"God, that guy's a prick," Flynn growled, feeling the burning anger flare again. "Kurtz should've been strangled at birth. Sitting there taking his crap all I could think of was ripping off his arm and beating him with the nasty end.

"But you know what, Sammy? I rose above it. I'm pasting a gold star next to the anger-management item on my virtues-are-me list."

Samhal had returned to their campsite late in the evening, a couple of hours after Flynn. The two men were drinking coffee, sitting in the sphere of blood-orange light spawned by the fire Flynn had built. Flynn had also set up their makeshift shelter –a tarpaulin supported by two poles and the roof-rack of the Humvee– and had been drinking coffee ever since, thinking, steaming.

The flames of the campfire had receded, the fire a pile of scarlet embers, by the time Samhal had arrived.

Flynn hadn't eaten. His gut was stuffed full of anger and frustration. And relating to Samhal what had transpired at Fort Apache had threatened indigestion. But Jiddah had put together a doggy-bag for him: rice and chicken stewed in pomegranate juice. Sammy had hung the pot over the embers and the wafting aroma had Flynn's appetite raging back.

"Yes, I am aware of Kurtz's phallic resemblance, Monty," Samhal answered, staring into the coffee cup resting in the circle of his crossed legs. "He was humiliated when you were promoted through the Legion ranks and became his section leader. The man is pleased to use us as doormats." He looked up at Flynn, said, "His self-esteem is low; he must step on others to elevate himself."

"Yeah. Or maybe his mother dropped him on his head when he was a kid, whatever." Flynn leaned back against his bedroll, gulped some coffee. "I just hope I can stomach his crap long enough for us to catch a break, stumble onto an opium or arms cache. Wha'd'ya think our chances are?"

Samhal pondered for a while, looking into the luminous coals for an answer. He flicked a twig into the fire pit. "This is difficult to predict. Afghanistan is a land of infinite mystery and ancient secrets; secrets of the gods, forged long before the fires of creation had begun to cool."

"We don't need to crack the secrets of the gods, Sammy. All we need is to get a line on somebody dealing with the Taliban," Flynn said casually, trying to pluck Samhal back to the money side of reality. "We'll set a hook and reel in some big fish, then get the hell out of this dust bin."

Flynn removed his supper pot from the fire, set it on a flat rock and tucked in. He said, "Mm mmm, magnifique! This is gourmet-quality. Sure beats our MREs. That Jiddah is one special lady, eh, Sammy?"

"Yes she is that, most definitely," Samhal nodded thoughtfully.

Flynn continued enjoying his meal but eyed his friend surreptitiously. Samhal was acting unusually reserved, serious. Flynn wasn't accustomed to this side of Samhal. He said, "Sammy, you haven't told me how the dinner party was. If this grub is any indication, it must have been something."

"It was pleasant in the extreme. Jiddah and Dahab have a most warm, most welcoming nature. They made me feel I was at home. And it has been too long since I have felt this." Samhal paused a moment. "I hope you are correct, Flynn. I enjoy a battle more than the next fellow. I am always prepared to fight the good fight. But simply for money?" He shook his head, made a face, "No, it has lost its appeal. I pray this job sees an end to pointless war for us."

"It will, Sammy. This contract should net each of us at least a hundred-and-fifty thousand. I'll be able to clear the balance owing on Oasis and we can begin running charters in the Mediterranean, the Caribbean, even the South Seas. It's our ticket to freedom... the dream."

"Inshallah –God willing– Captain Monty. Your dream, it is a good thing. I am honored you allow me to be included. But, is there not something missing from this dream? Do you not feel the need of something more?"

"I know what you're getting at, Sammy. But you know how it goes. We get a shot at R-and-R, we're not without female companionship for long. We've always managed well on that score. Hey, remember those two crazy senoritas in Barcelona?"

"Mmm, yes, they do spring to mind on special occasions, my friend. Only, I was perhaps thinking of something more substantial. Something that perhaps involves... love?"

An ember popped, shooting up a brief shower of sparks.

Flynn set down his fork, exclaimed, "Jeezus, Sammy... love? I've never heard you talk this way before. What's got into you?"

"I know. It is strange. I cannot explain it. I feel present, and a presence, in this land. I suppose it was the dinner tonight: the home, the cooking, the company of kind intelligent women speaking my native language. These are blessed things, Monty."

