Autorentext

Tom Clancy was the #1 New York Times bestselling author of more than eighteen books. He died in October 2013.

Don Bentley spent a decade as an Army Apache helicopter pilot, and while deployed in Afghanistan was awarded the Bronze Star and the Air Medal with "V" device for valor. Following his time in the military, Bentley worked as an FBI special agent focusing on foreign intelligence and counterintelligence and was a Special Weapons and Tactics (SWAT) team member.

Klappentext

Jack Ryan, Jr., will do anything for a friend, but this favor will be paid for in blood in the latest electric entry in the #1 New York Times bestselling series.

Jack Ryan Jr would do anything for Ding Chavez. That's why Jack is currently sitting in an open air market in Israel helping a CIA team with a simple job. The man running the mission, Peter Beltz, is an old friend from Ding's army days. Ding hadn't seen his friend since Peter's transfer to the CIA eighteen months prior and intended to use the assignment to reconnect. Unfortunately, Ding had to cancel at the last minute and asked Jack to take his place. It's a cushy assignment--an all expense paid trip to Israel in exchange for a couple hours of easy work, but Jack could use the downtime after his last operation.

Jack is here merely as an observer, but when he hastens to help a woman and her young son, he finds himself the target of trained killers. Alone and outgunned Jack will have to use all his skills to protect the life of the child.

Leseprobe

Prologue
Al Tanf Outpost, Syria
 
               “Why are we here again?” Master Sergeant Cary Marks said, shifting his weight for what seemed like the hundredth time.
The two-man sniper hide site Cary and his spotter were nestled beneath offered a number of advantages to its occupants, not the least of which being near invisibility in both the thermal and visual spectrums.  It was the closest thing to a Harry Potter cloak he’d seen in his decade and a half of service with 5th Special Forces Group. 
But for all the hide site’s technical prowess, it still didn’t make the Syrian soil any more comfortable.
“Because we’re Special Forces,” Sergeant First Class Jad Mustafa said, tuning the focus on his M151 spotting scope.  “That means we get to do special shit.”
As always, Jad’s gift of understatement had reared its ugly head.  Special shit didn’t come anywhere close to capturing the pure and unadulterated joy that had been the last twelve hours.  Per the techniques, tactics, and procedures Cary and his fellow long tabbers had perfected during their countless combat deployments in support of the never-ending war on terror, he and Jad had infiltrated about 0300 local time. 
This hour was not randomly chosen.  At this time of year BMNT, or Begin Morning Nautical Twilight, was at 0500.  This was the time of day when the human eye could start to discern objects from shadows.  This was important for a number of reasons chief of which being that even after thousands of years of civilization, human beings were still attuned to the world around them.  Though they might not recognize it as such, the average person’s circadian rhythms programmed them to feel restless around dawn. 
With that in mind, Cary and Jad had wormed their way into the shallow depression they now occupied while the rest of the world was fast asleep.  And while the rocky soil and surrounding scrub brush had provided exactly the hide hole they’d been hoping for, the accommodations were not exactly five star. 
The two men had made camp on a sand flea nest. 
A large one.

Green Berets might be renowned for their ability to destroy enemy forces much larger than their organic twelve-man A-teams, but this was a different kind of battle.  Cary had been waging a bloody war of attrition against the little beasties, but the pecker fleas were winning.
 “Goddamn it, Jad,” Cary said, trying to ignore the burning sensation dangerously close to his right testicle.  “Can’t you just call up some of your cousins and figure this out?”
“Hey now,” Jad said.  “Just because a bunch of biters are munching their way up your leg doesn’t mean you need to get all cranky.  Besides, I’m Libyan, not Syrian, you uneducated hick.”
The language exchanged between the two special operators was harsh, but the sentiment behind it was anything but.  The two men couldn’t have looked more different.  Cary Marks was a blue eyed, blond haired farm boy from New England whose vowels gave away his Yankee roots under moments of duress.  Jad Mustafa’s dark complexion and SoCal surfer accent made him Cary’s polar opposite.  Jad was suave where Cary was simple, and Jad’s teammates often kidded him about being a SEAL in disguise due to his affinity for hair gel and fashionable clothes.  
But despite their differences, the men were opposite sides of the same coin.  Physically, their years serving on an Operational Detachment Alpha, or ODA, team had given them bodies uniquely suited to their type of work.  Both boasted wide shoulders, broad backs, and well developed chests complimented by an endurance athlete’s lung capacity. 
Mentally, the pair were even more alike.  Though each man’s upbringing and cultural heritage was radically different, this wasn’t important.  As with most men and women who served in the armed forces, and certainly those within the special operations community, differences in skin color and nationality ceased to matter long ago.  In the Army there was but a single skin color—green—and just one blood type—red. 
After half a dozen shared combat deployments, Cary and Jad were brothers in a way that superseded such trivial matters as birth parents or family lineage.  Theirs was a familial bond conceived in the most arduous training the military offered, birthed in the fires of combat, and nurtured into the bone deep trust only shared by men who’ve guarded each other’s backs as bullets whipped past their heads. 
The two Green Berets might pick at each other, but woe to the uninformed observer who tried to come between them.        
“That’s funny,” Cary said, panning his Sig Sauer TANGO6T Riflescope across his sector, “’cause when we were in Iraq, I’m pretty damn sure you said you were Lebanese.”
 “That’s because you listen about as well as you shoot.  Which we both know is for shit.  Without me as your spotter, you’d—wait a minute now.  Boss, I think I’ve got something.”
The change in Jad’s tone was unmistakable.  Though Cary had whiled away countless uncomfortable hours shoulder to shoulder with his barrel-chested spotter in more combat theatres than he cared to count, the half Lebanese, half Syrian and all American Green Beret knew not to mix business with pleasure. 
As soon as Jad started referring to Cary as boss the time for joking was over.
“Whatcha got, brother?” Cary said. 
“Convoy of three land cruisers headed toward the front gate.  Shift three hundred meters west of point Alpha and you’ll see ‘em.”
Cary swung his rifle to the prescribed azimuth and turned on the laser range finder mounted to his scope ring.  In that instant, the stifling heat, glaring sun, tired muscles, and even the merciless pecker fleas gnawing t…