Prologue PROLOGUE KABUL—AUGUST 19, 2021
Nezam stacked a few bricks and squirted lighter fluid on some wood chips. He clicked open a Zippo and lit the pile. Flames jumped up in a small fire.

Morning light was just beginning to spread over the neighborhood; the power had been off all night. At one point, he had sat in his uncle’s car in the dark, his powered-down iPhone plugged into the charger. The sporadic choppa of Kalashnikov rifles had subsided. The silence was eerie.

His phone was still off as he huddled by the fire. One at a time, he fed sheets of paper into the flames. With all the cooking fires in the neighborhood, the smoke wouldn’t draw attention. The papers were colorfully adorned with commando crests, Afghan and American flags, skulls pierced with daggers, scorpions, helicopters, rifles. They praised Nezam in English or Dari. They were signed by commanders—no last names. SF Dave. Captain Rob. There was the Defense Language Institute English course. Commando Kandak Certificates of Achievement. Letters of recommendation from a 75th Ranger Regiment battalion commander.

It was Nezam’s life that was going up in flames. It was everything the Afghan National Army recruiter in Takhar had told him he was too small to be. It was everything that made him stand tall against his corrupt uncle back home. It was what the fat mess hall sergeant had tried to lock him away from becoming.

In a way, however, maybe they’d been right. They were just looking at it the wrong way. It wasn’t Nezam who couldn’t do it—it was Afghanistan.

The papers burned. But they were only symbols.

He was still an elite special operator.

Besides, he had copies. He’d uploaded the documents to a cloud account belonging to several of his U.S. friends, just in case.

But then Nezam pulled out his graduation certificate from the Q Course at Fort Bragg. And the orders authorizing him to wear the blue and gold “long tab” emblazoned with SPECIAL FORCES.

I can’t do it, he thought.

He folded up this and a few other original American documents, tucked them deep in his shirt, and poured water over the embers. Black smoke wafted skyward. Looking up, he noticed an old mujahideen staring at him from beyond a row of hedges twenty-five feet away. One of the neighborhood guys he played chess with. Did he see me burning papers? Does he know who I am?

Nezam smiled and placed his right hand over his heart, the common greeting among Afghans, waiting for a reaction. The mujahideen slowly lifted his palm to his own chest, a silent salaam, and shuffled out of sight.

The old warrior had given his blessing.

A few moments later, Nezam powered on his phone. A flood of messages popped up, ones that had been sent hours earlier.

One caught his eye.

MULLAH MIKE

Brother, it’s time to go.