Flynn dove into a gully as the final two of three shots ripped overhead.

The first shot had found its target... almost. It had torn two holes in the lower half of Julie's abaya –in the back, out the front. An inch north and Flynn's prairie oysters would've been splattered over the Afghanistan plain.

He was fairly certain the shooter was that Saddiq kid again. The little bugger's aim with a Kalashnikov assault rifle was a helluva lot better than with the hatchet. That guy was gonna land himself in serious shit someday.

Flynn could hear the kid banging on doors –calling for backup, no doubt.

The gully led into an old irrigation ditch that ran behind the poppy shed. Flynn kept low, scrambled to the ditch and then raced down the length of it. A half mile out of Veerona he exited the canal into a thicket. He got down and leopard-crawled to its near edge, lay flat and scanned the village with careful eyes.

There were men scattered all over the place but sticking close to the village, searching in and around buildings.

After a ten-minute vigil, Flynn could see nobody was interested in venturing away from cover. He'd be safe till morning.

He rolled to his back, removed Julie's niqab and then scrunched his way out of her abaya. Flynn furled them into a tight bundle. He pressed them to his nose and breathed in the licorice fragrance. Mingled with the scent-of-the-sea on his fingers it was a heady mix. It had been one sweet night. As a carnal couple, precious little came between them. Too bad they were light years apart in all other respects. Whatever; this Julie McNeill person is undeniably something special, he pondered wistfully.

He replayed the image of her sporty little body in the camisole, back-lit by her bedroom light. He thought dreamily, That crazy rebel-red hair and those freckles. How can somebody packed with so much spunk, intelligence and courage also be so frigging cute? It's not fair. Mon dieu, there oughta be a law.

Flynn hoped there wasn't a law against molesting a sleeping woman. Because...

Not long after he and Julie had fallen asleep, he had woken to the sound of muted voices coming from the direction of the poppy processing shed. He had slipped from Julie's bed and peered out the window.

The moon had sailed from behind a cloud and laid down ample illumination, but the view was obstructed by vegetation and other dwellings. Time for a closer look. But as Flynn had turned to leave, he instead had decided to linger... for just a while. Because...

The vision presented before him had been one of those that remain with a person for a lifetime; one that can be recalled at will or comes to mind, unannounced, to ease a broken heart, or brighten a blue mood. A vision that would play prominent in that final highlight reel that passes before one's dying eyes.

And the vision was Julie. Sleeping, nude, moonlit:

On her back, arms sprawled above her head, one knee bent, a leg splayed to the side. Her tummy, silver-highlighted by the moon, was rising and falling with her relaxed peaceful breathing. Once, she breathed more deeply and a soft sigh issued from her nose and mouth. Her lush lips appeared curved into a contented grin. Her breasts were no more than subtle rises on her chest. Flynn had noted they complemented her snug little butt. Her nipples were the color of rosé wine, and flaccid.

He hadn't been able to resist. He'd leaned in and kissed them gently, with a rolling tongue, bringing them erect. He'd suckled. And then he had perched on the bedside and brushed fingertips over her entire shape; so lightly that often he was touching only the fine invisible down that covered parts of her. Julie would emit sleepy purring sounds when Flynn's fingers became more invasive; he would pause for a few beats.

Until the moonlight angled away and the sable veil of night drew over her, Flynn had greedily reveled in the sleeping beauty of Julie McNeill. Finally, he had stood and ever so gently kissed her mouth.

And then he had borrowed her robes and slipped out the back way... like a cat burglar.

She's gonna be some pissed about the bullet holes, he thought now.

But at least before Saddiq had crashed his party, Flynn got what he wanted. The poppy processing shed contained stack upon stacks of plastic bags packed with the oozing brown goop that was raw opium. This season's harvest was just about to begin and Veerona still had an abundant supply of finished product. If the UN had received anything from them, it was only a fraction of their total output; the program was a farce; these guys were dealing with the Taliban.

Hours later, Flynn tapped on the front door of Julie's place.

He had stayed put in the thicket. If any of the searchers had ventured in his direction he could easily have ducked back into the irrigation ditch and high-tailed it far from the village, undetected. Instead, he was able to hike a wide arc round Veerona and hook into the main road from the south. No doubt he'd been observed leaving by this route yesterday evening and now, having returned from the same direction, suspicions may not be aroused.

"Flynn!" Julie gasped when she opened the door. He thought she was about to leap into his arms.

Wrong again –he'd learn someday to never try and predict Julie McNeill's next move.

She said, "You jackass! You have the audacity to show your face at my door?" She was back in robes, and back in nasty temper.

"What? Hey, it's okay," Flynn spread his arms, "nobody knows it was me out there last night."

"What makes you think I'm worried about you, Captain? It's unfortunate they didn't recognize you; it would look good on you. Sneaking about, spying. You used me, you deceived me." Julie's voice was thick with anger and hurt. Her eyes were flooded and swollen, the gold was awash in red, she'd been crying.

She executed a quick, furtive survey of the village then took him by the forearm. "Get in here before somebody sees what you're holding."

"Uh, yeah. By the way, there's some minor damage. Saddiq's a pretty good shot," Flynn said sheepishly as he handed Julie her things.

Julie let the abaya hang loose. She stared at the bullet holes. She clamped her eyes tight and then turned and walked to an armchair in the living room. She slumped down heavily, bundled the robes in her lap, bowed her head.

"Julie, what is it? What's wrong?"

She looked up at him in disbelief.

"What?" Flynn repeated, shaking his head. He was confounded. He knew Julie's moods were volatile, but this swing was over-the-top. He thought to himself, We share an epic session of the old coitus maximis and now she's belly-aching over a couple of holes in her abaya? Sheesh!

She said, "You could have been killed! You used me to gain access to this village, to that stupid processing shed." She gripped her abaya in tight fists. Her voice trembled and her breathing quickened, "You could be dead right now, for nothing."