"Well I see those two made an impression on you," Flynn said. He thought about it over another forkful of chicken and then added, "And to tell you the truth, Sammy, they left an impression on me too. Maybe I'm getting tired of the same old crap, the girl-in-every-port routine. That was fine in our twenties. But I'm not there anymore. I suppose maybe I'm feeling the same needs as you."

Flynn surprised himself. He might actually believe what he'd said. But what the hell, a man does have needs beyond the basics. It didn't mean he'd be reserving breakfast at Tiffany's next Sunday. Christ, at the moment he couldn't spring for a cup of coffee for a girl. And if he screwed up on this job his next gig would be bankruptcy, followed by part-time mall security. He said, "But, uh, speaking of needs, did you happen to learn anything from the gals tonight that could help us out?"

"Hmm, yes... possibly."

Flynn sat upright, interested. "Eh Bien, Sammy! I knew you'd come through for us. Spill it."

"These women have experienced tragic loss," Samhal began solemnly.

He related the circumstances and events surrounding the death of their parents; about Jack McNeill's support of the Mujahedeen against the Soviets in the 80's. He told Flynn what Jiddah and Dahab were doing in Veerona now, and explained the special status they held in the village; how the elders depended on the women to act as buffers between them and the UN officials and coalition forces.

"That's terrible," Flynn reflected. "Everybody's losing in this bloody war. It's no wonder Ms McNeill wants nothing to do with anyone associated with this conflict. And it is a wonder Jiddah treats us with such kindness." He paused and thought a moment. "But these two have pull in Veerona; more than buffers. It's something else, bigger. Maybe they can help us."

Samhal gave Flynn a doubtful look. He said, "Monty, Jiddah and Dahab are well aware of our interest in Afghanistan. They know why we are here. They know it is the money. And I do not know exactly where their loyalties lie, but they most certainly do not lie with us."

"Yeah, copy that, Sammy. But goddammit, they're the closest we've gotten to personal contact in this country. Kurtz is on our ass, the devil can't be far behind. We gotta run with it, try and get close with those two."

With that, Flynn rose and began to gather up their mess kits.

Samhal stopped him, saying, "Um, Captain Monty."

"Yeah, what is it, Sammy?"

"Did you notice I have shaved?"

"Uh, yeah. What, did the gals invite you to freshen up before dinner? That was neighborly."

"Yes, Monty. And I know you could not use the facilities at Fort Apache."

"Sammy, wha'd'ya getting at? Spit it out."

"Captain Monty, please take no offense, but we are living in close quarters, and you have not bathed properly for days. And now that I have, it has become most apparent."

"Aw, mon dieu, Sammy." Flynn rubbed the Hollywood scruff covering his jaw. "What do you expect me to do?"

"Thank you for asking, sahib," Sammy said mockingly, making a prayer sign. "Jiddah told me of a place just off the road between here and Veerona. The path is marked by a large Persian lilac tree. I saw it clearly on my hike back this evening.

"Jiddah said there is a fresh clear pond. An oasis formed after the coalition engineers rebuilt the Dahla hydroelectric power dam."

"And you're suggesting I go there, tonight?"

"Praise Allah, Captain Monty. You are a most thoughtful considerate friend indeed."

Julie didn't need a flashlight to find her way along the road on this night; the moon was bright as a freshly-minted silver coin. And she easily spotted the Persian lilac tree. If she hadn't, she knew Cleo wouldn't have missed it, even in the pitch-dark or without the heavy scent of the blossoms.

Cleo was one of Julie's beloved horses. She had four: Cleo, Tony, Iras and Caesar. Her father had them waiting for her when she and Jiddah had returned after earning university degrees in England. That was almost five years ago, and the four beauties had grown to be her loyal companions.

Julie had first learned to ride during summers at her Grammy's ranch in Montana and had become a skilled rider since then. She sometimes attended equestrian camps in Spain when vacationing –Jack McNeill had encouraged trips out of Afghanistan. In Veerona she rode frequently, often convincing Jiddah to accompany her. And when Veerona hosted buzkashi competitions –the Afghanistan version of polo– Julie was always one of the most spirited participants.

She tethered Cleo to a rosemary bush situated down the path from the lilac tree. It was one of Cleo's favorite spots. She knew there was an abundant supply of sweet grasses in this particular area. Julie continued down the path on foot.

She was happy Jiddah had coaxed her to go to the oasis, the night was luscious. But it was perplexing: One minute Jiddah was lecturing her how dangerous the country was, and the next she was encouraging her to ride out into the night, alone. Go figure.

