Afghan Storm

(Nick Woods, No. 3)

By Stan R. Mitchell

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author.

Copyright © 2015

Fifth Edition

Edited by Emily Akin

Cover by Danah Mitchell

All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by U.S. Copyright Law. For information, see website below.

Learn more about Stan R. Mitchell and his

other works at http://stanrmitchell.com.

Foreword

To Danah, the best thing that ever happened to me. Thank you for rescuing me, for healing me, for making me into more than I could have ever been on my own. You are my best friend and my soul mate for life.

And to Capt. Eaton, United States Marine Corps, and Sgt. Major Hill, United States Marine Corps; two men who epitomized leadership and strength, and who made an unforgettable impression on me.

Chapter 1

Present Day -- Just inside Pakistan near the border of Afghanistan

Nick Woods took a knee and wiped the ample sweat from his forehead, adjusting his pack in the cool night air. He made a mental note to thank the gods of war that this was the middle of summer and not the freezing, bone-chilling winter that drove even the tough locals into their compounds and caves.

The three men accompanying him used the short break to adjust gear and sip water while Nick’s brain worked in overdrive as he scanned his sector. He was definitely putting his men out on a limb this time -- more so than when he had led the assault on the Mexican slum of Neza-Chalco-Itza just six months ago.

The unit’s overall mission, this time, was as simple as it had been in Mexico: take down Rasool Deraz, a venerable elder who inspired hundreds of Taliban and al Qaeda fighters across the country and into Pakistan.

Over the years, Rasool Deraz had grown so powerful that most analysts and several computer simulations reported that under his leadership the Taliban would soon topple the Afghan government. And America felt that it had invested too much in the past fourteen years to allow the Taliban to once again assume control of Afghanistan.

Thus, Nick’s company -- Shield, Safeguard, and Shelter, or S3 -- had been contracted by the Afghan government to ostensibly provide training for their police force and consult with the government at the highest levels to assist them in reducing the threat from the Taliban. Or, at least that’s what it looked like on paper. S3, however, wasn’t just some private security firm. In reality, S3 was an arm of the CIA. A private company that filed annual paperwork and paid its taxes, which helped create enough distance to allow the U.S. government complete deniability.

S3’s job in Afghanistan had nothing to do with training the police. Although Nick and his band of headhunters had severely limited resources, the plan was simple: find Deraz, shoot Deraz, and hopefully set the Taliban back as much as they could.

However, actually executing the plan would prove to be no small challenge.

So far, they had made it past their first obstacle. The four men of S3 had snuck across the border of Afghanistan and into Pakistan nearly an hour ago with no problems. That, of course, was the easy part. But now, on this side of the border, they were completely on their own. Just four men with no chance of backup, air support, or extraction. In fact, the only guarantee they were given was that America would deny any ties to S3 if they were captured or killed.

You sure know how to dig a deep hole, Nick thought to himself.

But, at least he had brought three of his best men with him. He had Marcus, the tall, commanding Marine drill instructor, who served as his right-hand man. He had Truck, the merciless, insubordinate Special Forces trooper, who had seen as much combat as any man alive. And he had Red, the cocky, quick-tempered Marine, who carried a trainload of fight on his 5’5” frame. Red was also one of the best point men Nick had ever encountered.

Their objective on this raid was to infiltrate forty-plus miles into Pakistan (moving only in darkness). They would travel along a moderate mountain range, trekking at higher altitudes to avoid detection. Thankfully, this wasn’t the Hindu Kush mountain range, which spanned as high as 20,000 feet. Instead, this range had much lower elevations, being as Nick and his team were crossing into Pakistan roughly 100 miles south of Khost. That mean much lower elevations, which were much easier to traverse.

At the end of this forty-mile journey into one of the most dangerous countries in the world, they planned to raid a single compound and locate a man named Ahmud al-Habshi.

Ahmud al-Habshi was the primary communications man for the Taliban. Therefore, his private compound promised computers, probably several servers, and loads of files. Essentially, it was a smorgasbord, a tide-turning honey hole, of invaluable intelligence.

Then there was Ahmud al-Habshi himself, who knew the habits, movements, and possibly every hiding spot used by Rasool Deraz. Nick Woods and his three S3 shooters planned to wake him up late one night and take him on a one-way field trip to Afghanistan. If they failed, a drone strike would quickly silence al-Habshi, but it would in turn also destroy tons of evidence and any chance of taking down Rasool Deraz.

Thus, it was critical that Nick and S3 properly execute this raid. Failing to capture the intel from al-Habshi and eventually take down Deraz would certainly doom Afghanistan.

Deraz was seen as a respected leader and legend by the people in Afghanistan, most of whom supported him. Blessed with high esteem and a nation’s loyalty, his power and reach were difficult to fathom.

With just a few words delivered by messenger, Deraz could call upon local fighters among the people, who would spring up and strike an Afghan compound before disappearing into the countryside.

And the strength of Deraz knew no bounds. He had supporters in the countryside. He had supporters in the farmlands. He had supporters in the cities.

Without question, Rasool Deraz was the spiritual leader for many of the Afghan people, and Nick and S3 had to find a way to take him down or Afghanistan was doomed.

Chapter 2

Only two hours later, and the fun and enthusiasm had definitely worn off.

Now it was just dirty, grueling work, pure and simple. Each man hauled an 80-pound pack, a 20-pound assault vest, and a 5-gallon water jug (another 40 pounds) that had to be carried by hand. Even their trusty rifles had become burdens no longer welcomed.

No amount of training could prepare you for continuous slogging across such rough terrain. Steep slopes covered in loose rock in the dark made for a very strenuous and slow pace. For the men of S3, real-life missions such as these also meant they were constantly being forced to stop and take a knee to reposition gear, check their surroundings, or simply remove a stray rock wedged deep in a boot tread. And then there were the full-out halts at the slightest detection of any movement or sound that forced them all the way down into the prone.

So far, Nick and his S3 entourage had heard a lot more than they’d actually seen. The area was known for quite the array of wildlife, some of which were often large and catlike. So the sudden rustle or the cascading of rocks was a common occurrence. Luckily, almost every incident, after further inspection at the evidence (paw prints, a startled bird’s cry, scat, and other fecal material) was agreed to have been animal-based. Apparently, four over-loaded and heavily armed men stumbling across a mountain top worked wonders when it came to deterring curious wildlife.

But then there had been a few close calls of the human variety. This was a very rural area, and its inhabitants were not scared of the treacherous terrain or predatory creatures that came out after dark.

There had been the occasional stray, unarmed villager, including a set of young boys, both no more than ten, playing a game that involved whacking each other with sticks. It would have been a pleasant moment if the damn kids, so enthusiastically lost in their play, hadn’t chased one another all over the hill, and at one point gotten close enough that Nick and his men were forced to fall back and hold until the boys tired of their antics and left.

They had also spotted several goatherders, who thankfully seemed to prefer managing their flocks in the lower lying areas. Perhaps they were avoiding predators or working their goats back home.

However, there had been one very unique exception. After a good hour without seeing another human soul, they suddenly spotted a particularly hearty goatherder literally hopping up the daunting slopes with apparent ease all the while singing a peppy tune. Based on the numerous inserted “baa’s,” Nick guessed the song had been composed by the man himself and in dedication to his much-loved goats.

Nonetheless, all had been oblivious to the four heavily armed, English-speaking men who most certainly didn’t belong in this part of Pakistan.

Still, from a distance and under the cover of darkness, they might have remained safe, if spotted. They had worked hard to make an effort to blend in as much as possible, carrying Communist Bloc weapons and wearing Afghan-style clothing: boots, loose pants, and turbans.

But even with distance and darkness to aid them, it was their packs that could easily give them away. Although theirs were foreign in make, packs, in general, were uncommon in this area. Sure, there was the occasional shoulder bag or belt pouch, but the closest thing to a pack one might see in this part of Pakistan was the random small child’s backpack, maybe. Most families couldn’t even afford those.

And it didn’t help that these particular packs were massive. Any local transporting a load of this size would almost always use a mule, truck, or dirt bike. Even if all a witness could make out was a rough silhouette in the dark, the sheer size and odd shape of the packs could easily draw unwanted attention.

But Nick couldn’t do anything about the packs. He, Marcus, Red, and Truck needed everything from food to water to ammo, and you didn’t go wandering forty miles into a foreign country -- uninvited -- unless you brought along some toys in case you were discovered.

Nick’s back was already screaming in pain, and he was certain his men were hurting, too. Nick raised his fist, signaling a halt. The darkness allowed for hand and arm signals to be passed, as stars and a half-moon shone down unimpeded by clouds or fog.

The men of Shield, Safeguard, and Shelter passed the signal up and down the line, then stopped, spreading into a defensive circle on the side of the steep hill. Each man eased his pack to the ground and sprawled behind it, facing outboard behind their weapons. They reached for canteens and bits of chocolate or other energy snacks.

Nick’s whole body protested loudly -- several hours of hard rucking was tough for a man in his mid-forties -- as he attempted to lay his pack down as quietly as he could. He wanted to rest a few minutes, like his men, but knew he needed to appear unfazed by the three miles they had covered tonight.

Three miles didn’t seem like much, but the unforgiving terrain and need to keep every sense on high alert really took every ounce of energy out of you. Especially when you added in the adrenaline rushes that came from hearing a disturbance or seeing something in your night vision googles.

Despite wanting to rest, Nick heaved himself up and walked toward his point man. He knelt beside Red and put his hand on his shoulder, looking out to their front. The small man was breathing hard and sweating heavily.

“How you holding up?” Nick whispered.

“This ain’t shit,” Red said with a smile.

Nick imagined that the weight they were carrying had to be especially difficult for a man of Red’s size. Being the smallest man on the team meant that proportionally, he was carrying much more than the rest of them.

“Good,” Nick said. “Go ahead and relax a few minutes. Then you and I can check our maps and compare where we think we are.”

“Roger that, boss.”

Feeling his legs and back threaten to mutiny if he attempted to stand from a kneeled position again, Nick made a mental note to stay on his feet as he moved over to Truck. The big man was laid down behind an RPK machine gun. The gun’s bipod legs supported its weight on the front while the rear of the gun lay on its seventy-five round box.

“Hey, Truck. How you holding up?”

“Good. I was wondering if you might give your pack up so I could make this more of a challenge?” the smartass managed to choke out between deep gulps of air.

Nick smiled, shaking his head.

“Yeah, yeah. Now shut your mouth,” Nick said, “or you’ll be carrying three of them.”

“Shit, sir. I’m Special Forces. I could carry three packs plus little Red up there.”

Nick patted Truck on the head and said, “I’m glad you’re on our side. And you better pray that Red didn’t hear that little comment. Because there is no way I’m carrying your big, dead, dumb ass through these mountains.

Lastly, Nick walked up to Marcus, who was leaning against a nearby rock to keep him from squatting and having to stand again.

“How you holding up, man?” Nick asked.

“I’m hurting,” Marcus admitted. “Damn packs are heavy as hell, and I’m twice as big as Red and in way better shape than Truck. We’ll need to keep an eye on them.”