"Julie, I'm fine, not a scratch. And it wasn't for nothing. It's what I do. I never lied about that. And I did not use you. This has nothing to do with what happened between us last night. That was real as Heaven."

"Yeah? Well death is more real, Flynn." She fastened him with fearful eyes. "This war has claimed both my parents. Now you come into my life and give me more to lose? Risking everything?" She held up a trembling, clenched fist. "You have no right... no right." She beat her fist onto her thigh.

Flynn fell to his knee beside the chair, tried to grab her hand. She snatched it away. He said, "Julie, I have no control over how I feel about you. Or what we shared last night. That wasn't planned, you know that."

Julie turned a shoulder to him. Flynn sighed and stood as he continued, flatly, "The risk was minimal. And I got what I needed. That shed is packed with raw opium. Veerona is sleeping with the Taliban."

"I don't want to hear about it!" Julie flashed a traffic-cop hand between them. "It's foolishness. And I was foolish to get involved with you. I don't know what I was thinking." Her head sagged. She dropped her forehead into her palms. "I can't do this."

Julie retreated to her garden. She didn't invite Flynn to join her. She told him he could help himself to something to eat and she said he could use the computer if he wished. She knew she needed time to compose herself, to think things through. The hard knot of dread that had been twisting in her gut was only now beginning to slacken. She had managed to beat back, to a tolerable extent, that feeling of creeping fear and loneliness.

Before Mohammed Khan had come to check on her –an eternity after the shots were fired– Julie had been seized with anxiety. She hoped Mohammed hadn't detected her relief on being informed the intruder had slipped away. He had eyed her suspiciously while speaking. But he'd told her it was likely a lone miscreant seeking easy pickings in a prosperous village –Veerona was a perennial target for malicious envy.

In the hours before Flynn's return, Julie had fretted till she was near ill. Had he been killed? Wounded? Was he out there somewhere, bleeding to death? She had prayed to God, to Allah... whomever, making bargains, ridiculous vows. It had been torture. How had she let herself get involved with Flynn Montague? Expose herself to the risk of another unendurable loss. She had never been impulsive, always thinking before acting. And now this reckless intimacy out of nowhere? With a mercenary for fricksake; strictly a cash-and-carry-on kind of guy. It was a big box full of wrong. And Julie knew it.

Sex and desperation, that's all it was, she tried to convince herself, he's gorgeous, I was horny. I'll file it with my other outrageous fantasies. It's done.

Inside, Flynn accepted Julie's invitation to get something to eat. He dug around in the fridge and struck leftover gold: lamb Kabobs and some potatoes and curried cauliflower on rice. Yummy. He sat at the dinette table and thoroughly enjoyed his meal. He wasn't sweating their spat; Julie would get over it.

Afterward, whistling a tune, he rinsed his plate and fork and then decided to use the computer, get his e-mail chores out of the way. Flynn found a couple from his brother, Ethan, boat-sitting in Muscat.

The first concerned mooring fees for Oasis. Naturally they had increased... substantially. "Outstanding," Flynn commented.

The second concerned the family ranch. Mom and Dad wanted Ethan to return soon to help put up the ranch for sale. They were compelled to cut back on expenses, move into town. "Oh, Merde." Flynn shook his head slowly back and forth in exasperation, tried to dream up some kind of reply. But what could he say? Wait till who-knows-when, then I'll do who-knows-what? "Fuck!" No reply, he moved on.

The other three e-mails were from his creditors; reminders –progressively impolite– that he was in arrears on his Oasis payments. He banged off the standard pathetic assurances. The bright side: They had no idea Oasis was moored in Muscat, making it real tough to repossess. They had attached the loan agreement. He scanned through it, looking for a loophole. None. Pay up or lose the boat. That wasn't written on the document, but it was the bottom line.

Flynn logged off, planted his elbows on the desk and plopped his forehead into his palms. He pulled up in pain –had forgotten Saddiq's hatchet handiwork– emitted a tired sigh.

This latest shit along with two nights of sleep deprivation had caught up with him. That tune he'd whistled should have been Dixie.

Ordinarily, puttering in her garden and tending Cleo, Tony, Iras and Caesar worked therapeutic magic on Julie. It wasn't doing the trick today.

She had become increasingly distressed with each passing thought. Could she do it? Chalk up this relationship as a one-night-mistake and leave it at that? Tell Flynn to take a hike? That'd probably suit him just fine, Julie imagined, listening to him whistling inside, one more notch on his gun... or whatever.

But was that fair? Flynn appeared sincere about his feelings toward her. But what possible outcome could result from their affair other than a few spectacular sessions of sex? He was a soldier of fortune, on the wrong side. She was committed to continuing Jack's work. And Flynn sure as poop wasn't sticking around Veerona any longer than he had to. Even if he wanted to, what could he possibly do? And who, other than Jiddah and herself, would accept his presence in this country?

Julie bore these unresolved issues –along with some fresh vegetables– back into the house in the middle of the afternoon. Maybe she would discuss them with Flynn.

Then again, maybe not.

She found him totally sacked-out on the sofa. Julie could see that a bombing raid wouldn't wake him. His cap was pulled over his eyes, one arm was hanging to the floor. Hmph, she told herself, he obviously isn't worried about our relationship, or anything else. Nonetheless, she gently took his hand and placed it on his chest.

Despite all her misgivings it pleased Julie that Flynn felt secure in her home. She was certain that in any other circumstances he would be hair-trigger alert, no matter how fatigued.

Four hours later, he stirred.

Flynn groaned and pushed the cap off his face. He checked his bearings and then his watch, groaned again. He swung his feet onto the floor and rustled his fingers through his hair. He looked over to the kitchen.

Julie offered a friendly grin and waved a soup ladle in greeting.

Flynn said, "You shoulda' woke me up. I'm not on vacation here."

"Welcome to Julie's all-inclusive," she announced, using a sweep of her hand to indicate the meal preparation, and a coy downward glance to indicate herself.

