Afghanistan, on the outskirts of the Hindu Kush Mountains.
Windblown sand struck the Toyota pickup's windows with a gritty hiss. The temperature approached forty-five degrees Celsius, and the intense heat refracted the air, warping the distant Gobi wasteland like a mirage.
Yang Ming parked beneath a sheltered rock face. He killed the engine, pushed open the door, and planted his combat boots on the scorching gravel.
A tightly bound man lay in the pickup's bed. His robe was tattered, his face covered in a thick beard, and a bullet wound pierced his shoulder blade.
He was an outer-perimeter patrolman from the Ten Rings whom Yang Ming had "happened upon" on the road ten minutes earlier.
Yang Ming grabbed the man by the back of his collar with one hand, dragged him like a sack of inferior potatoes, and dumped him in the shade beneath the rock face.
"Say something I can understand." Yang Ming crouched down, his tone flat.
The man raised his head and spat out a rapid stream of Pashto, along with blood and saliva. His words were frantic and furious, laced with local profanity and curses.
Yang Ming could not understand him. He had been a surgeon in his previous life, and most of his language studies had consisted of Latin medical terminology. There was no need to learn the language of a man who would soon be a corpse.
"Language barriers really are the greatest challenge in international consultations." Yang Ming sighed.
He took a photograph from the inside pocket of his trench coat. He had clipped it from a newspaper before coming here-a color photo of the playboy Tony Stark at a charity dinner, with a woman on either arm.
Yang Ming thrust the photo in front of the man's eyes, pointed at the person