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Автор Кэти Райх

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DEDICATED TO

Susan Moldow

Sage publisher, cat-lover, and cherished friend

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

First and foremost I offer profound thanks to every member of the United States military, past, present, and future. The steadfast dedication, courage, and strength of our troops inspired this book.

Heartfelt thanks to the USO (United Service Organizations) and the ITW (International Thriller Writers) for making possible my trip to Kyrgyzstan and Afghanistan. The camaraderie and patience of my fellow travelers—Sandra Brown, Mark Bowden, Clive Cussler, Andrew Peterson, Jeremy Wilcox, and Mike Theiler—made the long flights, early mornings, and late nights infinitely easier than they might otherwise have been. A special shout-out to Andrew Peterson and Andy Harp for answering dozens of follow-up questions.

Dr. William C. Rodriguez and Dr. Sue Black helped with details of forensic anthropology.

I appreciate the continued support of Chancellor Philip L. Dubois of the University of North Carolina–Charlotte.

Sincere thanks to my agent, Jennifer Rudolph-Walsh, and to my editors, Nan Graham and Susan Sandon.

I am eternally indebted to Susan Moldow. I hope the dedication says it all.

I also want to acknowledge all those who work so very hard on my behalf, including: Paul Whitlatch, Roz Lippel, Lauren Lavelle, Daniel Burgess, Tal Goretzky, Kara Watson, Greg Mortimer, Mia Crowley-Hald, Erich Hobbing, Simon Littlewood, Glenn O’Neill, Caitlin Moore, Tim Vanderpump, Jen Doyle, Emma Finnigan, Maggie Shapiro, Tracy Fisher, Michelle Feehan, Cathryn Summerhayes, and Raffaella De Angelis, and the whole rambunctious Canadian crew.

I thank my family and friends for tolerating my moods and absences. Paul Reichs’s comments on the Marine Corps, JAG, and the Article 32 process, and on the manuscript in general, were tremendously useful.

If I left anyone out, I apologize. If the book contains errors, they are my fault.

PROLOGUE

HEART POUNDING, I CRAWLED TOWARD the brick angling down to form the edge of the recess. Craned out.

More footfalls. Then heavy boots appeared at the top of the stairs, beside them a pair of small feet, one bare, the other in a platform pump.

The feet started to descend, the small ones wobbly, their owner somehow impaired. The lower legs angled oddly, suggesting the knees bore little weight.

Anger burned hot in my chest. The woman was drugged. The bastard was dragging her.