As Julie neared the pond she heard a faint splashing sound. Her nerves sprang taut. Very few villagers were interested in the oasis, mostly youngsters, and they rarely, and definitely not in the middle of the night. Julie stopped breathing, tried to still her jittering heart, listened intently.

Yes. Someone, or something, was at the pond. She made a move to retreat back up the path... well, not an actual move, more an impulse. It was the logic side of Julie's brain pleading with her to get Cleo, walk quietly to the road and ride back to Veerona, safe and sound.

But the impetuous side of Julie's brain was on a long winning streak and easily racked up another one tonight. She gazed into the starlit firmament momentarily, sought out Leo –her zodiac sign– for strength, and continued to listen.

The splashing sounds were coming from an area of the pond directly ahead, at the end of the path. They pulled on her curiosity.

Julie quit the path and picked her way stealthily through the band of budding sukebind and young magnolia and acacia trees that surrounded the pond. She wanted to reach the water at a point that was downwind from the intruder and would conceal her presence.

On occasion –a lifetime ago, before her parents were killed– Julie would stretch out and sunbathe on a huge slab of rock that lay at the edge of the pond. It was as large as a queen-sized bed. Reeds crowded around the rock, so in the event someone took the path all the way to the shore of the pond, she'd remain safely out of sight. This was the point where she emerged from the underbrush tonight. She crawled onto the rock, lay flat on her tummy.

The heat of the day lingered within the rock. Its smooth surface radiated the warmth. She felt it immediately through the thin fabric of her abaya. Julie positioned her elbows near the edge of the rock, slid her hands into the thick green rushes and slowly parted them.

White-linen moonlight cast a ghostly aura over the pond. The surrounding trees looked as though they'd been dipped in platinum.

And twenty yards away, not a ghost, but a man, was standing bare-assed in knee-deep water not far from shore. And although his back was turned to Julie, she instantly recognized him as Captain Flynn Montague. Her banging heart began beating a different tune.

The moonlight and its reflected rays cast pearly highlights on his thighs and back, shading the dips and hollows of his nakedness. He was bathed in a dreamlike patina. He leaned forward, cupping his hands beneath the surface. He swept his head back and let water cascade over his face and head. He smoothed back his short black hair with both hands. Long lacy rills of soap suds coursed down his glossy dark skin.

The skin of his back was flawless. His flanks were lean and powerful, they curved dramatically into his narrow waist. The knuckles of his spine were just visible between ridges of muscle. His physical perfection was unnerving, overwhelming. And bonus, there was no shrinkage-factor from the warm water of the oasis. If Julie were dreaming, this would be Heaven, and Flynn would be an angel-god.

She was not dreaming.

Julie felt a peculiar liquid ache form deep in the hollowness of her belly. It sent rushes along the inside of her thighs, left a numbing sensation all the way to her knees, curled her toes. She drew in sharp breaths, savored the delicious treat. The rock took on a few more degrees of heat. Julie absently fingered her head covering and brushed an imaginary bug from the end of her nose.

At the same time, that logic-side of her brain began waving a red flag.

Julie believed in coincidences. But this was a little much. She and Flynn Montague venturing to this remote oasis on the same night, at exactly the same hour? Hmm. But, he had arrived first. So he obviously wasn't stalking her. And she certainly wasn't stalking him. And there was no way he was aware of her presence. So? Take advantage of an improbable coincidence? Steal a quick boo? Figure it out later? Hey, why not?

Julie couldn't recall when she had last had sex with anybody other than herself. She had Fedexed all hopes of a relationship with a real-life man to Fugetaboutitville. But now she was paying the price. She couldn't tear her eyes from Flynn. Her entire being pulsed like an exposed nerve, hyper-sensitive from her repressed physical and emotional longings. Her recent oasis-fantasy rekindled. Captain Montague wasn't exactly a Bedouin bandit, but with a couple of tweaks to the plot he could be cast as the male lead quite nicely. She felt hot blood rushing to her ears.

Flynn scooped up water with his cupped hands and rinsed the soap from his hair, avoiding the stitches in his forehead.

He was thankful Samhal had prodded him to check out this oasis. It was sweet to be rid of the baked-in grit and crud.

He waded the few steps back to shore, squeezed a dime-sized dollop of shaving gel into his palm. He retrieved his mirror and razor and returned to the water.

