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This isn’t a complex thing. We’re not here to save Israel from Blofeld.
but he had forgotten a hard truth he’d learned in the past: In warfare, the enemy gets a vote.
In contrast to the bearded ones, he looked like he had come to protest the convention, with his long hippie hair, Che Guevara T-shirt, and lack of any tacti-cool paraphernalia.
Confused, he punched a couple of icons on the software package, then realized what the problem was: The man wasn’t speaking English. He’s speaking Hebrew.
A visceral fear flooded him, the adrenaline coursing through him in a spastic jolt. Like a father defending his family against overwhelming odds, knowing he would lose, he began doing what he knew best. He turned to fight.
The Taskforce was an extrajudicial force—which was a Washington, DC, way of saying it was illegal—but it still had some rules. One of those was that we only operated overseas, hunting bad guys in bad-guy lands. Home soil was the purview of the FBI and others.
His answer brought a grin to both Knuckles and me because in the twenty-two years that he’d been running missions, he’d never cared about the rules.
Aaron Bergmann’s inner being felt the light begin to coalesce around him, the kaleidoscope of insane nightmares receding into the darkness. Slowly, his brain gained traction, like a man at the bottom of a lake looking up at the illumination from the surface, the image blurred, but better than the darkness. His conscious mind swam, getting closer and closer, until instinct took over, and he willed himself to stop, just below the surface.
“Have you never heard of the Wrath of God operations?” “No. Should I have?”
because he was CIA and we all belong to tribes—but