Nick nodded.

“I was thinking the same thing,” Nick said. “I know my back’s killing me, but I’m not some diesel, former linebacker. Tell you what, before we move out, let’s make sure all of us take eight hundred milligrams of ibuprofen to kill the pain and help keep us focused. I know Truck’s probably starting to feel that busted knee about now, too.”

Truck had reinjured his knee five months earlier -- an old football injury that had never fully healed -- but it wasn’t just Truck. All four men were nearly twice the age of most military men, and they’d all been banged up over the years in training or various scrapes.

In truth, all of them were a bit old to be doing this kind of work. They certainly lacked the qualities of younger fighters, but no amount of youthful vigor could make up for the decades’ worth of experience among them.

And there was no question that Nick would always choose seasoned, accomplished fighters over young bucks still trying to prove themselves. Besides it wasn’t like his unit was into parachuting, diving, or any of the other crazy feats elite units had to be capable of doing.

Nick groaned as he pushed himself off the large rock and slipped back to Red’s position. Red was breathing easier and sweating less, the break already doing its trick.

“Ready, Nick?” Red asked.

“Sure,” Nick said.

Red pulled a poncho liner out of his pack and draped it over the two of them. Inside it, they both produced small flashlights, covered by red lenses.

They compared each other’s pace count and azimuth, confirming their location on the map. In the day and age of the GPS, neither man used one. Both had learned that when you relied on GPS, you checked your azimuth and pace count less frequently. And in turn, you paid less attention to your land navigation.

GPSs were a serious crutch that were all too easy to become reliant on, but GPSs broke. Batteries died. Satellites were sometimes not available for accurate triangulation. Armies had made it for centuries without GPSs, and neither of the two veterans wanted to break tradition and chance risky gear. Not to mention tote an unnecessary device and its required batteries.

After determining their position, Red put the poncho liner up and Nick hunched over as he crept back to his pack to rest a few moments. His legs and back ached to the bone and he caught himself guzzling more water than he should.

Part of the thirst came from the fact he was anxious. Nick hated to admit it, but it was true. It was one thing for two scout snipers to sneak into a foreign country, as Nick had against the Soviets numerous times in the ’80s, but quite another to take four heavily weighed down guys. Two men could sneak and hide better, but four required larger hiding places. And larger hides were more obvious and limited. And more likely to be searched by the enemy if they ever detected your presence.

Even now, if the Taliban discovered them, just three miles inside Pakistan, they would be screwed. If one man got hit, it would be all they could do to fight their way back to the border while carrying a man. And even then they’d have to get by the Pakistani army on the border, who would be more alert this time.

Shut up, Nick, he thought to himself. This is how missions fail. You start thinking about all the things that can go wrong, and then you lose your confidence. Before you know it, you lock up with fear. Get in character.

The sound of Marcus approaching broke him from his thoughts.

“Here are those pills,” he said, before handing them to Nick and moving on to the next man.

Nick shook the pills in his hand, placed them in his mouth, and swallowed them with a large gulp of water. He braced himself for the next hour-long leg of the mission. On the bright side, this was physically the hardest it should be. Their packs were heavily laden with water and food, so with every drink and snack consumed, their packs would grow lighter.

Ounces count, Nick thought as he rolled his shoulders, trying to loosen them up.

After everyone was watered and medicated, the team continued on its trek, inching deeper and deeper into enemy territory.

Chapter 3

Hour after hour, the S3 team pushed on. Following one hour of movement, they’d take ten minutes of rest, reorient themselves to their maps, and pick up again.

Although the routine was the same, it now felt like every step was a battle, both physically and mentally. This mission was already much more difficult than any of the men could have anticipated. The realities of their situation and the high potential for failure or even death was quickly sinking in. That realization, in addition to the growing fatigue and unrelentingly harsh elements, had them all headed in a downward spiral of self-doubt. And despite each man’s desperate desire to disguise it, the wear and worries were starting to show.

Truck worried whether his knee would hold up. The pain continued to worsen, and when Nick wasn’t looking, he found himself beginning to limp. On breaks, he’d check the swelling when he knew no one was looking.

Red worried about his senses. A nagging fear had been growing that he really had to do more than see the enemy first. Even a successful firefight without casualties would mean mission failure since it would alert the enemy and attract more fighters. Therefore, he needed to not only see the enemy first but see them so far away that none of the team could be discovered. And in worrying about this, Red failed to realize that his pace had slowed.

Marcus continued to psych himself up, mentally preparing for whatever would come. He was easily the biggest man on the team. Easily the strongest. And he wasn’t toting a machine gun, as Truck was.

Without question, if someone was hit or killed, it would be Marcus carrying him out. And with so much weight already on him, this was something Marcus wasn’t looking forward to. His pack was already testing his limits, and so he took deep breaths and told himself over and over, “This ain’t shit. Nothing can break me. This ain’t shit. Nothing can break me.” Inside this mental repetition, Marcus maintained his stride in rhythm with his words.

Nick Woods fought the impending doom he could feel coming. It reminded him of the time he and his spotter had entered Afghanistan on what would be their final mission. The two had grown used to the dangers, but when they saw their target location had nearly a thousand troops, and not a hundred as they had been told, they knew they were in deep shit. And instantly, a nagging fear had risen up in Nick’s mind that the two men had been betrayed and sold out.

This mission didn’t feel like they had been sold out, but it seemed fraught with things that could go wrong. It’d been so simple on paper back at the base camp, but now Nick grappled with the realities on the ground: how long it took to cover even a short distance, how far they were from assistance, how they had no means to contact reinforcements or air support, and how totally isolated they truly were.

Aside from the threat of literally hundreds of enemy fighters in the area, the biggest thing eating at Nick was the distance and realities of how slow they must move to avoid detection.

Nick realized that Red was moving slower than he had been, which was arguably needed. If they killed one man, others would soon know -- even if they didn't hear the silenced shot. And once they knew, the hunt would be on.

Besides Red’s pace, Nick hadn’t fully considered that moving at night on such steep terrain would make the forty miles feel more like fifty or sixty.

Nothing to be done about it now, he thought. Just keep pushing and dig deep, baby.

Chapter 4

Nick called a halt at 4 a.m. They needed to find a hide before dawn. The team gratefully stacked packs against each other and left Truck with his big RPK machine gun to watch them.

Nick, Red, and Marcus pulled out compasses and headed off in opposite directions to search for a good position. The men had rehearsed this procedure back at base camp. One would go toward twelve o’clock, one toward four o’clock, and one toward eight o’clock. Dividing up would hopefully help them find the best position faster, plus give them more information about their surroundings.

This search procedure was just one of about two dozen SOP actions, or Standard Operating Procedures, that the team had practiced hundreds of times. Hasty ambushes, break contact, reaction to direct fire (and indirect fire), and countless other tactical responses that might prove necessary.

They knew how each man would react, they memorized where each man had stored every single item in each pack, and they had discussed and rehearsed every contingency they could think of.

Twenty minutes later, Red, the last of the three, returned. They huddled in a circle and debated in whispers who had found the best position in as low of tones as they could speak. Truck kept his eyes outward while they discussed their finds.

In the end, they went with Red’s position. He said he’d found a low spot in a gully between two draws. It would barely be defensible, but had the benefit of being almost perfectly hidden. Without another word, they broke the huddle, and the men slipped on their packs for what they hoped would be the last time today. Well, at least for another twelve hours.

Ten minutes later, Red guided them into the place he’d found. Again, without a word, the team set up a hide as they’d rehearsed. Packs were stashed facing outward and low nets were pulled out and staked into the hard ground by boot heels -- the rubber was much quieter than shovels.

Dawn found all four men under the low net, alert. After it was confirmed they were secure, they began two-man watches. Two on watch facing opposite directions, two sleeping.

Nick and Red took the first watch, with Red looking down the hill and Nick looking uphill. Marcus and Truck laid down to get some much needed rest and sleep.

Nick’s mind wouldn't stop racing. He had followed one of the truest maxims in the military: the KISS principle, or “Keep It Simple, Stupid.” Yet as the team lay hidden approximately 4.7 miles inside Pakistan, he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d gone overboard on the KISS principle. After all, the team had only made it about three-quarters of the distance he’d planned for them to make.

Perhaps they should have parachuted in. The CIA had offered to push them through an intense, mission-specific four-week course, but Nick had ruled it out. It held too many dangers, as it was hard to keep the team together. Gear often got separated. Ankles sprained. Legs broke. As a general rule, Nick thought that if you had to parachute in, you should find another way.

Yet there were other options besides parachuting. They could have tried to take a 4x4 truck past the Pakistani army. They could have taken money and tried to bribe their way through a checkpoint, or snuck past sleeping guards. Option three, which Red favored, was killing the guards and making it look like the Taliban had done so. “And if that leads to some Paki-Tali killing afterward, so much the better,” the short man scoffed with a sick grin.

They had also considered silenced, souped-up four wheelers, but that brought up all kinds of possible gear malfunctions, fuel requirements, and possible toolkit needs. Even studying it for a few hours made Nick’s head spin with the possibilities of everything that could go wrong.

Bottom line, Nick was used to walking, and he’d walked into Afghanistan too many times to count back in the day, so walking is what they’d do. And it’d be a hell of a lot of walking before they were done.

Nick tried to shut his mind down and focus on the ground up the hill, looking for any form of movement. He had three of America’s greatest warriors with him, and they were completely committed to one of the riskiest missions in the world. And in the end, the boldness of the plan would either soar or come crashing down on top of them.

Chapter 5

The various watches passed without any major drama. Despite finally making it into a more heavily populated area, the team’s resting position high up in the hills continued to go unnoticed. It was clear that this far into Pakistan, the Taliban had little to no concern about using the roads and open areas as they pleased. And if there was any fear of coalition forces, either air or ground, it certainly didn't show.

All throughout the day the team observed loads of beat-up cars, a couple farm tractors, and lots of foot traffic pass on the road below. Still no one stopped to even glance up into the hills. The Taliban's confidence must have been contagious as it appeared that even the everyday man had no reason to question their safety.

Dusk approached, and Marcus passed out another eight hundred milligram round of ibuprofen. Nick motioned for the men to crawl closer under the net.

“Alright, guys,” he whispered, “tonight we make up for the fact that we’ve covered so little ground today. Red, I want you to step it out, just like it’s an all-out hump.”

Red raised his eyebrows, giving Nick an apprehensive look.

Nick stopped him before he could say a word.

“Look,” Nick said, “all day long we’ve been here, and we’ve seen that nobody is paying attention. And we’ve also seen that nobody is moving this high up the hill. While we needed to move slow last night, close to the border, our chances of running into anybody tonight are slim.”

Nick turned his attention to Truck.

“If your knee can’t take the faster pace, let me know. We’ll slow it down, or even steal a vehicle if we have to.”

The big man nodded.

Nick met each man’s eyes and asked if there were any questions.

Clenching jaws and fidgeting hands were the only response he got. No, there were no questions about the plan. Questions about how the hell they were going to pull this mission off, however, they had those in surplus.

