Foreign Agent

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For Scottie Schwimer — the world’s best entertainment attorney and an even better friend. Thank you for everything you have done for me.

At six-foot-four, two hundred seventy-five pounds, Ken Berglund was a massive sight to behold. He had a thick, blond beard and sleeves of tattoos up both arms. “T-bones are almost ready,” he called out.

A cheer arose from his teammates in the courtyard and from the women who had gathered around the old stone slab being used as a dining table. Someone fired up a Charlie Daniels song on their iPhone as more beers were pulled from the cooler.

It was a perfect night for a cookout. Above the abandoned desert fortress, the stars shone in the blue-black sky, a cool breeze blew away the lingering heat of the day, and for a moment you could almost forget where you were.

That was until you noticed the modified M4 rifles kept within arm’s reach, or the .45-caliber pistols the men carried at their hips. As soon as you saw those, the illusion was shattered. Nobody gunned up that heavy for dinner unless they were in a war zone. Which was exactly where they were.

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