She'd evidently decided to forego the where's-the-relationship-going conversation. Probably because she had no logical suggestions and knew it was impossible that Flynn had any. She'd likely accepted that the guy was a stud and she was hot for him... and that would be enough for their brief time together.

Flynn smiled and shook his head. "You are one strange lady, Julie McNeill."

"Oh really, Captain Montague? How so?"

"C'mon, you know. One minute you're the wicked witch of the east; the next, you're a nymph straight outta the enchanted forest. I never know what to expect."

"Mister Montague, from me you can always expect exactly what you deserve." Julie gave a cant of her head for emphasis, and then furrowed her brow. "Besides, isn't the wicked witch from the west?"

"Uh-huh. But in that getup you're definitely an eastern girl... way east."

"You don't approve?"

Oops! Talk about minefields. Flynn wasn't about to blunder onto this one. Oh, he'd love to know what had possessed Julie McNeill to adopt the orthodox garb. But he figured it was one of those do-I-look-fat-in-this topics; he'd hafta' tip-toe his way out. He said, "Hmm, haven't decided yet. It does have a particular tease factor that is strangely appealing." But there's a helluva lot of appeal underneath too, he added to himself.

Flynn pushed himself off the sofa. He asked, "What're you doing?"

"I haven't eaten today. I'm having a soup-and-sandwich break. I see you made do with leftovers. But you're welcome to join me if you're still hungry."

"Outstanding. I'd love to. And here I was envious of Sammy taking off for the pleasures of the big city. What's that you're drinking?"

"I'll make you one. And oh yes, Samhal," Julie said, "that reminds me. I got another update from Jiddah. She said once the Humvee is repaired, Samhal volunteered to help move Abdul and his family into their new apartment at the end of the month."

"Huh?" Flynn knew he couldn't have heard correctly.

"Yes, you know: the barter system. Samhal hadn't the cash on hand for the repairs. Jiddah would've covered it, but I gather Samhal preferred the trade. And it worked out better for Abdul as well. Now he has somebody to help with the heavy stuff."

"Help with the heavy stuff?" Flynn repeated incredulously. "Our Humvee, a moving van? Jeezus, if Kurtz knew, he'd have our dicks for doorstops! And what's up with the 'end of the month'? Sammy's planning on staying in Kandahar five more days?"

"I guess so. Is that a problem? You know you're welcome to stay here."

"That is beyond courteous, Julie, I appreciate it. But like I said, this ain't vacation. I'm supposed to be earning wages."

"Okay. Fine."

"I have a plan I need to put into action," Flynn somehow felt obligated to explain. "It'll be a tougher play without Sammy."

Julie appeared to be mulling that over. She said, "A tough play, huh? Tell me about it. And come eat your soup. I'll prepare your drink."

Julie took a vintage reservoir glass from the cupboard, shifted Flynn's empty soup bowl aside, and placed the shapely vessel in front of him. It matched the one from which she had been sipping a cloudy yellowish-green concoction. She reached into another cupboard and pulled out a black bottle. She sploshed a Bacchus-sized jigger-full into Flynn's glass. His drink held a clear light-green hue.

Flynn said, "Anisette, I can smell it. Nice. What's in yours?" He indicated her glass with a hitch of his chin. "Though I gotta say, that color and consistency, I'm afraid to ask."

"Get your mind out of the gutter, Mister Montague. Observe."

She fitted a peculiar-looking spoon across the brim of Flynn's glass. She plucked a sugar cube from the bowl on the table and placed it on the spoon. She retrieved a water jug from the refrigerator, leaned low over the table, and dribbled water over the sugar.

Flynn watched, near hypnotized by Julie's golden eyes and the slow drip, drip, drip of the ice-water onto sugar.

The spoon had an intricate pattern carved through its bowl, and as the sugar cube dissolved, the sugar-water mixture drooled into Flynn's glass; his drink acquired the same yellow-green milky consistency as Julie's.

"Aha, the absinthe," Flynn whispered, "your homemade brew."

"Uh-huh. Have you ever tasted it?"

"No. Isn't it illegal? Or lethal?"

"Everything but murder is illegal in Afghanistan. And lethal? Nah. No more than any other alcohol."

"But, yeesh." Flynn screwed up his nose. "It kind of looks like... well, you know."

"I know. Sexy, huh?"

"I'd hafta' say that depends on your point-of-view."

"Aw, let your hair down. Try it, you'll like it."

Flynn did like it, a lot.

They made love. They fucked.

Whether or not Flynn and Julie were yet capable of recognizing the distinction, it was presently beyond their powers of perception. Blame it on the absinthe.

Neither Flynn nor Julie would recall how many times or exactly where in the house they had sex that afternoon. It was of no consequence. Every room in the house seemed to be infused with a hallucinogenic glow that clouded their sense of reality. They were two dreamers under the spell of the Green Fairy.

That fog had lifted and evening had descended upon Veerona by the time they emerged from the dream; though Flynn's brain remained a tad hazy. He decided he would accept Julie's invitation after all, and crash at her place, adjust his plan accordingly.

So, there was no point trying to keep the plan secret.

Flynn told Julie: He was certain Mohammed Khan would have to move the opium in the next few days before the outside help arrived for the harvest; He intended to stakeout the processing shed and then tail the perps; He was hoping he could borrow one of her horses; Tracking these guys on foot, or in a vehicle, would be impossible; On horseback he had a chance of locating the Taliban hideout; He'd planned on four-hour shifts surveilling the shed, but that, and the rest of it, was going to be difficult without Sammy.

Julie listened and when Flynn was finished she emitted a sigh of exasperation. She said, "So, it's still all about the money, huh? And you persist in thinking Veerona is associated with the Taliban?"

"Everything points to it, Julie," Flynn answered apologetically. He wished it wasn't so –it was the proverbial bone of contention between them– but to him it was bloody obvious.