Nick was right there with them. His back and legs were no more improved from the rest. The cover they camped under during the daylight hours was no match for the malicious summer sun. Their water supply was being consumed at an alarming rate and then unavoidably being sweated back out almost twice as fast.

Nothing you can do about it right now, Nick. Just got to keep moving.

As soon as they were cloaked in the night’s dark, Nick helped his team to tear down and stow the netting, wishing he could stow his worries away just as easily.

That night, they pushed harder than the previous night. Now with the realization that the Taliban wasn’t looking for foreign troops, they were able to move faster. They crossed deep gullies, angled draws, and steep fingers. They walked as fast as the terrain allowed, trudging, slipping, and cursing when it worked against them.

Several times they paused for possible sightings, and Red and Nick would scan the area with their night vision goggles (NVGs), but each time proved to be a false alarm. Before daybreak, they scouted for a hide, then assembled their nets to lay under.

And for four more days they followed this pattern. Push hard at night, stop with enough time to scout a hide, then attempt to physically recover in the day under camouflage cover. Each night they covered 4.0 to 5.0 miles.

Nick lay under the net around noon on the seventh day, keeping watch and feeling like the day was creeping by slower than a single drip could fill a barrel. Now taking stock of their situation, Nick saw that there were more problems than solutions. The heat was burning them in more ways than one. The massive supply of water they had lugged in seemed to be evaporating before their eyes, and the sun relentlessly drained what little energy they had left.

To make things worse, that hellish, oven-like temperature was keeping them from getting the sleep they so desperately needed. The four men of Shield, Safeguard, and Shelter looked rough, to say the least.

Their bodies reeked, and their clothes were filthy, ripped, and stained. Nick figured he had lost more than ten pounds, and he really didn’t have ten pounds to lose. The sweat, the sleep deprivation, and the inability to keep up his muscle mass from a diet now solely comprised of dried fruits and meats -- all had sapped his body and knocked him down from his optimum operating condition.

Any more than three more days of this and Nick knew the men would arrive gaunt and weak. Like men who had survived a hundred-mile march. Granted, their forty miles didn’t come close to that, but with the crushing amount of gear they had to carry and their need to be alert -- not a day passed when their adrenaline didn’t spike three or four times from some false alarm -- it might as well have been.

And it wasn’t like they’d arrive at their destination and be greeted by a finish line, cheering supporters, and plenty of rest. Instead, they’d arrive and be forced to fight and make perfect split-second decisions, or they’d all be dead within hours after firing the first shot.

Besides the exhaustion, Nick also knew they were all increasingly banged up. A twisted ankle here, a throbbing knee there, and that didn’t take into account the bumps, scrapes, and bruises each had collected in spades.

Nick realized his plans to cover the distance on foot had erred on what their conditioning could endure. Sure, they were in the top three or four percent of athletes in the world in terms of physical conditioning, but the mission required more than Nick had ever dreamed when he drew it up on paper.

The terrain -- the ups and downs, the slanted slopes, the loose rocks, the requirement to only move at night -- all had slowed them down and made Nick and Marcus’s conservative estimates on distance per night seem like a naive, unrealistic wager made by some drunk and desperate gambler on the Las Vegas strip.

S3 would reach their objective, and they’d be ready to fight, but it was going to be pretty ugly. And that was best case.

Chapter 6

Disaster struck on the following night, just three days away from their destination. It was as if Nick’s fears had cast a line baited for trouble, and then caught a whole school of it. Actually, loads of it.

The four men had barely covered a mile in the dark when Red, ahead on point, signaled for a halt mid-stride.

Nick watched as the little man’s body went completely rigid then slowly inched downward. Attempting to silently crouch with nearly one-hundred pounds of gear working against you was no small feat.

As soon as the bottom of his water jug brushed the ground, Red released it and used his hands to help him take a knee without pitching forward under the weight. Without even looking to Nick for instruction, Red lowered all the way prone while keeping his gaze locked ahead of him.

He didn’t even bother to take his pack off. Going prone with that kind of crushing burden was never something you did by choice.

Nick, in the second position, froze. He moved as slow as he could and passed the signal back to Truck and Marcus in the rear of the formation. Red remained motionless for nearly three minutes, which felt more like three hours in the quiet, night air.

Red’s behavior was so uncharacteristic that Nick avoided moving at all. With the way Red was acting, any sound could be devastating. Finally, Red pushed himself up. He lifted the water jug as if it was full of unstable explosives, and tip-toed backward. His other hand kept his AK-47 pointing straight ahead, and he refused to turn his back on whatever he had seen.

The team moved backward, covering each other in bounds until they were a couple hundred yards away from danger. The team circled up, and Nick leaned down by Red.

“What’d you see?” Nick asked.

“Enemy troops,” Red said.

“Taliban?”

“Couldn’t tell. Saw a silhouette coming toward me. Thought he saw me, then heard the sound of water hitting the ground. He was pissing.”

Nick considered the situation. Was it one man? Or more? He needed more information.

“Leave your pack and go scout forward,” Nick whispered. The team staged their packs and set up a quick perimeter, while Red dropped his pack, slung his AK-47, and pulled out a silenced Glock .45.

It took thirty minutes for Red to return, far longer than Nick preferred.

“We’re fucked,” Red said, dropping to the ground.

He looked exhausted as he guzzled from his CamelBak. Nick waited, and looked around their small perimeter. Truck faced their front in the prone, lying behind his RPK machine gun and its extended bipod legs. Marcus monitored their rear while their gear sat stacked in the center of their ten-foot perimeter.

Red and Nick lay huddled among the packs, keeping a low profile. Nick wondered how many men it’d take to spook Red. The crazy little Marine had never shown an ounce of fear as far as Nick knew.

Red stopped drinking and collected himself. Nick saw his face take on a stern look in the rays of moonlight shining through a mostly clear night.

“We’ve got a battalion-sized element of Pakistani troops right in front of us,” Red reported.

“What?” Nick said. “That’s impossible.”

“I would have thought so, too, but go check for yourself.”

Nick chewed on the news.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“I’m certain,” Red said, nodding. “They’re broken up and spread out all over the hill. Straight ahead there’s about a platoon-sized element, cooking fires and all. They’re mostly bedded up, but some of the men are still hanging around the fires, bullshitting. Tried moving up the hill to see if we could go around them. Walked nearly half a mile up it. Troops as far as you could see.”

Nick sat there, stunned.

“I turned around,” Red continued, “moved down the hill back to my starting position, then walked half a mile down from there. Same thing. Troops as far as you can see. There’s probably an entire battalion on that finger ahead.”

“A thousand troops?” Nick asked, shaking his head with disbelief. They had studied satellite images prior to their departure, and the entire region had been clear of Pakistani troops, except at the border.

Nick tried to calm himself. “Are they in blocking positions? Facing this way or the other direction? Like they’re looking for someone? Or maybe looking for us?”

“No way,” Red said. “They’re all completely unprofessional. No fighting positions. Guys horseplaying, singing, cooking shit over fires. But they’re there. No going around them.”

Nick processed the information. The good news was the battalion didn’t seem to be looking for anybody, especially Nick’s group. If they were, they’d be tactical: patrolling, looking, hiding.

That was the good news. The bad news, as Red had stated, was that there was no getting around them. Nick pulled the poncho liner over his head and used his red-lens flashlight to study the map. He wanted to confirm his suspicions. Unfortunately, his suspicions had been right on the money. The satellite imagery showed a hell of a number of cliffs and drop-offs farther up the hill top in this area.

Nick’s team would need mountain climbing gear to ascend the peak and move to the other side, which was a complete no go. They lacked the gear, and it was far too dangerous in the dark when they hadn’t prepped for it.

Nick stayed under the poncho liner longer than necessary. He needed to think, and he for damn sure needed to come up with a solution. Fast.

Chapter 7

Nick Woods made his up mind after less than two minutes of running through the options. None of the possibilities looked good, but that’s how war goes. It doesn’t go your way. Life doesn’t either, Nick remembered, briefly thinking of Anne, his late wife, and wondering if he’d be reunited with her before this mission ended. He shook away the thought and refocused on the present.

As Nick saw it, the team had three major options.

Option one was to hold in place, hoping the Pakistani infantry battalion packed up, moved off the hill, and departed the area. The problem with this option was there was no telling how long the unit would be there, and Nick worried about their own rapidly depleting food and water. Plus, the nearby Pakistanis could push toward them and put them in some deep shit.

Option two involved trying to slip through the middle of the Pakistani lines. Maybe attempt it at 0330, when sleep and fatigue are at their greatest. But that seemed fraught with serious risk, given that they’d be carrying heavy packs and water jugs. And since they’d have their weapons at the ready, any guard or sleeping man who woke would instantly recognize them as intruders, despite their similar weapons and local attire.

Option three involved moving down the hill, to the valley that was chock-full of travelers and homes. Nick had a map of that area, but S3’s intel team hadn’t provided the kind of detailed satellite photos that the team needed. So, they’d have no idea how many homes were on that route, as it had been too far out of the planned infiltration route.

Without climbing gear, Nick knew a long and arduous trek to the top of the hill wasn’t a possibility. Bottom line, it had to be one of the three options.

Nick believed waiting out the Pakistani army was dangerous. It could take days for them to leave, and Nick, Marcus, Truck, and Red weren’t getting any stronger under each day’s unrelenting sun.

Infiltrating the Pakistani army’s lines was undeniably their worst option. Maybe if just one of them spoke the language and could talk their way out of being spotted, then maybe. But none of them did, and with the moon nearly full -- a requirement for the mission, so they could move well at night -- sneaking through so many Pakistani troops was nothing short of suicide.

Thus, the men of Shield, Safeguard, and Shelter were going down the hill.

Chapter 8

Nick lifted the poncho liner and whispered for his team to pull it in. All four ducked below the canopy of Nick’s outstretched arms.

Nick flipped his red-beam flashlight on and oriented the team to their position. He then explained the three options they had. Nick asked if there were any angles he had overlooked, and he received nothing but headshakes.

“Since those are our options,” he said, “we’ll go with option three and push down the hill. We’ll cross the valley road and push up the opposite hill. We’ll move forward a couple of miles and with luck, we’ll be beyond the Pakistani army at that point. We’ll cross back to this side of the valley and continue on our planned course.”

Marcus nodded his head and said, “I like the idea of crossing back to this mountain range. We know from our planning that this side of the valley is our best route in, and we have better detailed satellite imagery of the terrain.”

“Yeah,” Truck agreed, “we’ve practically got our infiltration route memorized, except for Red, who’s too stupid to remember anything.”

“That’s why I carry a map,” Red replied with a grin.

Truck stretched his right leg out and groaned. “All right, but let’s make it quick so that my bum knee doesn’t get any ideas and drop my ass down the hill,” he said.

Red reached over and punched Truck hard in the calf of his straightened leg. Truck’s only response was a grunt.

“So,” Red said, “I guess since we’re down a leg thanks to gimp here, pushing forward and taking on those Pakistani bastards is out of the question?”

Nick smiled and looked over at Marcus, who was shaking his head and chuckling. The team could always count on Red’s confidence.

