“Fuck me.”

Mike Harmon, AKA Michael James, AKA Duncan Michaels and currently Mike Jenkins or “Kildar”, was thirty-seven years old, brown of hair and eye, medium height with a muscular build and a face that, while slightly handsome, was also so “normal” that he could pass as a local in just about any Indo-European culture from the US to Northern India. That trait, and an almost prescient talent for silent-kill, had earned him the nickname “Ghost” while on the SEAL teams. After sixteen years as a SEAL, most of it spent as an instructor, he had found himself unable to readjust to team life, gotten out and gone to college. Since then his life had taken so many weird turns that he had ended up as a feudal lord in the country of Georgia. With a harem, no less. Oh, and with every terrorist on earth searching for his head. Which was why he never used the name “Ghost” or “Jenkins” except around a very few, very close, friends.

Mike was sitting on the summit of Mount Sumri, drinking in the cold, heady air of the high mountains and just taking a look around. He’d taken to climbing the mountain every few days as a way to get exercise and some time away from his various duties.