. Like their Marine colleagues, most of the contract soldiers in the camp were now returning from their nightly PT, cleaning and stowing their war gear for the next day. Hunter had already taken off his gear and only carried a knife, his sidearm and a couple of extra mags. He walked across the compound toward Rubicon’s local corporate offices. He knew he should be thinking about why some corporate executive would want to meet with him in the middle of the night, but he couldn’t get the confrontation with Stella out of his head.
    His chest ached a little from where she had shot him. The last thing he wanted was physical pain and a telltale bruise to remind him of the pain of losing her. He was afraid things had gone too far this time—that she’d never forgive him even if he could explain that, technically, he hadn’t really betrayed her. His gut told him that they’d hit the point where sorting out facts didn’t matter.
    But it did matter to him. Hunter Stone was the kind of guy who still believed in right and wrong, even if Stella didn’t.
    He yawned and hoped the meeting would be short because he still had to finish his report about the evening’s raid before hitting the rack.

    A civilian Hunter had never seen there before showed him into the office and introduced himself as Kyle. He was the type not seen very often in Iraq—slight build, meticulously groomed and with a certain metrosexual air about him