“Marcus?” Nick asked. “Any other thoughts?”

“It’s a solid plan,” Marcus confirmed. “And it’s the best option we have under the circumstances.”

Chapter 9

The four men of Shield, Safeguard, and Shelter descended the hill, picking their way around loose gravel and crumbling dirt that gave way under the weight of their heavy footsteps and gear. Red led the way, followed by Nick, then Truck with his RPK machine gun, and finally Marcus, who pulled rear security.

Each man knew the next part would prove pivotal. On one hand, they were dressed to fit in. Loose pants, turbans wrapped around their heads, Soviet-bloc weapons, and random green and black smocks. On the other, their packs and assault gear, though of non-American variety, still gave them away. Rarely would Afghans or Pakistani be carrying so much gear, and if it were necessary, they’d use pack mules.

But this couldn’t be changed, and taking on some villagers certainly beat duking it out with the heavily-armed Pakistani army.

The team soundlessly descended further and further, attempting to stay in dark shadows. It took almost two hours as they were trying to be patient on Truck and his knee, but they soon neared the road at the bottom of the valley.

Nick was surprised that they had avoided any mud homes to this point. Though the border regions were sparsely populated, luck seemed to be on their side thus far.

Red halted the team and signaled for them to spread out on line -- or in a straight line. Each team member found good positions that were either low to the ground or behind something. They all dropped their packs and aimed in on the “road,” which could hardly be considered such by Western standards. More like a gravel driveway barely wide enough for a single truck.

Nick could feel his heart speed up, as the tension mounted. Now, they were committed. Any contact and it was on. An attempt to retreat up the hill with their heavy packs would surely end in failure. And they couldn’t ditch their packs and try to ascend either, because that meant certain eventual death, given they’d be without any supplies.

No, any contact and they’d attack forward, killing whoever was in the way, as well as those who responded to the gunfire. Nick and Red, the only two with NVGs, scanned the road ahead, which could just be made out with the natural light.

Between the men and the road, Nick estimated about four hundred yards of field. It was mostly flat and planted with some kind of knee-high crop.

Nick looked twice over the ground but saw nothing. He looked toward Red, and the small point man signaled all clear.

Nick swallowed down some water and reached over to lift his hundred-pound pack. He whirled it around, swinging it into place -- it was too heavy to simply lift -- and tightened up the straps. He bounced up and down, allowed it to shift, and adjusted the straps one last time. Unfortunately, when you weren’t using up ammo, it made it harder to lighten your load.

The team was ready. Each man was standing, or truthfully, slightly leaning forward under their packs. The team would push together across the road, despite the unconventional nature of such a move.

Typically, a unit would leave half of its men in place to provide a base of fire from cover, while the forward element moved across a dangerous sector. But S3 was too small to split up, and Nick wanted to rely on speed and keeping his men together. That way, if the shit hit the fan, they could fight together or work their way back.

Thankfully, they crossed the field and the rocky path without incident. The four men pushed up the steep hill on the opposite side of their insertion route without difficulty, other than hauling up all their heavy gear. But they soon started running into compounds, which presumably had mud homes behind their walls. Red shifted their course left and right to dodge them, and they progressed further up the hill without detection.

Soon, their legs and backs were shaky and weak with fatigue, but they’d done it. Now they were back to where there were no trails, no wandering villagers, not even a single pile of dog droppings.

And it was a good thing. Dawn was approaching, and it was time for them to hunker down.

Chapter 10

It had been less than twenty-four hours since their near run-in with the Pakistani army, and despite the detour having cost them an entire night, Nick was filled with relief. After crossing back over to their original infiltration route, they had not seen a single sign of troops lurking anywhere in their vicinity.

Still it had been unsettling to go from marching night after night in the wilderness with little to no trace of human existence, and then to nearly run smack dab into the middle of an army campground. Back on their route, the men of S3 remained on edge. Phantom patrols seemed to be hiding behind every rock and bend, wearing on the ragged nerves of the already fatigued shooters. Eventually, after a few hours of no visible threat, the men began to settle down, and their original routine continued.

Remaining faithful to the routine, the S3 team suffered through another night of painful, arduous hiking. Nick looked and felt like shit. He reeked from nine days of no bathing, and his clothes could be heralded as “the next big thing in fashion,” that is if Bum’s Wear Quarterly were an actual publication. He was also now sporting a throbbing ankle and sharp lower back pains from some kind of wrenched nerve or muscle spasm.

He could tell that the others were silently pushing through various dings, twists, and injuries, as well. They knew their target was close. Computer geek Ahmud al-Habshi sat in his compound just eight miles away, and in two nights, they’d bag his ass, seize his computer gear, and drop any idiots who were stupid enough to tangle with them.

Nick and his team were ready to do the job they’d been hired to do. They’d walked too many miles and slept far too little; they not only itched for some action, they needed it. After all, al-Habshi’s compound was just the first step in this whole mission. They still had Deraz, the terrorist masquerading as a spiritual leader, to hunt and take down.

Unfortunately for the men of S3, their luck ran out again. On the very next night, Red called a halt and pointed out more Pakistani army troops ahead.

Nick nearly screamed with rage. For more than ten years, America had asked Pakistan to deal with the mutinous tribes along their lawless border. President Bush had pleaded with the country and supposed ally, and President Obama had followed, trying to convince them, as well.

But Pakistan had tried and learned its lesson. The area was officially called, “the Federally Administered Tribal Areas,” and the inhabitants were almost all Pashtuns. They were fierce fighters, who were practically impossible to control.

The area’s ferocious independence went back to the 19th Century, during the British colonial period. The British failed to ever gain full control of the tribes and settled on allowing the dangerous region to serve as an effective buffer to Afghanistan. Pakistan itself failed to control the area once the British left. In the ’70s, those passing through the Khyber Pass were warned by the Pakistani government to stay close to the road for their safety.

Things were dangerous then, but they grew far worse after 2001 when the Americans with the help of the Northern Alliance drove the Taliban from power in Afghanistan. Those Taliban members who survived the onslaught of the world’s greatest military power fled to the Federally Administered Tribal Areas.

They quickly gained influence there, and the cross-border attacks into Afghanistan grew so bad that America convinced Pakistan to do something. (Probably with billions in aid packages.) Pakistan deployed 80,000 troops into the Federally Administered Tribal Areas in 2004, but even that sizable force failed to tame the area.

Pakistan was forced to sign a truce with the Pakistani Taliban, and though it deployed troops into the area eight more times between 2004 and 2006, control had never been established. The final treaty had stated the Taliban wouldn’t attack either Pakistan or Afghanistan from the tribal areas while granting them the privilege of carrying weapons and basically ruling the place as they pleased.

Nick knew these details by heart as he and his team had studied the area extensively prior to the mission. And what pissed him off the most was that just ten days ago, when they were planning their mission and studying the satellite and drone imagery, there’d been no Pakistani army units in the area. Somehow, these troops had moved in during the past several days.

The cynical part of Nick was sure these troops were here to hunt them down. But their actions hinted the opposite. This newest set of troops was once again completely unprofessional. They weren’t looking for men, and they certainly weren’t looking for a fight. Fires blazed, laughing men sang, a few even danced.

It truly seemed this was merely another fake incursion into the tribal regions by the federal government, meant to appease America and release a few billion dollars more in aid. Nick assumed that the Pakistani army had most likely warned the tribes they’d be coming, giving the belligerent locals plenty of time to prepare and hide ammunition and pro-Taliban banners and flags.

The team pulled back, huddled, and talked out their options. In this case, going down the hill was a no go. Numerous homes dotted the hillside and valley on the lower slopes. (They’d have to go above the troops, where there were fewer homes. Still, there were homes up there, too, according to their maps.)

“We’ll just have to be careful,” Nick told the team.

And careful they were as they approached the first set of homes. They slipped along walls, through alleys, and even in front of huts themselves. And somehow, even carrying all their gear and water jugs, they managed to infiltrate through the small enclave of homes.

The men of S3 had also pulled off some masterful teamwork. Covering danger areas, using hand signals, and moving like shadows through the dark.

But just when they thought they were in the clear and a good hundred yards from the last compound, they saw movement followed by the sound of a dog growling.

“I got him,” Red whispered.

Red dropped his AK, allowing it to hang across his body in its tactical sling, while he pulled a Glock .45 pistol. Red pulled a suppressor from his pocket and twisted it on as quickly as he could, then moved away from the group toward the threat.

The dog approached closer, his growl growing louder as his eyes now saw what only his nose had smelled. Nick noticed the hair on the large dog raise and knew it was seconds from barking or charging them.

“Shoot, Red,” Nick said.

Pfft. Pfft. Pfft.

The beast dropped, hit by three subsonic bullets from Red’s pistol.

“Let’s go,” Nick said.

Although they were on the outskirts of the enclave, Nick signaled the team forward, anxious to get away in case some villager unable to sleep investigated. Red was digging around in the dirt, picking up his shell casings.

“Come on,” Nick hissed. “We gotta move.”

They stepped out quickly, wanting to get as far away as possible from the enclave, as they’d just left their first potential clue since entering Pakistan.

Chapter 11

The early morning silence was shattered by the sound of a boy yelling.

Tariq Hijazi, the village’s chief enforcer, raced toward the commotion equipped with his AK-47. He carried the AK not because of the shout, but because any self-respecting male over the age of twelve carried their weapons with them in this part of the country. Always.

A couple hundred yards from his compound, Tariq pushed through a group of men to have a look at the boy, who he now saw was crying over a dog.

The dog was dead. He yanked the boy out of the way and nudged the dog over with his sandal. Three bullet holes marked the head of what had been the enclave’s biggest and strongest dog.

His first thought was that the tribe of ul-Haq was behind this. This tribe resided in the mountains on the other side of the road below them. Often, boys of each tribe would try to sneak up on each other’s homes as part of a way to show courage.

It was a dangerous game that often left young boys dead, but whoever had made these three shots was no boy. (They were spaced a couple of inches apart -- remarkable shooting in the dark, and pretty good shooting in daylight.)

“Tariq,” someone said behind him.

“Shut up,” he hissed. “I’m thinking.”

The dog was facing down the draw. Tariq followed the direction of the dog’s look and spotted a single shell casing ten yards away. He shoved a sleepy yet curious boy out of his way and picked it up.

It was a short, pistol casing. On the base, it was marked “.45 AUTO.”

Tariq pinched the casing in his hand. Could it have been an American? The .45 was a popular American round, and the shooting had been exceptional. And clearly silenced, since it hadn’t been heard. So, someone with an expensive (and hard to obtain) pistol attachment had shot the dog with incredible skill in the dark of night.

The tracks in the dirt moved down the hill, and Tariq easily determined that the person who had done this wore boots. Further possible proof. Most Pakistani and Afghan men wore tennis shoes or sandals. Boots were a luxury beyond most of their means.

Perhaps it was an American, or perhaps it was a wayward soldier for the Pakistani army. The Army had moved hundreds of troops into the area, but the terms had been spelled out prior to the incursion. And a silencer among their troops? Completely unnecessary and almost impossible to fathom.