The desert nights could be incredible. Tonight the moon was bright enough to shave by. Flynn raised the mirror and angled it to best catch the light.

His heart stuttered. He steadied it.

The reflection he had caught in the mirror had jacked all his survival instincts into overdrive, yet he gave off no visible sign of reaction whatsoever. Instead, he began to lather up as if he were enjoying a Sunday morning in the suburbs of Peoria.

Goddammit! he admonished himself. I knew I heard something on the path. I should have reacted immediately; getting careless.

The reflection in his mirror had been clear enough for Flynn to see the man's face was completely concealed –except for the eyes– by a camo bandana. It appeared he was unarmed.

Flynn was puzzled. Who in hell is this joker hiding in the reeds? The Taliban don't go around ambushing one lone man in the middle of nowhere; no profit in that. And no weapon? Who the heck can it be? Some pervert?

But he had no time to work it out. A commotion of hooves, the rustle and rattle of tack, and the murmur of muted voices echoed across the water from beyond the far shore. Flynn's nerves sprang yet tighter. He directed his attention to the rise sloping about a quarter mile up from the other side of the oasis.

It appeared two separate groups of riders –silhouetted on the hilltop– were coming together in rendezvous. Jeezus, Flynn thought, I gotta get out more; Afghan nightlife is pretty lively.

He immediately determined they hadn't spotted him, and likely wouldn't... until their frigging lookout man in the reeds raised the alarm. He checked back in his mirror and saw Peeping Tom's interest had also been redirected toward the riders.

Flynn seized on the opportunity, stole into the bushes... silent and fast.

A tall mounted figure in white robes stood out conspicuously among the riders meeting on the rise above the oasis. "The Djinn," Julie whispered in awe, staring at the ethereal vision on the crest of the hill.

The people of Veerona spoke often of their benevolent Djinn –a good spirit that had shape-shifted to appear as a man in white robes to keep vigil over Veerona, protect the village from all evil. Julie had written it off as pure hokum. Only now, seeing this pale ghostly rider set against the horizon, she felt she had experienced an epiphany; she felt fearful yet strangely drawn to this being. Could the myth be true? After all, it was true the Taliban never harassed Veerona, and the village had prospered like none other. Also, a couple of those guys up there looked like they might be from Veerona. But...

Before another synapse could fire, Julie was flattened hard and immobile against her rock.

A large man's full weight pressed down on her and his left hand was clamped tight over her veiled mouth. His right hand had jammed a pistol barrel against her temple.

The man whispered hoarsely into her ear, "Not a move, asshole. Not a sound, or I'll blow your friggin' head off. By the time your buddies on the hill get here they'll find nothing but your sorry dead ass."

Julie's initial shock evaporated. She instantly knew she'd allowed Flynn Montague to sneak up on her. She had no fear of this mercenary. Shame-fueled anger was her sole emotion now. She ignored his orders and began to squirm and protest loudly. But her muffled tirade was indiscernible and her strength was no match for his weight. The Captain held firm, and silent.

Her efforts to break free were fruitless; she relaxed. But upon doing so, she became acutely aware of Flynn Montague's body stretched full over the length of hers.

Julie had become accustomed to zero physical intimacy –aside from her own ministrations. So the pressure and heat at every contact point between her body and Flynn's was strange, and profound. The pulsing nerve of her arousal was re-awakened, shoving aside both shame and anger.

His breath smelled of pomegranate and toothpaste. But when he shifted his left hand, that scent was infused with the musk of shaving lather. It was all over his fingers and Julie was now getting a nose full, literally. But that wasn't bothering her.

It was her tush that was in a bother. A distinct and growing pressure was pushing into her. And she could feel her buttocks separating reflexively, imperceptibly. Because in spite of herself, Julie's pelvis was pushing away from the rock and up against... well, a hard place. She was mortified by the overpowering, instinctive lust. Thank God for her abaya, otherwise Flynn Montague's cock would've easily slipped into her.

Her heart was rattling against her ribs and her mind was a whorl of confused and conflicted thoughts. Fantasy was one thing; this was another.

Julie was proud of the mature sense of moral and physical self-control gained from her newly-adopted Eastern beliefs. And, she did have standards after all. What wanton evil was this mercenary khariji, Captain Flynn Montague, rousing in her? It was shameful.

Flynn held firm and silent. The wiry little bugger squirmed and yelped. He was amazingly strong for his size. But the skinny lad soon realized he was punching out of his weight class and settled down. Flynn held him secure and watched the riders conduct their business.