"Listen," Julie said, "my father and the villagers have always hated the Taliban. They fought them off ferociously when they first tried to assert their influence here, and they haven't been back since. The villagers are convinced we're now protected from them by The Djinn."

Julie explained the myth of The Djinn to Flynn. He listened with as much respect as he could rustle up.

When she'd finished he said, "You don't believe that malarkey, do you?"

"All I know is, the Taliban have not bothered us. And they stay well clear of Veerona. You are dead wrong on that count, cowboy."

There was no way to be subtle. Flynn dealt the hand straight up, "So riddle me this, Julie: Where the hell does all the cash come from? We both know the UN medicinal poppy program isn't a money tree. This village could be a poster-child for corruption: satellite dishes on the roofs; brand new Toyota pickups everywhere; your own private Taj Ma-hut; even the stray dogs have fat bellies for chrissake."

Julie's face and ears filled with heat.

She said, "For your information, Captain, Jack set up a trust fund for Veerona years ago, and he had bequeathed his life insurance proceeds to it as well."

"C'mon, Julie, your dad was a public servant. And he left that career early to live here in Veerona. Unless he had a truck-load of 'old money' there's no way he could afford all this. Your vacations abroad; education in England; the horses; this home; supporting the village. Even with the insurance, it doesn't add up."

She stiffened. Julie had no answer for him. And Flynn could see in her eyes that this question had niggled her conscience long before he mentioned it. But her love for Jack McNeill kept it well below the surface. Furthermore, it likely cut deep that her father had effectively made her a financial ward of Veerona.

When she did respond, it was a defensive attack, "Fine, we'll see what happens in the next few days. You stay here –in the master bedroom–" she added with emphasis, "and spy on them. You'll be wasting your time. Veerona is not involved with the Taliban. Most of the elders are Mujahedeen loyalists, and they hate the Taliban, you'll see."

Two nights later, on her 2:00 to 6:00 a.m. watch, Julie saw them.

Initially, she'd sighted a faint dust cloud rising into the starlit sky above the jagged horizon. Now, twenty minutes on, she could make out the source of the cloud: half a dozen riders approaching slowly. It appeared five were leading mules. And leading the procession: The Djinn! His white robes were shimmering in the crystal clear night.

Under considerable protest from Flynn, Julie had negotiated her participation in his plan. She wanted to prove to him that Veerona was not in bed with the Taliban. She insisted on standing equal watches. This he had fiercely resisted. Julie knew he didn't fully trust her. But her garden –a brilliant vantage point– and her horses –the transportation– were the trump cards she used... Julie prevailed.

But now she wondered if Flynn's mistrust might've been justified. If these men were the Taliban what would she do? Remain loyal to her people in any case? Keep Flynn unaware? He had been up-front with her from the beginning. And these past two days he had been a perfect gentleman, sticking to the master bedroom as instructed. Though on more than one occasion she had wished he had been less than perfect on that account. But still, it showed he had some moral fiber. Could she lie to Flynn? Semi-innocent fibbing, her conscience would allow, but an outright lie? She guessed she'd find out.

Julie abhorred the idea of Veerona aiding the Taliban. It was implausible. Dealing opium to the Taliban to help fund their terrorism? It was out of the question. There had to be some other explanation.

She watched. The riders proceeded directly to the rear of the poppy processing shed where they were greeted warmly by Mohammed Khan, Saddiq and a few other Veerona men. Julie had to admit the interlopers did resemble Taliban fighters. Although they appeared considerably older than one would expect.

Caesar became restless. He whinnied and scuffed at the ground with a hoof.

Julie flattened herself behind the water trough.

She took a boo round the end of the trough and saw The Djinn was looking in Caesar's direction, but apparently without concern.

Once more Julie was struck by the presence of this mysterious tall man in white. Unlike the others, his face was hidden under a full Shemagh headdress and he remained mounted and silent. He kept well apart from the others. Julie couldn't seem to wrest her eyes from him.

And then the Veerona men began hauling duffel bags out of the shed.

Julie was aghast. She could fool herself no longer. It was undoubtedly opium. How could this be possible? Maybe it's only these few Veerona men that are involved, she tried to convince herself. But she knew she needed to find out the whole truth. And she knew she'd need Flynn's help.

Julie crept from behind cover, crouched low, darted like a cat through her Little Eden. She eased open the back door and slipped inside. There was no light at all. She felt her way to the sofa where Flynn had been sleeping between shifts.

"It's okay, Julie, I'm awake," he said quietly from behind her.

She almost jumped out of her abaya. But she managed to stifle a squeal. She whispered excitedly, "Flynn, there are men..."

He cut her off, saying, "I know. I heard them. Caesar woke me." He went to the rear window, edged the curtain aside and looked toward the paddock. "I'll wait till they've finished loading up. Then, if you'll help, I'll saddle Tony and ride to the oasis. I'm betting these guys will meet their contacts from the coast at the same rendezvous point again."

"Yes, I'll help you saddle Tony," Julie said flatly. "And I'll saddle Cleo."

Flynn let the curtain fall, stared at Julie with pursed lips. She challenged him with an obstinate stare.

Bedrolls, and saddle-bags loaded with provisions, were ready and waiting in the stable. Flynn was impressed by Julie's forethought. These prudent preparations hadn't even crossed his mind. He had a habit of overlooking details –another item for his virtues-are-me list.

Although, he reckoned he had chalked up mega karma-credit these past two days with his demonstration of self-control. He had inadvertently heard Julie diddling in the Jacuzzi, twice! It had taken monk-like discipline to keep from busting in on her, doing her up properly. She had to be impressed.

He desperately wanted to get back in Julie's good book, build something real with her. Unless he was deluding himself? For all Flynn knew, Julie might've pegged him a one-night-stand. With chicks these days how could you tell? But damn, he thought as he watched Julie swing up into Cleo's saddle, she looks sexy as salsa in her abaya and cowboy boots.