The Pakistani army wouldn’t interfere with villagers or search tribal enclaves, and local villagers were supposed to leave the Army alone. But someone -- either an American or a foolish soldier in the Pakistani army -- had made a big mistake. Many of the urban-raised soldiers saw the tribal villagers as nothing but uneducated and dangerous religious zealots.

Tariq wasn’t sure who he hated most: an American or a so-called “Muslim,” who had turned his back on the true teachings of Islam.

“Round up our warriors,” Tariq Hijazi commanded to the men around him. “We will hunt down this fool.”

Chapter 12

Nick and the S3 team had pushed hard after the incident with the dog. They now camped four and a half miles east of the enclave.

In the other direction, less than a mere four miles separated them from Ahmud al-Habshi’s compound. But depending on what was being discovered and decided about the dead dog they’d left behind, that four miles might as well be another hundred miles. If they had a hunting party after them, then Ahmud al-Habshi would be their last concern.

Worries of such a threat had caused them to look for a hideout up on a finger -- a high piece of ground -- that ran down from the ridge, instead of in one of the small valleys nestled just beneath the higher hills, as they had been. If they were being tracked, they’d be found either way. And it was better to be up high and able to defend yourself than down in some gully hoping they didn’t toss grenades down on you.

As the sun and the heat climbed higher and higher, the men sweated under their nets. Each man was awake and alert, fighting off fatigue with the kind of energy that can only come from the feeling of being hunted.

Although they couldn’t be sure, the suspicious and volatile reputation of the people in this area made it easy to assume that danger was not far behind them. The villagers, or possibly even the Pakistani army if they had been alerted, might have spread out and could approach from above, below, or from either side.

There’d be no sleeping today.

Nick laid on his stomach, rolling dirt between his fingers and chewing on their situation. He looked down at the dirt, then dragged his hand across the dry, dusty ground. Damn it, he thought, he was sick of all the humping and more than ready to infiltrate al-Habshi’s compound.

“Hey, guys,” Red whispered. “We’ve got a serious problem.”

Nick turned and saw Red, who was behind him, holding his hand out with two shell casings in it.

Truck saw the casings, as well, and scoffed, “Sorry, you little commie environmentalist, but there are no recycling bins in the area.”

“No, asshole,” Red replied, clearly not in the joking mood. His eyes were fixated to his palm. “I only have two casings. I thought I fired two rounds into that dog, but I just remembered to reload my pistol and the magazine is missing three rounds. I left a casing back there.”

That wasn’t good, Nick thought. And then he remembered the stress of the moving through the huts and how he’d ordered everyone to move out immediately.

“It’s my fault,” he said. “I shouldn’t have rushed you back there.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered. I thought I only fired twice.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Marcus said. “We live as a team, and we die as a team.”

No one said anything for a moment, and Marcus added, “Truth be known, it should have occurred to me to grab that dog. We could have carried it out of there, and the bloody mess could have easily been buried under loose dirt.”

Nick slung a handful of dirt to the ground with frustration. The situation was spiraling out of control. It was out of the norm for him to have overreacted to his fear. It was out of the norm for Red, such an incredible point man, to have accidentally fired three rounds instead of two. He was typically used to the adrenaline. And Marcus never missed anything.

What the hell was happening to them? He wiped his nose and knew it was the fatigue. This mission just pushed the parameters of what any team could achieve.

He ran his hand through the dirt and wondered if he’d signed their death sentences the moment they crossed the border.

“It is what it is,” Nick finally said. “Let’s stay sharp and with luck, we’ll hit this compound tomorrow.”

He picked up another clod of dirt and sifted it through his fingers. He saw movement, dropped the dirt, and raised a pair of binoculars along the trail behind them.

“Speak of the devil,” Nick said.

Chapter 13

Tariq Hijazi and his men slowed. They had to be getting close. And at some point, the trail would end with a man waiting for them. And that man would be armed.

Tariq had more than thirty men with him, and besides being armed with AKs, his men had brought machine guns and RPGs to strengthen their power. At forty-four, Tariq was more than an elder. He was the enclave’s military leader. And this hunt presented a great opportunity for fame.

He was willing to sacrifice them all, including himself, to earn the respect and honor he had spent his life pursuing.

The group pushed to the top of another finger of the mountain range, scanning ahead.

“There!” one of his men yelled, pointing to the next finger.

And squinting, Tariq saw it. Off in the distance, on the next piece of high ground, a small, almost-imperceptible hump. Some kind of netting barely flapping in the wind, with what appeared to be several men hiding in its shadows.

Nick Woods and his team had given up the idea of concealment and were no longer lying motionless. They had been spotted, and now it was time to fight. Red, Marcus, and Truck now faced the same direction, watching their backtrail from under the net.

They had shoved packs in front of them for cover, as well as cushioned rifle rests, and pulled ammo out from the pockets of their packs.

Truck yanked out a big piece of beef jerky and threw it into his mouth, then while prone, pushed himself forward into his RPK machine gun, using his toes to press forward and apply pressure against the bipod legs.

Red popped a cigarette in his mouth and lit it. It was his first cigarette in nearly two weeks, and he relished the nicotine rush. Besides, he’d always believed that he shot better when he smoked.

Marcus checked their rear and stuck his head out from the net, looking up and down the hill. He wanted to find the best egress route in case they couldn’t stop the villagers.

And Nick went into his own world. Despite his role as the leader, Nick was, at his core, a sniper first. And in situations like this, it was not possible to focus on sniping individual targets, while at the same time monitor the overall situation as necessary when in command. Thankfully with the vast expertise of each individual and the cohesion they had as a team, there wasn’t really much to command. And whatever leadership was needed when Nick was otherwise engaged, was instinctively picked up by Nick’s more than capable second-in-command, Marcus.

Nick had laid six, ten-round magazines to his left and eased behind the Dragunov weapon he carried. He was the only man on the team toting a sniper rifle, and now he felt glad that he’d made the choice to bring it.

Marcus was watching the group of villagers through his binoculars when he said, “Mark the older one with the white turban and scraggly beard as the leader.”

Nick smiled to himself, grateful to have a man like Marcus in S3 assisting him. Nick moved his scope toward the man in question.

Marcus scanned the group of villagers topping the crest of a hill. “I count at least thirty, maybe more. Hard to tell with them all moving around.”

“Distance?” Red asked.

“Maybe twelve or fifteen hundred yards?” Marcus said, some doubt in his voice. “Nick? What do you say?”

Nick tried to use the Dragunov’s scope to measure the height of the men and assess the range better, but the targets weren’t being cooperative. And he hadn’t drawn a range card as he would have had he been in a true sniper capacity. Range cards had notable landmarks and pieces of cover with the correct distance to within mere yards. When the fighting began, the cards could make all the difference in the world, since thinking that boulder was 500 yards away instead of 700 was a big deal and enough to cause you to miss.

“Nick?” Marcus asked again.

“Sounds like a good guess,” he replied. “Definitely too far to shoot right now. But once they start down the draw, they’ll be in range pretty quickly.”

Chapter 14

None of the tribes around Tariq recognized the government of Pakistan. And they certainly didn’t follow its laws.

In fact, even as far back as 1999, unhappy tribal fighters from this area had attacked government offices in the capital city of Islamabad. The insurgent reputation of the tribal regions was well-founded, and the anger was constantly stoked by the numerous madrassas that dotted the area. These religious schools created many of the devout believers from which the Taliban drew many of its recruits.

The tribes’ hostility for the Pakistani government was only surpassed by their hatred for America.

It was America who continually supported and propped up Israel. It was America that had led the effort to place sanctions against Iraq in the ’90s, which had greatly reduced imports and exports, leaving thousands of men, women, and children starving and malnourished.

It was the same America that later invaded Iraq, unprovoked, and it was this same irreverent country that had stationed troops near the two holy cities of Mecca and Medina. Some Muslims hated Americans simply because they believed that they were a godless, greedy people, but Tariq saw them as being much worse. In Tariq’s mind, America was a meddlesome, power-hungry country bent on the annihilation of Islam and its people.

Claims of freedom and democracy were mere excuses to bomb and slaughter other Muslim countries, whether they be Afghanistan, Libya, Syria, or perhaps Iran next.

And for Tariq, the government of Pakistan was as guilty as America. It practically did America’s bidding, and for all Tariq knew, he was currently tracking some American advisors (or CIA troops) embedded alongside the Pakistani army.

But whoever it was, Tariq planned to show them exactly why not even the Pakistani army dared to mess with the tribes of the Federally Administered Tribal Areas.

Tariq’s younger brother passed him a handful of magazines.

“What do you think?” he asked Tariq.

Tariq had been studying the netting and had come to his conclusion.

“I think it’s Americans,” Tariq answered. “They are certainly not Pakistani army. No uniforms and they are dressed like us. No tribesman would be hiding out here or under something like that.”

“Agreed,” his brother said, nodding slowly, “Only foreigners who didn’t know the language or our ways would be forced to hide near of the top of these hills like wild goats.”

“Precisely,” Tariq responded.

None of Tariq’s tribe had fought the Americans before, but all of his men had seen combat. They had battled the tribe of ul-Chuk three different times in the past ten years, and many of their fighters had spent several seasons sparring alongside the Taliban operating within Afghanistan.

His men had also fought the Pakistani army. It was just last year when the Pakistani army had stupidly decided it would push in the tribal areas and attempt to assert control.

What a ridiculous idea. No army or country had been able to control the tribal areas of Pakistan -- not even an army of battle-tested, British-led troops in the World War II era. Tariq’s great-grandfather had fought in that campaign, and his family shared a proud history of fighting skill.

These Americans, without their air support or tanks, would be no match for Tariq and his men.

A confident smirk spread across the man’s face. Tariq was certainly glad his men had brought along their RPGs and medium machine guns. They were going to come in handy.

And so he and the men of his tribe spread out, ready to attack.

Nick and the S3 team waited. The villagers were still out of range, so Nick moved his head from the scope and looked over the ground the enemy had left to cover.

As he studied the terrain up and down, Nick realized they would need to do more than just survive or simply stop the attackers. The steep hills lying between S3 and the pursuing villagers would make it all too easy for a stray target to slip out of view and make a run for help.

Nick and his shooters were going to have to be sure and drop every single one of them.

“Listen up, men,” Nick said, no longer bothering to lower his voice. “We can’t let any of these guys get away, so we’re going to avoid engaging them at max effective range. Let’s allow them in closer before we open fire.”

The finger across from them sloped approximately forty percent and Nick scanned it to determine where the correct engagement range should begin. The team’s longest range weapon was his Dragunov, and under combat conditions, he felt comfortable dropping foes at eight hundred yards. But he wanted to wait until they were at six hundred yards.

And he felt like their next longest range weapon -- Truck’s RPK machine gun -- could hit at that range, as well, with a good spotter. The AK-47s carried by Marcus and Red would be far more limited on their range. Despite the fact that they were souped up and topped with ACOG scopes, they would have to wait to engage until the targets arrived at three hundred yards. Nick picked out terrain features for each of the distances.

