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There were only three people aboard the dropship. The pilot, Feek, who was acting as jump master, and Lance Corporal Jim Raynor. Tychus had offered to come along and shove his friend into the abyss, but Raynor had declined.

Five extremely busy days had passed since his meeting with Tychus, and now, with Colonel Vanderspool's blessing, Raynor was about to drop into Kel-Morian-held territory alone. It was a stupid, stupid thing to do, and he knew that now. But maybe, just maybe, the mission was a way to atone for stealing the trucks. And it was something he knew his parents would be proud of.

One thing was for sure—there would be no turning back, since the blacked-out transport was already over enemy territory. Raynor had taken the utmost care to learn everything he could about the Kel-Morian prisoner he would be impersonating. Fortunately, they were about the same height and had similar builds. Raynor had watched intelligence officers interrogate the pilot via a closed circuit feed, and had been given access to his personal property as well, which included the contents of his fone. So Raynor knew all sorts of things about Dietrich Hagar, including his wife's name, how many children he had, and what kind of music he liked. Would it be enough? No, not if the Kel-Morians scanned his retinas, but there was little chance of that. From what the captured pilot said, they were so short on tech supplies, scanners were nearly impossible to find. All he had to do was play his role right, and there wouldn't be any doubt as to who he was.

One thing was for sure—there would be no turning back, since the blacked-out transport was already over enemy territory.

Raynor was trying to focus on remembering his alter ego's story, but his mind was swirling with worry. The dropship was flying in from the west as a half-dozen Avengers were conducting a raid a few miles to the south as a diversion. Would the KMs notice the additional blip on their screens? Yes, they would, but Raynor and the crew were taking a gamble that the dropship would come off their list of threats as soon as it turned back.

Feek came back to see him. The technician's visor was open so Raynor could see his expression. What was it anyway? Admiration? Pity? Or some combination of the two? He would never know. "We're five minutes out," Feek said. "It's time to get in position and start your final check."

"Thanks," Raynor said. He was already standing up. Having shuffled forward to the point where the rectangular-shaped black abyss awaited him, it was time to run a last check on the suit. Here's your chance, an inner voice said. If there's something wrong with your suit you can't jump. Nobody would question that.

But another voice could be heard as well. And it belonged to his father. "A lie is like an infection, son. . . . It burrows deep inside and makes you sick."

Everything was pitch-black. There were no visual cues to go by other than the displays on his HUD.

Besides, there were the POWs to think about, and the memory of the way Hobarth looked was enough to strengthen Raynor's resolve. So Raynor ran one last check, saw all of the indicators come up green, and gave a thumbs-up to Feek. He nodded, the pilot said, "Good luck" over the intercom, and it was time to close his visor as the final countdown began. He could see it on his HUD and hear it in his ears. "Five, four, three, two, one."

Knowing how important timing was going to be, Raynor started moving on three, was halfway through the hatch on two, and in freefall as the countdown hit "one." Everything was pitch-black. There were no visual cues to go by other than the displays on his HUD. But practice made perfect, and Raynor was pleased to discover that his body knew what to do. As the altimeter in the upper left hand corner of his vision continued to unwind, he was head over feet and stable.

When the jet pack came on, it felt as though he were being propelled upward, but only for a moment, as the CMC-230 E began to slow, and surface winds threatened to tip him over. But Raynor knew how to compensate, and did so, as the thrust continued to increase and a ghostly green landscape began to populate his HUD.

However, there wasn't any time to admire the view as the ground rushed up, Raynor flexed his knees, and the hardskin did likewise. Then came the impact as his boots hit, the jet pack shut itself off, and he was down. Ironically, it was the best landing he had ever executed day or night, and there wasn't anyone around to appreciate his accomplishment.

Well, there wasn't supposed to be anyone, but the possibility of bad luck was always a factor, and Raynor took a quick look around to ensure that he hadn't come down right on top of a KM patrol. But there was no sign of anything other than a glowing green animal that eyed him for a moment before scurrying away.

Satisfied that he was safe, for the moment at least, it was time to look for a suitable hiding place. After casting about for a bit, Raynor came across a depression and went about the clumsy process of lying down in it. Which, given the jet pack on his back, was more like leaning on something rather than lying flat.

Then it was time to exit his armor. Raynor chinned a control, opened a latch, and was rewarded with a hissing sound as the hardskin opened and pressures were equalized. Raynor pushed the top half aside, kicked his way free of the control interfaces, and struggled to his feet. With only a Kel-Morian flight suit to protect him, the night air was cold.

But there was work to do, beginning with the need to arm a self-destruct system that would destroy both the CMC-230 E and everything within a twenty-foot radius were someone to tamper with it. With that out of the way, it was time to cover the hardskin with a thin sheet of protective camo cloth and a layer of loose rocks to keep the rig from being discovered. That took Raynor more than an hour and left him feeling as tired as Hellhound pilot Ras Hagar would be after seven days of making his way out of the zone.

And the fact that he hadn't showered or shaved for that same period of time would support his story. If he got to tell it. But first he had a five-mile hike to complete. That was the bad news. The good news was that there was a seldom-used mining road he could follow that would take him to a point within half a mile of the POW camp. Plus he had a compass and a pair of KM-manufactured night-vision goggles with a built-in compass to help him find his way.

Raynor ate an energy bar, took a moment to wash it down with a swallow of water, and set off. Now, as the second phase of his mission began, the night was his armor.

After jumping out of a dropship while wearing experimental combat armor and hiking five miles cross-country, Raynor should have been tired. But after talking his way into the Kel-Morian POW camp, he was so high on adrenaline he felt as if he could run for twenty miles straight. He felt as though he could see better, hear better, and even taste better. So far, Raynor's disguise was working.