Julie and Flynn were mounted and on their way only ten minutes after the gang of six had set off. Cleo and Tony were excited with this impromptu, predawn jaunt.

They departed Veerona by the rear, carving a wide semi-circle back onto the trail to the oasis. Flynn knew the Taliban would be avoiding the main road, and they were burdened with loaded mules; it would be no problem to arrive before them.

When they came upon the Persian lilac, they dismounted and started down the path to the oasis on foot. Julie found Cleo's favorite grassy spot. They tethered the horses. She and Flynn cut off the path and hurried to the big flat rock hidden in the reeds. He immediately checked the hill rising up from the far side of the oasis: all clear. He hoped desperately his hunch was correct and the Taliban guys would show up. He needed a break, bad.

They settled in, sitting comfortably on their bedrolls. Julie had suggested they bring them –details again. She's nice to have around, Flynn reflected. Too bad she's not into the mercenary thing, he chuckled to himself, Sammy and I could use the help. And I'd kill to see her decked out in combat fatigues and tight tee... mon dieu!

Julie said, "Well, don't you look like a kid in a candy shop? Are you that certain something will come of this?"

I sure hope it does, Flynn thought ironically. But he figured this wasn't the time to get into a discussion about the dubious future of their relationship. He answered ironically, "If it does, it'll be sweet.".

"Is money so important to you, Flynn? Are you really that desperate?"

That question whipped him all the way back to reality. "Yeah, it is. And yes, I am," he stated evenly. "I've got plans and dreams like anybody. My plans take money." He shrugged. "And this is how I earn money. It's my shot, I'm taking it. No regrets."

"Do you mind me asking, what plans?" Her tone had softened. "What dreams?"

"No problem. My favorite topic."

Flynn spread the reeds into a sharp V and checked the hillside... still all clear. Then, at 4:00 a.m. on a rock beside an oasis in the middle of a war in Afghanistan, lying with a woman from Montana dressed in Afghan robes, Flynn described his Oasis and his plans to sail her across the endless Big Blue.

Julie listened, enthralled. She interrupted only once to tell him she had sailed for a month on a tall-ship in the South Pacific –she understood the attraction.

Flynn told her how he and Sammy had learned to sail off the Ivory Coast while on annual leave from the Foreign Legion, and about the thrills, trials and tribulations of their Mediterranean shakedown cruise. He was a gifted story teller, drawing 'oohs' and 'aahs', giggles, 'no ways!', and clamped-mouth laughter from Julie.

But in the middle of delivering a self-deprecating soliloquy on the topic of his financial woes, Flynn paused, put an index finger to his lips.

He parted the reeds and he and Julie watched the beginning of a virtual replay of four nights previous: Six Taliban riders trading their five heavily-laden mules for one mule, hung with saddle bags, from another gang. And this time they also took possession of six other mules, unburdened; recycles, Flynn guessed. Good, more mules, he noted to himself, they'll be even easier to track.

He touched Julie's shoulder, pressed a finger to his lips again and then indicated exit-stage-rear with a jerk of his thumb.

When they reached Cleo and Tony they re-secured their bedrolls. Julie asked in a hushed whisper, "Which group do we follow?"

"The Taliban. Those other mooks are just two-bit punks up from the coast. They'll have that dope on boats three days from now; it'll be on the streets within weeks. There's bugger-all we can do about that. That's somebody else's problem."

"Flynn," she fixed him with pleading eyes, "The Djinn isn't with the Taliban. I don't know who these guys are, but I know Veerona is not working with the Taliban. And I know The Djinn is not evil."

"Let's find out," he replied flatly.

They led the horses up the path and mounted up beside the Persian lilac as the first blush of dawn colored the plain. Flynn said, "We'll circle round the oasis and pick up their trail. We'll hafta' give them a sizable lead; there's no cover out there. But with all those horses and mules they'll be easier to track than a herd of three-legged buffalo."

The tracking was easy. The Djinn gang was tracing a path along the foot of the mountains and a ghostly plume of talcum-like Afghanistan dust, churned up by the hooves of the animals, flagged their progress.

Flynn and Julie's route was limited to available cover. For much of the time they were traveling parallel to their quarry, far off on the flank and well concealed by the banks of a wadi. Unlike their prey, Cleo and Tony kicked up no evidence of their presence thanks to the dry, hard-packed riverbed.

But as the sun climbed higher, Flynn knew it was the heat that would present the biggest challenge. He was perspiring profusely but his skin and clothes were bone dry; the thin breeze on the parched air instantly wicked away any trace of moisture. He frequently stole sips of water from his canteen but his mouth still felt like it was full of dust. His stitches began to irritate. He raised his cap and pulled his neck Buff up under it for better protection from the relentless sun. He felt as though he were back in The Legion.

Flynn was impressed by Julie's stoic endurance. He rode behind and admired her light touch on the reins and relaxed posture in the saddle. He noticed, guiltily, she had yet to touch her canteen. He wasn't concerned about water for his own sake, though. It was the horses that worried him.

Late in the afternoon, as they came upon the burned-out hulk of a Soviet tank half-buried in the riverbed, Flynn reined Tony to a stop. He stretched erect in the stirrups and focused on the distant hills. He said, "Julie. They're cutting into a pass."

Julie clasped her saddle's cantle to pivot and look Flynn's way, "What shall we do?"

"Before we do anything we've gotta get the horses water. They're not complaining but I know they're thirsty. Any suggestions?"

"Sure. Jack and I frequently rode out this way. There's a village, Bamma, about five miles farther on," she pointed down the wadi with her chin.

"Bon. Here's the plan: You'll take Cleo and Tony for water; I'll hump across the plain on foot, hike up the pass and see if I can locate their hideout. There's nothing but hostile hell on the other side of those mountains, they've gotta' hole up somewhere in there."

"No fricking way, buster! We're sticking together."

"Julie, it's the only way. The horses need water. Besides, we can't risk riding across the open flatland and then into that pass; we'd be spotted for sure. Alone, on foot, I've got a shot."