“Okay, here’s the plan,” he said, and he quickly described to them how he hoped it would go down.

Chapter 15

Tariq and his warriors attacked. They jogged down the hill, fully aware that they’d have to cross the gully below before starting up the steep terrain to reach the Americans.

But their confidence remained strong. Even the steep hill they’d have to assault shouldn’t be a problem with heavy suppression. They might take some losses, but they’d eventually swarm over their targets. Tariq and his fighters were certain of this.

Nick used his sniper scope to scan the crowd of villagers as they started down the hill. He was looking for clues, tendencies, and really anything that might help his men get out of this jam alive.

The fighters jogged down the hill, unrushed and unhurried. Smart move, Nick thought.

“These boys are smart for not tearing off toward us,” Marcus said, clearly thinking the same thing.

“They look confident,” Red added, “as if they expect us to just raise our weapons and fire some bursts toward them with our heads down.”

“That’s just what they’re used to,” Truck laughed. “These dipshits are untrained, and they ain’t ever been in an actual military situation.”

“He’s right,” Marcus admitted. “There are plenty of Taliban troops that have faced off with American forces, but these guys are pretty much farmers with guns. We should feel lucky that they haven’t picked up any tricks from their Afghan neighbors. Those suckers have learned to use the terrain as a weapon, planting IEDs everywhere.”

“Yeah,” Truck replied. “But these poor bastards are out of the loop. And they’re about to learn one damn hard lesson.”

Nick tried to block out the banter, mentally going over every angle. He wanted to kick himself when he suddenly realized that fighting beneath the net would be confining them too tightly together.

But it was too late to make that adjustment now. Each of their flanks had AKs protecting them, and they had their machine gun and sniper rifle in the middle.

Marcus lay at the far end of the group with his AK, then Truck waited behind his RPK, followed by Nick with the sniper rifle, and finally Red at the bottom with his AK.

Their enemy advanced like a hungry pack of wolves, eagerly hunting their dinner. They’d be smarter to be spread out wide instead of running so close together, Nick thought, but clearly they underestimated their “prey.”

They were nearing the six hundred meter mark when Nick slowed his breathing, dialing himself in. To his left, Truck pushed harder into his bipods and let loose a deep breath of his own.

Well, that’s our cue, thought Nick. After all, no can of whoop-ass had ever been opened without a good ole exhale to start.

Chapter 16

Although the advancing villagers were still out of effective small-arms range, they paused here and there to fire off bursts from their hips. Their bullets raked the hillside on which S3 waited, but only a few even came close.

A man with an RPG knelt and fired, as well. His shot arced toward the hill and slammed into it with a roar. The shot was fifty yards short, but it sent gooseflesh ripping up Nick’s arms. RPGs were no joke.

Nick quickly set his crosshairs on the man with the RPG. Nick eased the trigger back. A shot roared from his rifle and hit the kneeling man low, blasting through his groin, pelvis, and hips. He wouldn’t be running up the hill any time soon. Or breathing once he bled out or gave into shock, which should be in a matter of seconds.

Nick rotated his rifle as Truck’s RPK let loose a burst into a clump of running men.

“Up some,” he heard Marcus shout from Truck’s left, and the machine gun let loose again.

Through his limited view in the scope, Nick couldn’t locate the leader in the white turban. So he randomly selected another man running break-neck speed toward them and fired. The man stumbled then dropped.

Tariq saw bodies strewn along the path before him. The Americans seemed to have a sniper rifle and machine gun on the hill, and the rounds from them were cutting straight through his men.

He’d heard the anguished cries all around him and stoically rushed by the bodies; some twitched erratically as the life drained out of them. They were getting into range now, and soon his remaining men would suppress the enemy’s fire, swarm over the hill, and exterminate these infidels.

The losses were unfortunate but necessary.

Chapter 17

Watching through his scope to check for range, Nick saw the villagers had finally closed to three hundred yards.

“Now!” he yelled.

Marcus and Red opened fire on the mob, their AK-47s adding to the hell Nick and Truck were already unleashing. Both Marcus and Red were using the older style AK-47s, which fired a larger bullet than the newer, more modern variants. Their AK-47s fired 7.62 x 39 mm bullets, a much heavier bullet with stronger knockdown power. The AKs also sported expensive ACOG scopes, and at three hundred yards, you would almost have to try to miss.

The mass of villagers slowed, the casualties too disheartening, the fire too heavy. As the assault up the hill ground to a halt, the remaining villagers looked for cover. Unfortunately for them, there was none. A few took a knee. Others dove into the prone. And finally, they commenced firing.

Their fire up the hill picked up in volume, but would have only been overwhelming if they had been trained in fire discipline or had any concept of accuracy. A few fired from under their arms, others from the hip. Only a few truly aimed, but even then their weapons were too worn and poorly cared for to be precise machines.

The four Americans were dialed in, completely focused on the task at hand. They ignored narrow misses and stayed locked on their sights and the execution of firing accurately: taking their time, aiming well, and pulling (not jerking) the trigger.

Nick finally found the man in the white turban -- Tariq -- in his scope and moved his point of aim to center mass. The man was yelling and shouting, leading with strength despite the situation.

Nick noted this, briefly respecting the man before sending a round straight through him. He nudged his rifle to the right and aimed in on a man who had taken a knee and was now firing up the hill. His bullet struck the shooter in the face, and the man dropped hard. At this distance, Nick could shoot three-inch groups from the Dragunov sniper rifle with barely a strain. And with a ten-round magazine and a weapon that was semi-automatic instead of bolt action like the M40 he’d started on in the Marine Corps, he was bagging his limit today.

The barrel of Truck’s machine gun was steadily growing hotter, brass and links piling in front of him. He saw a man lugging a machine gun up the hill and fired a burst low into the ground in front of him. Rounds and rocks ricocheted up into the man and he dropped. Truck readjusted his aim and fired three more rounds to make sure the man was dead, then rotated toward a cluster of men.

Again keeping his aim low -- as all great machine gunners do -- Truck skipped a burst directly into their ranks. Rounds shattered shins, knees, and ankles, sending the men to the ground. Truck poured more bullets into the targets who were now gripping the ground in terror.

Marcus knew exactly how the men below were feeling. Being a prior Marine Corps Gunny, he’d both witnessed and participated in numerous assaults. Therefore, Marcus set to picking his shots with purpose and relying on some hard-earned instincts.

Keeping his eyes constantly moving, Marcus quickly sized up individual targets and focused on the greatest threats. Ultimately, Marcus knew that engagements were won and lost based on leadership. Consequently, he looked for men yelling or pointing, and he promptly fired a heavy round from his AK-47 through them. The 7.62 x 39 mm, 120-grain bullet hit them so hard that most didn’t require a second shot.

Red, however, followed no such strategy and picked off the men below with how he’d always done everything. With a mad, unshakable determination. He watched the surviving men below him with deep satisfaction. Among the surviving few, Red recognized a subtle change had swept over them.

What had been a hoard of confident warriors running headlong into battle now looked like a frantic scattering of startled chickens. Red could see it in their actions, if not in their eyes. It was a look that Red knew very well.

It was the same look that eventually dawned upon every big man who went to square up with little Red. Every single time. There was that small, but deliciously validating moment. The very moment they realized just how greatly they’d underestimated their opponent, and how much they were going to hurt in the morning. Red called it the “Oh Shit! Moment.”

Chapter 18

The entire fight with the villagers ended in ninety seconds. All fire from the villagers had stopped though many moaned or cried from their positions.

“What do you say, sir?” Red asked, looking at Nick. “We can’t leave any survivors, right?”

He had crawled out from the net and now stood, waiting for Nick’s answer.

Nick hesitated, looking to Marcus.

Marcus, an honorable man if there ever was one, shook his head “no” without a moment’s hesitation. His years as a drill instructor at Parris Island had molded him into a man with the highest standards and uncompromising integrity. Marcus would never be the type of man that would agree to shoot survivors.

“Marcus is right,” Nick said. “Besides, we don’t need to waste our ammo.”

“We could use their weapons and ammo,” Truck said, standing to join Red outside the net.

Nick knew Truck was hardly the shining example of a healthy conscience. He was a bull-headed man who had not only been kicked out of Special Forces for beating the shit out of an incompetent officer, but he’d also been fired as a military contractor after he defied orders, abandoned his company vehicle, and ran pell-mell into a Taliban ambush. Although knowing the stories behind these incidents had made it easier for Nick to understand Truck’s actions, Nick believed the results might have been a little less devastating to Truck’s career if he had avoided trying to solve all his problems with violence.

Nevertheless, Nick leaned Red and Truck’s way. The last thing they needed was someone hobbling off and alerting the entire country that there were four armed Americans hiding in the mountains.

Marcus slid forward under the net so he could see Nick better.

“Don’t do this, Nick,” he stressed. “We’re better than this. Besides, the timeline favors us. We can pack our shit up, head further up the mountain range, and work a circular route toward Ahmud al-Habshi’s compound. Even if someone stumbles upon the men below, they won’t have time to track and find us before dark. Not to mention, there won’t be time to get a warning out to al-Habshi. There are no cell towers here, and there’s not enough time to get down the hill, locate a vehicle, and drive there before dark.”

Nick gripped his face with one hand and nodded toward Marcus. Maybe I’m getting soft, he thought. Marcus had made several good points. For once, time was on their side. And besides all that, Nick already had a hard enough time sleeping at night.

“We let them live,” he said to Red. “But take Truck with you and collect any ammo that will fit our weapons.”

And catching a glance from Marcus, Nick added, “If you see anyone you think might survive, tie off their wounds if you can. But be sure to hogtie ’em with paracord if they look like they might be able to run.”

As Red and Truck turned to leave, Nick finished his orders and warned, “Oh, and be careful you two. There’s always a chance someone might be playing possum.”

Truck and Red collected ammo without incident and returned to their camp.

“Most of ’em had bled out by the time we had walked down to ’em,” Red reported softly.

“A few may survive,” Truck added, attempting to sound hopeful as he looked toward Marcus.

Marcus shrugged in acknowledgement. It wasn’t that he struggled with their deaths. After all, people die in war, and the villagers had made their choice when they attacked up the hill. Nonetheless, he vehemently opposed executing wounded men who could no longer defend themselves, and he didn’t think that made him any less of a man or a warrior. In a more normal situation, he would have argued that they should provide first aid for the fighters, but it wasn’t like the four of them had enough medical supplies to help them.

“Alright,” Nick said. “What’s done is done. Change your socks if you need to and get your packs ready. We’re going to be humping all out on this last leg of our journey.”

He had to keep his team moving. It would do them no good to dwell on the past. What happened to the villagers hadn’t been fun or fair, but neither was having your hand forced and being backed into a difficult and violent decision. The way most people see it, war is meant to be a worthy struggle between mighty warriors and heavily trained armies. But what they don’t want to see is that war is a cold-hearted, nasty bitch, who neither understands nor cares anything about honor. War has never made any hero without the witnessing or participation of some horror. So when war comes knocking, there isn’t anyone who’s safe anymore. Everyone has a decision to make, and nobody gets off easy. And the worst part is that when it’s all over, nobody really walks away truly feeling like a winner.