The horsemen on the hill were making an exchange. There was some discussion and gesticulating. The body-language suggested they were on familiar and somewhat friendly terms. The tall white-robed figure stood apart, observing. They had pack mules. One group had six, heavily laden, the other had only one, and it was hung with saddle bags. They exchanged animals and rode off in opposite directions.

Flynn waited until they had disappeared into the night. But in those few moments he became aware of some disturbing sensations.

His captive had become quiet except for his short, quick breathing. And Flynn detected the scent of apricots and licorice rising from him. It was familiar, and heady. And he couldn't be certain, but Flynn felt the kid was pressing his derriere up against him! WTF? he spelled to himself.

Flynn was alarmed; mostly at what his own initial reflex had been. He pulled back.

Huh, it has been too long since my last R-and-R, Flynn thought with chagrin. He said, "I'm gonna remove my hand. Holler if you want, kid. But your friends are long gone, and I'll just hafta' slap some sense into ya'. Or, we can talk this out like men."

"You idiot! Get off of me!"

"What the..."

"Uh-huh, that's right, Rambo. It's Dahab, not Osama Bin Junior you've captured."

Flynn placed a hand between Julie's shoulder blades, holding her flat as he perched on her butt. "What in hell are you doing here?" he demanded, his voice betraying none of the relief he was feeling on discovering it wasn't a boy that had started to turn his crank.

"That falls under the category of none-of-your-fricking-business, Captain Montague. But for your information, I came for a swim. This is my spot. Now get off my bum!"

Flynn scrabbled off of her and stood watching while Julie pushed herself up, wiped away his shaving cream as best she could, straightened her clothing and faced him.

He was once more struck by those golden eyes. But this time they were chock full of amusement. It was abundantly clear they reflected a wide beaming grin barely hidden behind her improvised niqab. It didn't make sense. There was nothing funny about this situation. He could have killed her for chrissake.

Julie was wearing Flynn's camo Buff as a veil and head covering. Jiddah had washed it and Julie had tried it on for fun; folding and arranging it various ways round her hair and face; using it as a tube top like she had seen them do on Survivor. Later in the evening when Jiddah suggested she take a ride to the oasis, Julie had grabbed it –it was a quick and easy niqab substitute. And besides, having it against her skin somehow gave her an uncommon twinge of pleasure.

Now, she took it in both hands and popped it off her head. She offered it to Flynn, saying, "Here, Captain Montague, I think you need this more than I do."

He stared at her dumbly: her porcelain complexion, her slender nose, the elegant rise of her cheekbones, thin brows arcing gracefully over her eyes, the coy grin on her baby lips. And red hair! She had a cute tousled thatch of carrot-red hair. Adorable. Flynn felt weak, light-headed, like all his blood was rushing to his core.

"Captain?" Julie called, getting his attention. She nodded at the Buff in her outstretched hand. "Please, take this." Then she made a sidelong glimpse in the direction of his lower extremities.

Flynn glanced down. Jolted into awareness. "Oh, merde!" he exclaimed.

Aside from his bandage and gun he was bare as a newborn. And blood had rushed to his 'core'; his stupid dick was flushed, to a certain extent.

He made an embarrassed, 'excuse me' shrug and then took the proffered Buff. Flynn set down his pistol and, with as much aplomb as he could muster, wiggled his way into the Buff.

Bare balls might have been preferable. Now he was in a mini-skirt, accessorized with shaving cream... nice.

"Now what, Captain?" Julie asked, hiding none of the delight she was deriving from his predicament.

He tried to regain the upper hand, despite his ridiculous appearance. He stated, "Ordinarily, I'd be getting answers from you on some tough questions, young lady... now that you've miraculously found your English tongue. But considering the circumstances, I suppose that can wait for another time."

"Really? Well don't hold your breath, Captain Montague. No, wait. On second thought, go ahead, hold your breath." Her eyes pinched to angry slits. "And wait forever! Because I do not answer to occupiers. And certainly not to you!" She pushed her way past him, hopped off the rock.

"Miss McNeill," he called. "Wait till I get my clothes. Those riders were not from the 4-H Club. I'll escort you back to Veerona."

"I neither need your protection nor want your company, Captain. Cleo is waiting for me up the path."

"Cleo?"

"Oh, don't be alarmed," Julie called over her shoulder. "Put your gun in your skirt, Cleo's only six years old."

So much for the upper hand.