"So you're going in there alone? Shoot it out with The Djinn's gang, and we'll hook up later for pizza? That's the plan?"

"I ain't Rambo, Julie. I have no intention of 'shooting it out' with anybody. I'll be in, out, nobody gets hurts. I just need to locate their hideout. Kurtz and the coalition forces can decide what to do beyond that."

Julie looked at the hills, and then down the wadi, shook her head and sighed deeply. She unhooked her canteen and tossed it to Flynn. She said, "Gimme yours, I'll top it up."

"Thanks, Julie," Flynn said as he slung Julie's canteen over his shoulder and dismounted. "Come back the same route. It should take less than two hours. If I'm not here wait another hour and then head back to Veerona, contact Sammy, I'll need help."

He handed Julie his canteen and Tony's reins. She grabbed his hand and held it tightly. He squeezed back and planted his other hand on her thigh, looked up into her eyes. He said, "About three hours. No pineapple."

"No pineapple?"

Flynn winked, answered, "On the pizza." He turned away, clambered up the side of the wadi, sighted across the flatland and then pulled himself onto level ground... and was gone.

The instant he started out across the sun-baked plain, away from Julie, Flynn missed her.

They had been together almost constantly for four days and he felt a bungee-like pull drawing him back. But he pressed forward.

This girl was planting herself deep into his soul. He had a vacant sensation, like he was missing a limb, when she wasn't near. What would he do when he had to leave Afghanistan, and Julie McNeill, forever?

The question remained unanswered and left a dull ache deep in Flynn's heart as he approached the head of the pass. But he forced thoughts of Julie back into his subconscious as he skirted the pass and began scrambling up the scree-covered incline. They'd have lookouts watching for anyone venturing up the corridor. Flynn aimed to flank the valley, keep to the high ground and locate their hideout from above.

Forty minutes later the strategy bore fruit. The pass below had opened into an expansive box canyon.

Flynn lay hidden behind a boulder on a promontory a hundred yards above, and across from, the gaping entrance of a massive cave. There were corrals of livestock –horses, mules, goats– and sheds and tents scattered on the valley floor. Several men were milling about the area.

Flynn couldn't see armaments or any other evidence that this was a Taliban camp but he knew, sure as there's coal in Hell, it wasn't a Boy Scouts' Jamboree. They likely had everything stashed in the cave. He checked his watch. He could stick around for another half hour or so in hopes of spotting conclusive proof.

Flynn was convinced The Djinn was a Taliban leader. It was for Julie's sake that he wanted hard evidence. She maintained an admirable loyalty to the villagers and, strangely, she had bought into The Djinn-myth nonsense. The Djinn seemed to command an unnatural attraction and admiration from Julie. Flynn found it worrisome. But he still hated the thought of bursting her bubble. It broke his heart when tears welled in those golden eyes, making it appear they'd become flooded with warm maple syrup. Merely thinking of it had constricted his breathing, squeezing a lump into his throat that he had to swallow back.

He'd never before been attracted to a woman in this manner. Julie was getting under his skin in a way he was finding difficult to fathom. She was making him aware of his heart. He could feel the boundaries and shape of it in his chest. And when he thought of her, the boundaries expanded.

"Captain Montague!"

Flynn flipped on to his back, his 9mm drawn and aimed in the direction of the Pashto-accented voice. The yell had come from directly above his vantage point.

Flynn was staring into a minute black hole in the cobalt-blue sky. It was the business end of an AK47 assault rifle. The old guy behind it was standing on a cliff, not twenty yards up, no cover.

Flynn had no fear –there was no room for it with all the humiliation. How in hell had he allowed this old fart to out-flank him? Flynn figured he'd better waste this chump and make an escape.

"Captain Montague!"

Flynn swiveled to his left. Another senior citizen with an AK47.

"Captain Montague!"

Flynn looked to his right, shook his head in resignation. These old coots must have ESP or something, he thought. No way could they have spotted me otherwise. He let his pistol hang limply on one finger as he raised his hands in the air... chump-like.

His captors relieved Flynn of his sidearm and led him down into the valley and into the cave.

As they proceeded into the recesses of the massive cavern, Flynn got an eyeful of enough arms and ammunition to stage a major revolution. And in smaller side alcoves he could see all manner of provisions. These guys might not be Boy Scouts but they were definitely well prepared.

The fact they were allowing him to see all this was disconcerting. Flynn knew they couldn't let him leave this place alive.

At the farthest extent of the cave, in near total darkness, another three elderly men were seated cross-legged on a carpet. The shaky orange flame of a single fat candle provided the only light.

Flynn was directed to sit across from the three wise men. He removed his cap and sat on his butt, hooked his forearms round bent knees for support. He felt like a snot-nosed kid sitting like this. He made a note to work on his flexibility... if it wasn't too late.

One of the three escorts handed Flynn's gun to the mystery man in the center –whose face was completely concealed, except for a narrow eye-slit, by a white Shemagh headdress– and then the escorts melted away into the darkness.

"Welcome, Captain Montague," the mystery man said with measured and labored phrasing –Flynn had to strain his ears to hear him– "we've been expecting you. May I call you Flynn? I feel we are well acquainted."

"Sure, why not. But I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage, monsieur. What shall I call you?"

The man chuckled softly, "Djinn will do. I've become fond of the sobriquet. I find it flattering."

The dude's English was excellent and Flynn couldn't detect a Mideast accent. Hmm, maybe Julie's right. Maybe these guys aren't Taliban. Maybe The Djinn is a private warlord from who-knows-where, profiting from the Afghanistan turmoil? Or, maybe the Taliban are hiring low-life western mercenaries? Flynn sniggered inwardly at his private joke. But then, since he was likely playing his final hand, he decided he'd better play his pitiful cards wisely. He said, "Well, Djinn, since I was so kindly invited, what did you have in mind? A game of Parcheesi?"