The men prepped for the last all-out movement, then broke down their netting. They debated leaving it and its stakes to spare some weight but decided the mission could go haywire, and it might be worth having if they needed to hide on any more mountainsides.

Just minutes later, they were ready to go. And while it was impossible to ever get used to the weight on their backs, their bodies had adjusted as much as they ever would.

“This will be our first movement during daylight,” Nick said, “so keep alert and be ready for contact.”

Red stepped off on point, and the men of S3 followed him toward their target destination, the compound of Ahmud al-Habshi. They had endured ten days and nights of hell to get to this point, and their time to meet him was well over due.

Chapter 19

Ironically, the primary target of Shield, Safeguard, and Shelter was closer than they could have anticipated. He wasn’t shacked up, hiding in some rural province of Afghanistan, nor was he lounging in some comfortable mosque deep within the safety of Pakistan.

No. Less than one mile away, while Nick Woods and his band of shooters made their final approach toward their secondary target, their primary target was ascending the very hill they had occupied and defended against a mob of enraged villagers.

Rasool Deraz, the leader of the Taliban, had to take the hill slowly, but like so many Afghan men and women, he had strong legs and was surprisingly durable to be in his sixties and without any form of modern medical care. The Old Lion, as he was called, had been twenty miles away when word arrived about a bloody firefight. One of Rasool’s lieutenants had worked the radio and quickly confirmed that no skirmishes had broken out between villages, and there had been no reports indicating any trouble with the Pakistani soldiers in the area.

The Pakistani army had recently negotiated with Deraz and the Taliban before entering the Federally Administered Tribal Areas. Had the Army not, they would have been sent running with their trucks piled high with body bags.

Rasool carried a sneaking suspicion about what might have happened on the hill, but he wanted to confirm it for himself. So he and his entourage of more than two hundred hardened fighters had roared down the road in their trucks to the site and began ascending up the rough terrain on foot. Upon hearing the news, the Pakistani army had packed up and cleared the area, wary that they could be blamed for the slaughter of the villagers.

A lot of blood had been spilled between the Pakistani army and the people in the area. The Pakistani army had fought with both the locals and the Taliban fighters from Afghanistan, who were in Pakistan seeking sanctuary while they refitted and rested.

In this incident, however, the typical suspects had been effectively ruled out. No reported Army interference or village squabbles meant that there was a new culprit to consider, and in Rasool’s experience, new or unexpected parties equaled something much more dangerous. The unsettling nature of that realization was great enough that Rasool had resigned to see the scene for himself. But this, of course, called for a much larger production than Rasool would have liked.

Wherever Rasool went, his men went with him, with little to no exceptions. Therefore, what should have been a simple inspection quickly evolved into a full-blown military exercise, featuring a cavalcade of two hundred plus men crammed, clinging, and piled into fewer than twenty, four-wheel-drive Toyota trucks.

Although he appreciated the concerns of his men, Rasool also felt the precaution was largely unnecessary and ultimately frustrating due to the amount of time it took to orchestrate a simple trip down the road. Rasool had wanted to get to the hill as soon as possible in order to be with the wounded and provide what little comfort he could to the ones who lay dying.

His impatience amplified when he was informed that he would not be permitted to ride in the lead truck. He attempted to protest, but his men “strongly insisted” that he travel in a truck far back at the end of the procession. This, in turn, meant that it would take longer for his truck to get there. Or it could very well ensure that he didn’t make it there at all, if something happened further up the line and either forced the trucks following it to stop or turn back altogether.

Leader or not, there was not much Rasool could do as a group of his men ushered him into his truck -- one that had been specially armored with additional steel inside the doors -- and sped off far ahead of him and his driver.

No matter how hard Rasool tried, his men went to extremes to care for him and protect him. How he wished he could make them see that his life was nearing its end and of little value. If there was only some way he could get them to understand that it was now their turn, that their young lives offered so much more opportunity to advance Islam. But they were all too stubborn and too proud to accept it.

A personal bodyguard and long-time friend -- Mushahid Zubaida -- oversaw his protection at all times. When Deraz needed to move in the open, as few as ten men traveled with him. Although drone strikes had been almost non-existent for months, Mushahid remained cautious about large numbers of fighters whether they were in Afghanistan or Pakistan. Using his best judgment to protect Rasool, Mushahid would call as many as fifty or a hundred men to encircle the Taliban leader. However, Mushahid believed discretion provided the best defense.

The country of Afghanistan was mostly on its own now. Its primary protector for the past decade -- America -- was, for the most part, a distant memory. There were still some American military units in Afghanistan, but the remnants were mostly military contractors now. As far as Rasool could tell, these military contractors were there to suck money that the U.S. government had transferred to Afghanistan while merely performing low-level security at bridges and dams, as well as training the Afghan army and police force. But both the military and police forces of Afghanistan and Pakistan were heavily infiltrated by Taliban members or sympathizers. Even the units that hadn’t been infiltrated were laden with men who had little dedication to the fragile government of Afghanistan. These men were in it for the paycheck, and that’s why the Taliban under Rasool were within months of fully taking over the entire country.

Mushahid constantly berated Rasool that if he didn’t become more cautious, then he wouldn’t live to see what he had spent a decade trying to achieve: the complete collapse of the Afghan government and the re-establishment of a Taliban government. That was the first step in their grand plan, anyway.

“You risk yourself too much,” Mushahid regularly harped at him.

Rasool always reminded Mushahid that if Allah willed his death, there was nothing Mushahid or any of his fighters could do to prevent it. But Mushahid would always argue that Allah also gave Rasool the good sense to know better and to realize how crucial he was to the movement.

“Your death, if it must come, will only come by natural causes,” Mushahid had once said. “No one, especially some American infidel, will ever cause your passing as long as I’m alive.”

Rasool Deraz had no doubt Mushahid and the others would willingly take a bullet for him. This zeal for his protection -- for the cause, really -- was why Rasool tried to stay away from direct fighting. When danger had lurked near in the past, his personal force of two hundred men had charged into it like a colony of angry fire ants.

Rasool knew the feeling. He had been the same once, protecting older, venerable religious leaders himself. He had first fought against the Soviets back in the ’80s when the communist superpower had invaded his home country of Afghanistan. He had then worked his way up the ranks in the civil war between Afghan warlords that followed the power vacuum that ensued after the Soviets left.

Eventually, the religious order known as the Taliban had practically won that civil war in Afghanistan except for a few provinces in the north. In fact, the Taliban had its mortal enemy -- the Northern Alliance -- on the ropes when al-Qaeda hit the Twin Towers in New York on September 11.

Then the Americans arrived decisively. Initially, the superpower relied mostly on their planes and some advisors. The bulk of the fighting had been done by local Afghans in the Northern Alliance. Had the Americans stayed with this strategy, they may have won. But eventually, they made the major mistake of trying to rebuild the country and turn it into a democracy, sending in thousands of U.S. troops to help facilitate this. None of these American troops understood the culture, of course.

Barely twenty-one-year-old lieutenants would demean and yell at sixty-year-old tribal elders. Soldiers would enter private homes and have women searched. They’d even go so far as to enter mosques without removing their boots.

And with every cultural mistake against the populace, the Taliban gained support and new fighters. Loads of propaganda helped feed this.

Now, victory in Afghanistan was within sight for the Taliban again. Just as the Soviets had been beaten down over a ten-year period, the Americans had become weary nearly fifteen years after invading the country. Only now the Taliban were led by Rasool Deraz, a humble man who somehow found himself at the top of the organization. He had never sought the spot, but the Americans had killed or captured the Taliban’s leaders through the years. And with each loss, Rasool was promoted and held in higher regard.

Now, sixty-three years old, he stood atop the Taliban and would soon lead the culminating victory of a decades-long movement for supremacy in Afghanistan. He felt completely unworthy in this role, but it was fate that had put him here, and he would do his best to honor and serve Allah as long as it was willed.

Chapter 20

Mushahid Zubaida and Rasool Deraz worked their way up the steep hill. The two hundred fighters in their elite guard had spread out in a wide line of men, pushing up the mountain range on different angles.

They targeted rock outcroppings or depressions where possible fighters might hide. Mushahid carried an AK-74 and wore web gear loaded to capacity with magazines and grenades. He was Rasool’s final line of defense, and no one would get through him.

Rasool himself carried a walking stick and string of worn prayer beads. A small satchel hung across his chest by a singular strap. In it, he kept his Quran, a couple of religious texts, his prayer mat, some paper, and a pen.

Far before they reached the site of the fallen villagers, Rasool and Mushahid could make out the sound of women wailing. Their anguished cries echoed up and down the mountains, sending chills up Rasool’s spine. He didn’t want to imagine the horror they were about to walk upon.

“Mushahid,” he said, “a moment please.”

Mushahid, the bravest warrior Rasool had ever known, was several feet ahead, searching intently for snipers or any other signs of danger. Mushahid bowed slightly and stopped.

Rasool lowered his head, closed his eyes, and asked for the right words to say and the wisdom to know what actions to take.

He tried to calm himself. This was always the worst part, but his people needed him. So he finished his prayer quickly and with calm resolution, he moved up the hill.

They crested the hill and looked down to find an eruption of frantic activity. Mushahid winced and quickly turned his head away to look at his mentor and friend.

Rasool was a thin, frail man with a scraggly, gray beard. His turban and loose white shirt were tattered and frayed. His loose, black pants were ragged as the leather sandals he wore, whose soles were worn almost through in places.

Mushahid and others had insisted Rasool wear the newer, more suitable clothing they had bought him, but Rasool always insisted the clothes be given to younger fighters.

“The nights get cold in the mountains of Afghanistan,” he had once said. “There are still nights I can’t forget in my dreams. The cold cut me so deep when we were fighting the Russians.” Rasool had smiled that warm, elder-like, all-knowing smile and placed his hand on Mushahid’s shoulder. “Our men on the front lines deserve what resources we can spare. Not old men such as me living under the protection of a roof.”

Mushahid didn’t doubt that Rasool had suffered some cold nights. The Soviet invasion was before Mushahid’s time, but stories abounded of Rasool’s devotion and courage.

Mushahid and Rasool stood atop the high ground from which the villagers had begun their attack. Bodies were piled below them both down the slope and up the next one. The two experienced warfighters gazed upon the battlefield and examined what the villagers must have seen across from them.

“Let’s go on down now,” Rasool said. “I am ready.”

They traversed down the slope toward the first wounded and dead fighters. Rasool moved slowly, using his walking stick and slipping on gravel as his shaky legs tried to keep him vertical.

Mushahid, tall and strong, marched down the slope sure-footed and alert, his weapon ready and his fierce, beady eyes scanning odd-looking shapes and rock piles well within sniper range. He kept no more than three steps from Rasool, close enough to catch the older man if he fell, but far enough to allow the man to feel independent.

It took the two of them several minutes to descend down the draw, but they could now clearly see -- even with Rasool’s poor eyesight -- that it was worse than they could have ever imagined.

