The blue and white hues of the drone feed filled the room. Every screen available broadcasted it. White dots illuminated the team on the ground. Red dots were the inbound targets. They all watched, just players in the fight, ready to be tagged in when called upon. Raadi Al-Saab, warlord, radical, and terrorist mastermind, was their target. For years, he was a ghost. Intelligence agencies around the world couldn’t find him. When a lead was hot, it quickly ran cold. Even the best minds inside every three-letter agency couldn’t pin him down. Intelligence members in the Tactical Operations Center (TOC) at Bagram Air Base had been watching him for weeks, preparing for this op, coordinating with military leadership in hopes of finally bringing closure. Raadi had been more active than usual. It was now or never. The time to strike was now. It might be their only shot. The original plan called for Raadi to enter the room from the front door, approaching the young rockstar undercover DIA operative Abigail Stevens. A small discussion to complete the purchase of illegal weapons, and the team would swoop in. According to the surveillance they had on Raadi, he traveled light, with only a few people in his convoy for security. The team expected little conflict and planned for minimal contact, but dressed for a fight. Raadi didn’t come alone. Just seconds before the meeting, the team saw a long convoy of trucks, assumed to be Raadi and plenty of escorting firepower, heading towards the meeting location. Raadi was smart but skeptical. The woman he met raised more questions than answers, but he couldn’t pass on the deal. She didn’t sound South American, or close to it. But what she offered, if true, broke him into the illegal gun market of the US through South American connections and into a top economy and global powerhouse. There were billions to be made in the US. Billions he could ship home and fund the crusades of his fellow countrymen as they continued the fight against the American trespassers in the Middle East. Penetrating the US was a checkmate. Raadi had no other choice but to trust her. Raadi knew who he was meeting with likely wouldn’t come alone, and he wasn’t taking any chances. The long convoy was full of armed men, giving him a false sense of security. The men all exited the trucks, surrounded the building, and covered every corner. When the area was clear, Raadi exited his truck and entered the building where Abigail awaited to close the deal. Half a mile away, a Navy SEAL sniper ran surveillance. Men had gathered at the front door, ready to defend Raadi. They’d never even heard the shots. His rifle switched from safe to fire, and he radioed in the tangos one by one. The crackle of the transmission echoed through the TOC as everyone waited. Operators in the building across the street already had Raadi’s remaining men on their knees, cuffed, and gagged. The entire block was secure, completely under their control. The sniper watched the rooftops, and the TOC confirmed via the drone feed that the area was clear, save for the men now in the target building. Inside, Raadi glanced across the room at the woman. The smirk on her face said it all—she was American. His eyes penetrated hers as sweat dripped down his forehead from behind his turban. The mastermind standing across from him was Special Operative Abigail Stevens, someone he’d become very familiar with soon. Abigail had worked on this case for the better part of five years, waiting for her chance to pounce. Young, aggressive, and still new to the DIA, she took an enormous interest in Raadi and his operation. After all, nobody had taken him down yet. This moment was important. It was monumental. The room had become small, almost claustrophobic. Raadi sensed it. He was becoming increasingly nervous. She took notice, as did the operators protecting her. Now was the time. He was questioning the backstory she had sold him; she could see it in his eyes. Her earpiece clattered with radio chatter, military jargon as the SEALs and Rangers moved in. She closed her eyes at the last second as the flashbang grenade rolled across the floor. A blinding light accompanied the crack of the canister as it exploded and shook the room. The shockwave dropped everyone to their knees as they either reached for their ears or tried to cover their eyes. They were all too late. Bullets ricocheted off the walls and ceiling. The snap of 5.56mm rounds exited the suppressed barrels as the MK18s still sounded like thunder in the empty room. In the blink of an eye, the SEALs snatched Raadi; the Rangers grabbed Abigail, five bodies hi the floor, and in a matter of seconds it was all over. Two SEALs pinned Raadi to the ground, shoving his face full of dirt, the zip ties squeezing the life out of his wrists as a black hood covered his head. The Rangers rushed Abigail