The Djinn chuckled as before and then answered, his words dispatched judiciously. He sounded weary, damaged, "I want you to grant me a favor, Flynn. I want you out of Veerona, out of Afghanistan. And I want you to take the other khariji –outsider– with you. If you agree to this you will be rewarded handsomely."

Without taking his eyes from Flynn, The Djinn gestured to the bearded man sitting to his right who took the candle and slowly extended his arm straight out to the side.

In the corner, against the black rock wall of the cave, sat a radiant pile of gold bars. They were stacked four-by-two and four-high. Flynn calculated: At approximately four-hundred-thousand per ingot, he was looking at well over ten million dollars. So, it was bullion-for-opium trades they had witnessed at the oasis.

The bearded man returned the candle to the carpet and the gold faded to black.

Flynn looked at The Djinn. Even though the glittering gold was out of sight, he swore its reflection remained in the eyes of The Djinn.

"One ingot for you, and one for the other khariji. And it is both, or nothing," The Djinn said, raising an index finger for emphasis.

What in hell is this guy up to? Flynn thought, completely perplexed. Why offer me eight-hundred-thousand dollars to leave? Why not just waste me here and now, be done with it? But if The Djinn hadn't thought of it, Flynn wasn't about to offer the suggestion. He said, "Sorry, I'm already under contract. Same goes for Sammy. We're not available for hire."

"You are an amusing fellow, Flynn. But we both know your options are sadly limited. If you refuse my proposition the alternative is extremely distasteful... for you in particular. And the one called Samhal Abdali is not a concern for now, his path is written. It is the one called Dahab that must leave Afghanistan with you. Her presence in Veerona has become disruptive."

This struck like a zap from a Taser. Flynn was completely baffled. This... Djinn, with unlimited cash and firepower, was concerned about one lone mercenary... and Julie McNeill? Flynn showed no outward reaction. He said, "Djinn, I have no control over what the woman does, she's a free entity, makes her own decisions, believe me. And like I said, I'm under contract. I must honor my word."

"I expected no less from you, Captain Montague," The Djinn returned, his frail words seeming to come with increasing difficulty. "That is why I made the offer. I have studied your background. I take pride in my ability to judge character.

"Now I say this to you: Go, return to your mission, your loyalties. But before revealing our position to your BlackSky partners, regard them with a discerning eye. You'll discover their money is stained by opium paste and more."

The Djinn slipped a hand into the folds of his robes and produced Flynn's handgun. He reached across the carpet and gave it to him. He said, "Now go, Flynn Montague; Dahab will be waiting in the wadi." He took a labored breath. "In time, you may reconsider my offer."

Flynn donned his cap and stood, checked his 9 –fully loaded, huh– and secured it in his holster. He inhaled, ready to pose a question, but then saw it was obvious The Djinn was done talking.

Flynn's escort materialized. He turned and departed with them.

Julie had secured Cleo and Tony to the Soviet tank. Pondering its inexorable burial into the riverbed had made her think: Two or three more rainy seasons and it would be out of sight, forever, as though it and its crew had never existed. The notion had left her in a blue melancholy.

She had clambered up the bank of the wadi and had been raking the plain with anxious eyes.

She checked her watch for the nth time.

The better part of the extra hour Flynn had told Julie to wait had burned away and there was still no sign of him. Her eyes were aching and her nerves were frayed. She wished she had binoculars. No fewer than a dozen times she had mistaken the same bush for Flynn. And now the sun was dropping behind the patient mountains. She felt the insects of panic crawling up her spine.

Julie dreaded the idea of returning to Veerona without Flynn. When he reached the wadi he'd have nothing. Without a horse and food and water he'd never survive. Maybe she could leave provisions for him. But what if he wasn't coming? What if, for some reason, he wasn't able to make it this far? She drove the thoughts from her mind, re-concentrated her attention across the darkening scrub-land, willing Flynn to appear.

Another bush, beyond that irritating first one, began to tease her sight. Julie averted her eyes, angrily squeezed them shut, refocused.

The bush had disappeared! And then the near bush separated into two; one drifting closer?

No. No! her mind exalted. That one's no bush. It's Flynn!

Julie screeched his name, scrambled onto flat ground and shot toward him like her hair was on fire.

Flynn caught sight of her and broke into a run.

When they came together Julie dashed into his embrace, crying and laughing almost hysterically.

"Julie, what's wrong? What's happened?" Flynn asked. "Are you all right? Where's Cleo and Tony?" He tried to push her back, look into her face, but she clung tight, buried her head in his chest, breathed in the warm scent of his vitality. He held her in the circle of his arms, strong, and alive.

"Hold me, Flynn... tight, so it hurts, please," she heard herself pleading uncontrollably. He complied. "Harder, harder. Make it safe," she begged and could feel her ribs painfully straining under the strength of his arms.

After a minute she collected her thoughts and was able to control her breathing. She realized the long day must have weakened her. That, along with the anxiety of waiting for almost two hours. Her emotions had got the best of her and now Flynn had witnessed the most pathetic girly-girl behavior she could imagine.

She twisted her head from his chest, lowered her hands to his waist. Flynn relaxed his embrace.

Julie let go and turned aside, thumbed away her welling tears, re-adjusted her veil. She refused to cry. She said, "Everything's fine. Cleo and Tony are fed and watered. They're tethered in the wadi. I'm just so relieved I don't have to ride all the way back to Veerona alone." She began marching briskly toward the wadi.

Flynn jogged a couple of paces to catch up and then fell into step beside her. He said, "Yeah, I'm relieved as well."

Julie could feel him looking at her oddly.

After a few more paces he said, "Um, by the way, Julie... it's been bugging me. What's that Tex-Mex word for wadi?"

"Huh?" Julie tilted her head up and looked at Flynn. He had no expression other than genuine curiosity.

"Arroyo. Wadi and arroyo, same thing," Julie answered, grateful that Flynn was providing a distraction. He wouldn't win any medals for sensitivity but once-in-a-while he came through big-time.