Having been escorted from the north gate to the command center where he'd been given a place to sit down, he was sipping a glass of water when a door slammed and a Kel-Morian entered the office. The man's stooped shoulders made him appear shorter than he actually was, and given the way his head tilted forward, it appeared as if there was something wrong with his neck. "Airman Hagar?" the man inquired, as he regarded Raynor from under bushy brows. "I'm Taskmaster Lumley. Overseer Brucker would be honored if you would join him in the dining room."

Dining room? Raynor was surprised to hear that the POW camp had one. But he forced a smile as he stood. "Of course!" he said agreeably. "Although I fear I am far from presentable."

As the second phase of his mission began, the night was his armor.

"The overseer understands," Lumley said with the surety of the family retainer that he was. "Please follow me." Raynor thanked the man who had seen to his needs thus far—and followed Lumley through a door and into the private quarters beyond. He was immediately struck by the quality of the furnishings, the subdued lighting, and the music that grew steadily louder the farther they went.

But even with something of a lead-in, Raynor wasn't prepared for the scene that greeted him as Lumley led him into the dining room. The huge, fat man who rose to greet him, the richly set table, and the animated skeletons who occupied one of the corners were like elements in a bad dream. Raynor had practiced coming to attention Kel-Morian style, and was just about to do so, when his host turned to extend a pudgy hand. "There you are, my boy!" Brucker said heartily. "I'm Overseer Brucker. . . . Welcome to Internment Camp-36."

Brucker's grip was soft and slightly damp, and he held on for one second too long for Raynor's comfort. He was glad when the contact was broken. "Thank you, sir. . . . I'm very glad to be here, as you can imagine. Three Avengers jumped me over the zone. I nailed one of the bastards, but the others put me down."

But while Brucker wasn't a handsome man, Raynor sensed that he was a dangerous one . . . something that was evident in the other man's stony eyes. They glittered with intelligence as they darted here and there, and Raynor felt himself start to sweat.

"Three to one," Brucker said disapprovingly, as his already florid face grew even darker. "That's the kind of scum we're dealing with! Still, you showed them! Well done, lad. . . . Well done."

Brucker was shorter than Raynor by a good three inches. A few strands of brown hair had been combed over an otherwise bald pate, and little beads of perspiration could be seen on his heavily creased forehead.

But while Brucker wasn't a handsome man, Raynor sensed that he was a dangerous one . . . something that was evident in the other man's stony eyes. They glittered with intelligence as they darted here and there, and Raynor felt himself start to sweat. "Thank you, sir. I'm afraid my boss will be far less understanding, however!"

Brucker laughed, just as he was supposed to, and gestured to a new place setting. "Please . . . you must be hungry. I have already eaten, so I hope you won't mind dining alone while I go out to make the evening rounds. Lumley will see to your needs."

Raynor felt a tremendous sense of relief. He'd been dreading the prospect of a prolonged conversation with the man. "That's very thoughtful of you, sir," Raynor replied, as he sat down."

You're welcome," Brucker said, as he shuffled toward the door. "I'll see you in the morning."

Moments later the overseer was gone—and Raynor turned toward the POWs. They looked back at him with carefully blanked faces as their bows sawed, music flowed, and time seemed to slow. Raynor was faced with an important choice. Would he have a chance to pass the word the following day? Or was this the best opportunity he would get?

Knowing that Lumley might arrive with food at any moment, Raynor glanced at the doorway and confirmed that it was empty. Then, having made his decision, he turned toward the quartet and spoke in a hushed voice. "Listen carefully. . . . I have a message from Captain Hobarth. . . ." He glanced again at the doorway, then continued, articulating every syllable to make his message absolutely clear. "Tomorrow night, at 2300 hours, be ready."

Eyes widened at the mention of Hobarth's name, and one of the men had just opened his mouth as if to speak when Brucker reentered the room. He was faster on his feet this time, and three armed guards followed him in. Raynor thought about reaching for the pistol tucked under his left arm—but knew that doing so would be suicidal. "Place your hands on top of your head," Brucker growled, as a taskmaster hurried forward to snatch the handgun out of its holster.

"There," Brucker said, once Raynor had been disarmed." That's better. . . . It looks as though the enemy sent a spy to Internment Camp-36! Perhaps next time they will do their homework. Let me tell you something about the fraternity of Hellhound pilots, my Confederate friend. . . . Do you see this?" Brucker demanded as he held up his right hand. The "HH" outline on his palm was vague, but a permanent groove seemed to have formed after years of wear. "Each pilot has two side-by-side steel H's implanted into the palm of his hand once he qualifies. As a result you can feel the raised area when you shake hands with them. I guess your handlers must have missed that. It's a shame you're going to die before you get the chance to tell them."

"I guess your handlers must have missed that. It's a shame you're going to die before you get the chance to tell them."

Raynor offered no response, nor was one expected.

Brucker turned to the taskmaster. "Take him to the wet room. I'll be there shortly."

The guards hauled Raynor out of the room, and Brucker was about to follow when he remembered the POWs. He paused to look back. "You played well tonight . . . not perfectly but well. You have my permission to clean up the scraps." And with that he left.

The POWs stood, looked at each other, and shuffled toward the head of the table. One by one they spit on Brucker's dessert plate before passing through the door on their way back to the bleak buildings where they spent each night. Would the spy tell Brucker what he had told them? Yes, that was the way of things at KIC-36, and the dark-haired stranger would be grateful when death came for him.