out the back door and around the corner to a waiting armored caravan. It was time to move. Within seconds, the entire caravan was rolling. Getting out of northern Syria quietly was the original plan, setting off no alarms and being another country away before anyone noticed Raadi was gone. In a perfect world, the op goes as planned, with minimal issues. That outcome wasn’t always in the cards. Raadi’s reach extended far and wide. The team had minutes, maybe only seconds, to get a head start before his cavalry came. The SEAL sniper kept an inbound convoy at bay with warning shots, but could only delay, not stop them from pressing forward. Eventually, the convoy caught up as the Americans navigated through town via a pre-planned route. Claps from Russian-supplied AK47s plunked the sides of the truck as they sped down the dirt road, leaving a trail of dust in their path. Abigail ducked her head instinctively, then glanced over at their passenger. Raadi didn’t move. The armored vehicle’s diesel engine roared as the driver mashed the gas pedal and dodged traffic, pedestrians, and just about everything else. The op took place roughly four kilometers into Syria, just on the other side of the Syrian and Turkish border. Syria was a hotbed of activity with a US military presence, but still didn’t care for them conducting ops within their borders. Blackhawk helicopters planned to meet them a few kilometers inside Turkey, providing air support as the convoy sped down the highway toward Kiziltepe, a district of Mardin Province just south of the Madrid airport, their rendezvous point. Abigail got on the radio immediately as they sped forward. “Whiskey One, this is Alpha Sierra One.” The TOC replied, “Go ahead, Alpha Sierra.” “We are under fire and approaching the border. Requesting immediate air support!” “Air support is on station and will intercept at the border.” Abigail breathed a sigh of relief. What she didn’t know was that four trucks of men waited just before the border crossing for their chance to take down a US convoy. Word had spread fast that a high-value target was captured and headed in their direction. US Army intelligence took notice and redirected the Blackhawks to meet the convoy at the border. Men disguised as Syrian farmers held RPGs and AK-47s low in their hands. They shouted orders to each other, preparing for a fight. But the minute they saw the Blackhawks and the accompanying AH-64E Apache helicopter, they ducked and ran for cover. Two fifty-caliber Browning machine guns barked like angry dogs and shredded the four trucks full of Syrian rebels that awaited at the border. The Apache circled back, its thirty-millimeter cannon ensuring anyone thinking twice about attacking the convoy either turned around or got turned to ash. An unfortunate rebel bravely snuck behind the tailgate of a shredded truck and fired an RPG at a Blackhawk, giving up his location. The RPG missed wide and to the right, with the rebel trying to reload. His eyes met the soldier behind the Browning fifty-caliber machine gun, and the last thing he saw was an orange burst and then black. The convoy pressed on, the two Blackhawks and the Apache coasting along beside them as an escort into Turkey with a wake of twisted metal and death in their wake. The Blackhawks barely touched down at the Madrid airport and the team departed the convoy for the Gulfstream 550. Two SEALs escorted Raadi onboard, throwing him into a padded leather seat. They ripped the black hood off his head, revealing a look of hatred on his face. That look changed to fear as a CIA medical expert gave him an injection of Midazolam, a surgical sedative. The agency analysts on board wasted no time collecting fingerprints, photos, as well as a dental impression and a blood sample once the sedative kicked in. Abigail leaned against the entrance to the jet with her arms crossed and watched the team intake Raadi. It felt like an eternity passed before the analyst gave the thumbs-up. The team leader grabbed his radio, barking orders to the cockpit. Abigail plopped down in one of the lush leather seats, exhausted, fatigued, and her mind wandering in disbelief. The dual Rolls-Royce turbofan engines roaring to life broke her concentration, and within a few minutes the Gulfstream was in the air, screaming towards Germany. Down the aisle Raadi sat strapped to his seat, slumped over with his chin touching his chest. The CIA analysts behind him chatted amongst themselves and turned to her with a smile. She had done the impossible. Tracked down Raadi Al-Saab. Sold him a fake cover story about her associations with a South American drug cartel. Flew to Syria, set up the op, and brought him in. It was a moment that would define her career forever, and one she’d never forget. It felt like victory, but tasted like defeat. Now she officially had a target on her back.