"Oh yeah, that's it. Arroyo. I love that word. But I can never seem to remember it. Arroyo," he repeated slowly. "Thanks, Julie."

"So, did you find the hideout? Did you see The Djinn?" Julie asked.

That was the question she posed but Julie realized that an answer didn't interest her as much as it should. She was beginning to see that she'd have to admit to herself that her feelings for Flynn Montague exceeded primal sexual attraction. Waiting in the wadi... arroyo, her only thoughts, and prayers, had been for his safety. She didn't care whether or not it turned out The Djinn was Taliban. She didn't care whether Veerona was trading opium with them. She didn't care about anything. All she'd wanted was Flynn, safe. And it frightened the heck out of her how he blew-off life-and-death situations as though he'd been out for a mocha java and macaroon.

"Yep, I did," he answered. "And you know what? You may be right about The Djinn. I don't think he is Taliban. I don't know exactly what he is, but the Taliban sure as hell don't make deals with BlackSky."

Julie stopped short and spun to face Flynn. "Deals? You mean you spoke with The Djinn?"

"Uh-huh. It wasn't my intention but... well, let's just say the opportunity presented itself so I went for it." Flynn neglected to say that day-dreaming about her had resulted in his 'opportune' capture.

"Shut up!" She gave Flynn's chest a double-handed shove. "What did The Djinn say? What does he look like?"

They were near the arroyo now. Flynn told her he'd spill the complete scoop once they'd set up camp before it got too dark.

While Julie unsaddled Cleo and Tony, Flynn cleared an area in the lee of the tank, getting rid of the brush and rocks, and then he built a campfire.

Julie began preparing their meal.

As soon as they settled down to eat she pressed him for the story. With Flynn safe beside her, Julie's keen interest in The Djinn had been rekindled.

Flynn told her about the giant cave stuffed with munitions and supplies. He told her his impression of The Djinn: imposing, intelligent, direct, honorable, strong, but weary. And then he told her about the offer of gold for their departure, including the 'both-or-nothing' proviso.

"No way! Julie responded. "Eight-hundred-thousand in gold for us to leave?"

"Yeah, weird, eh?"

"What can it mean?" She shook her head in disbelief, held out her hands in question. "I suppose I can imagine The Djinn wanting you out of the picture. But then you're only one out of thousands of occupiers. He could easily do that himself, save his loot." Julie couldn't bring herself to specify aloud exactly how that would be accomplished. "And me?" She pressed splayed fingers to her chest. "What is The Djinn's interest in me? There's no reason why he would want me out of Afghanistan. I'm no threat. I am no longer khariji."

"Um, maybe not," Flynn said, avoiding that touchy topic, "but apparently it's because he considers you a 'disruptive' influence in Veerona."

"Disruptive? That's what The Djinn said?"

"Yep. And if I had to guess, I'd say it was on account of your wormwood initiative. He likely believes you'll be successful and his source of opium will be cut off." Flynn paused a moment and his lips curved with coy amusement. "And if it's not that, then it's probably your abayas." He popped a plump fig into his mouth. His grey eyes filled with glee.

"What are talking about? My abayas. What has that got to do with anything?"

"In case you hadn't noticed, missy, they're see-thru. I find it mighty disruptive myself," Flynn said between chews. "Those poor Veerona chumps; Jeezus, I can well imagine how they're suffering. I figure those outfits you wear are illegal in forty-nine States. Lululemon will be looking to source the material." He shook his head and chuckled with delight.

"Flynn, tell me you're teasing; it's not true."

"Hey, I'm glad I'm not, your body's frigging hot." He washed down the fig with a healthy swig from his canteen, clearly pleased with her distress, and his spontaneous poetry.

"Oh, no. I've been traipsing around virtually bare-assed for months?" She moaned.

Julie couldn't believe Jiddah hadn't said anything when she purchased the material. And Jiddah's aunt in Kandahar had fashioned the niqabs and abayas for her without a word of caution? And all the outrageous undies she wore! And worse: didn't wear! "Oh, gawd," she repeated, and thought: Mohammed Khan and the other elders must figure I'm a sharmoota! No wonder The Djinn wants me banished from the country.

"Nobody's complained have they?" Flynn said, obviously unconcerned, and still milking her anguish.

"Complained? I think demanding my exile qualifies as a complaint."

"Aw c'mon, Julie. Relax. It only shows when the lighting is optimum. And I'm pretty sure The Djinn and those other boys have got bigger things on their minds than your rear end," Flynn said, but then added, "They must... 'cause you've got the cutest little derriere possible." He smiled broadly.

"Flynn!" She punched his shoulder. "I'm from Veerona. I'm supposed to be reserved, modest. Instead, I'm the village joke."

"Trust me, kid, you're definitely no joke. And Afghani or whatever, you've got to walk in your own shoes... all of us do. You're a sexy, spunky, attractive woman. If somebody is uncomfortable with that, it's their problem, not yours."

Julie gave him a peck on the cheek, patted his shoulder better. She said, "Well, thank you for saying that... but still."

Flynn said, "Oh, and by the way, I'd say it's closer to literally bare-assed rather than virtually." He laughed and dodged her right cross.

Later, curled in her bedroll, spooned against Flynn –after she had come to terms with the fact she was Veerona's resident ho'– a more unsettling notion struck Julie: Was there more to Flynn's buoyant mood besides her transparent wardrobe? Like, gold maybe? Had he accepted The Djinn's payoff? Would he attempt to spirit her out of the country, against her will, in return for the gold? Flynn had told her, straight up, his goal was to get money and get out of Afghanistan. How low would he crawl to reach that goal?

She answered her own question: Flynn Montague is a soldier of fortune; he'll kill for money; abduction wouldn't faze him one iota, no regrets. That's what you get for sleeping with the enemy, she admonished herself.

These troubling thoughts dogged Julie as she fell into a restless sleep.