Bodies lay busted and broken all along the slope. All around, people worked frantically to save the wounded, while others clung to one another sobbing or prostrating over lifeless forms while screaming with savage grief. Rasool noted that all of the people were women or elderly men. A few older children were employed as gophers, running back and forth, fetching bandages and water, but there was not a single man of fighting age among them.

Rasool walked toward the nearest body, who lay unattended. He dug his walking stick firmly into the ground and leaned hard on it for support as he slowly kneeled. The man was dead, his face marked by an entry wound just left of his nose. Blood and yellow brain matter had trickled down the hill from behind the man’s head, and ants had already discovered the feast and were carrying off pieces in a heavily trafficked path.

Rasool put his fingers over the man’s open eyes and pulled down the eyelids. Mushahid watched Rasool from where he stood. How many times had he seen Rasool pull a fighter's eyes shut with his frail, veiny hands? How many men had he seen Rasool pray over a final time?

Mushahid turned from him and kept alert. His men were still moving all about, scouting on this finger, the next one, and the one after that. The elite guard of the Taliban leadership moved quickly without the burden of packs or heavy weapons. In addition, they had legs accustomed to steep terrain and lungs acclimatized to thin air.

Rasool Deraz and Mushahid Zubaida spent more than two hours on the side of the hill. For Rasool, it was the same process over and over. The wounds changed, but never the solution.

If the fighter was dead, he simply closed their eyes and prayed a final prayer for them. If they were wounded, he calmed their fears and tried to stop the bleeding. Then, Rasool would wave down any of his available guards to carry the man back to a home to be cared for. Many would die despite the effort, but a surprising number would make it.

Rasool knew the best thing to give to a wounded man was the same thing he tried to give the movement: hope. Calm down the men going into shock, or already in shock, and get them breathing normally again. Inform them that you’d seen worse wounds on men who had survived, even if it wasn’t true. Maybe tell them a joke about when you had fought the Soviets back in the ’80s.

Give each man hope, just as you gave the movement hope. Even when territory was lost to the enemy, even when buildings had been flattened and brave leaders had been killed, give the survivors hope. In all things, give hope.

Over the course of the gruesome ordeal, Rasool had managed to piece together some of the story. Years of battlefield experience along with what little he could learn from the few coherent survivors had told him that they were looking at a small number of highly skilled shooters. According to his estimations, the charging villagers had been taken down swiftly and efficiently, and probably in less than two minutes time.

However, the accomplished veteran was surprised when he noticed that a few of the fallen men’s clothing had been neatly cut and used to bandage wounds, an act that considering the state of these men would have been almost impossible for them to have managed themselves. He had also learned from the people first on the scene that a couple of the least wounded had been lightly bound with paracord.

It was strange to think but given the evidence, Rasool could only conclude that the shooters themselves had attempted to aid their targets while at the same time ensuring that no one was capable of leaving the site. This conclusion stirred up a tangle of thoughts and emotions that Rasool decided was best to tuck away for now and think over later if he had the chance.

As more and more information was collected, Rasool’s earlier suspicions were no longer simply holding true. No, his suspicions had grown arms and legs. Rasool closed his eyes as he let the truth wash over him. Americans had entered into the country of Pakistan.

“Only four shooters?” Mushahid asked.

“It is shocking at first thought,” Rasool said. “But as you think about it, it starts to make sense. Any larger group would be more difficult to hide.”

“Agreed,” Mushahid muttered.

The duo was now making their way up to the spot discovered by their scouts. One of the first things their scouts reported was that they had estimated the number of shooters to be no more than four. That number was then confirmed over and over by several of the wounded villagers.

“What do you think these men are doing on this side of the border?” Mushahid asked.

“Probably reconnaissance and intelligence gathering. Too small a force for anything else.”

Rasool had not yet shared his conclusions with Mushahid. The younger man might very well be the next in line to lead the Taliban; he needed to learn to make his own conclusions. And hopefully, Rasool would have enough time to teach his friend the importance of making well-informed decisions versus rash and dangerous ones. He worried about Mushahid and what the fierce warrior might become after Rasool was gone.

They arrived at the top of the hill where the four shooters had made their stand. Rasool leaned hard on his walking stick and struggled to catch his breath as they took in the scene.

Brass laid in piles and the position provided a perfect view of the hill below. Rasool saw more boot prints and the clear ground markings in the dust where four gunmen had lain.

“Mushahid, who do you think did this?” Rasool asked between wheezing breaths.

“I don’t think any of our Muslim brothers could have pulled off such a stand,” the Taliban’s most competent fighter said. He pointed toward the ground upon which they stood, and the dirt showed where four bodies had lain. “It really was only four men who caused such carnage. None of our men,” he shook his head with disgust, then spoke angrily, “none of our men could have pulled off such fire discipline and accuracy.”

Rasool simply nodded.

“Americans?” Mushahid guessed. “Or maybe Pakistani elite soldiers trained by Americans.”

Rasool considered Mushahid’s alternate answer but dismissed it. He scanned the hills around them. Whoever they were, they were on foot. And they had either headed deeper into Pakistan after the battle or turned to run for the border. He assumed it was the latter. Surely, they’d run for their lives after losing the element of surprise.

Excellent shooters they may be, but Rasool doubted there were many men who were capable of pushing on considering not only the elements but the fervent and viscously territorial nature of the people surrounding them in every direction.

“Select some of our best men from the elite guard as a rapid-reaction force,” Rasool instructed. “And have two or three trucks ready to respond. Whoever did this will show up soon, and we shall seek vengeance for our brothers who died on this hill.”

“As you wish,” Mushahid said, clearly pleased with the order.

“Now, leave me for a moment,” Rasool said, reaching in his satchel for his prayer mat. “I need to pray for our brave men and that Allah’s justice falls swiftly upon these intruders.”

Chapter 21

Six hours later, Nick Wood’s team hid along a rock outcropping in the waning hours of sunlight. After the terrible turn of luck earlier that day, they had somehow managed to arrive at their destination unnoticed.

Below them, far down the mountain range, they could see the bottom of the valley. Straight across, an almost identical range faced them -- the same one they had used as an alternate route earlier in the mission to avoid the Pakistani army for a day.

All four men made use of the daylight to notice every bit of key terrain that could be seen. Soon, their lives would depend on how well they had memorized the land around them.

Unfortunately, they couldn’t see into every corner of their target compound fifteen hundred yards below them. Its walls were simply too high. That concerned them a little, but intel consistently revealed that there were between five to ten men in there. No women. No children.

The good news was that from what they could make out, the people within the compound were behaving as if they were completely unaware of any firefight. But considering that this particular compound served as a center of communication for the Taliban, it was safer to assume otherwise. It might be possible that they just didn’t see themselves or the compound as a real target of interest. Ultimately Nick couldn’t be sure from what he was seeing, so he would just have to do what he did best: plan for the worst.

The movement outside the compound all along the valley was very similar. The people seemed to be moving along at an everyday kind of pace, wrapping up chores or carrying things up the meandering trails. No one acted as if they had a clue about the firefight just four miles away. And why should they know? Despite their close proximity to a communication hub, there were very few means for the people to get information. There were no news stations around here. No newspapers. Just radios and word of mouth.

Whatever the case may be, the S3 team hoped the situation remained as calm as it appeared for just a little longer. In just a few hours, the first hurdle of this strenuous mission would be cleared, and they’d be racing back toward the border and safety.

But before any of them could anticipate a victory, there were gut checks to be done. It was part of the warrior process, a mental preparation so necessary that they treated it as if it were religion. And although there was never any stated rule, there appeared to be a universal belief that this ritual was best done in whatever light was available.

There was no voodoo or superstition about it; it was simply easier to face your realities when you can physically see your target or the people around you. Even the bravest of men could tell you that bolstering your courage is a much greater challenge in the dark. There’s just something about the pitch-black that invades all your senses and gives strength to your doubts.

So as the sun descended toward dusk, the S3 team set in for a full, four-man watch in unified silence.

This was it. This was what they’d sacrificed for, crossing endless steep fingers and sleeping in the dirt each night. This was why they had been forced to slaughter a group of overly confident villagers. None of the men would ever be proud of that firefight.

But the past was in the past, and tonight they’d climb over a wall and more men would die. Maybe some of their own wouldn’t make it, as the men in the compound would be experienced Taliban fighters.

That was the gut check. Shutting out echoes of the past. Hunting your doubts and fears, slaying them into silence. Seeing the realities and the odds then committing yourself to stand in spite of them. With the situation fully understood, the only thing left was to prepare the fighter.

Like a boxer in their pre-fight routine. Quiet locker room. No distractions. See yourself in the ring. Moving. Slipping. Hands working. Punches going out. Connecting. See the fight the way you want it to go. Ignore your fears. Forget past defeats.

Only victory could reside in your head now. Only confidence, the belief that the hard training will pay off. And maybe just a little hope that a lucky break or two was coming your way.

Darkness creeped into the hills of Pakistan, and the men of S3 shifted into a mental rehearsal of the mission, playing through the physical actions and imagining every possible contingency.

They had talked and walked through it all dozens of times. It was all there. In their heads. Mapped out and memorized until they could do it in their sleep.

The hit was simple, and they had etched in their minds the compound and its layout from staring at hundreds of satellite images and high-resolution photos provided from drones.

The compound featured only one opening, and it was at the front. The gated entrance faced down the hill, which made sense as the complex was far up the hill. In fact, it was by far the highest on either mountain range, and its occupants certainly didn’t want any visitors.

Inside the compound, three mud huts stood. All big enough to have maybe two or three rooms.

Besides the three huts, there was a huge satellite dish, which was powered by a generator. And the compound usually had one or two four-wheel-drive trucks. That was likely a necessity, given how steep the path was up to the compound.

The compound in itself wasn’t too intimidating. Not being able to confirm the number of possible Taliban troops currently present, however, made the simple-looking compound all the more dangerous. A simple compound made for an enclosed space with little cover, and a number of clear sightlines for bullets to find you in a multi-directional capacity.

But that was what they had to work with, and the time to back out or come up with a new plan had come and gone. The time to be scared and imagine bad things happening was back when you were planning and deciding what you needed to pack. There was no going back. Only moving forward remained. And the men of S3 were ready. Ready to charge forward and unleash unholy hell.

Chapter 22

As the night progressed, the team remained in their position. They set a watch and took turns napping until 0215 when they awoke and made final gear prep.

The men loosened up, bending their knees and swinging their upper bodies from side-to-side. They were beyond sore and aching from the forty-plus miles of trekking, but now it was “go” time and soon the adrenaline would ease all their aches and pains.

Marcus used a red-beam flashlight under a poncho liner to fill a syringe from a bottle. Once they grabbed Ahmud al-Habshi, he’d be drugged to knock him out. Marcus finished filling the syringe, tapped the air bubbles out, and placed a cap on the needle. He stowed it in a pouch on his web harness.

Red rehearsed, extending his silenced .45 and looking over its sights. In his supporting hand, he’d be holding a blindingly powerful LED flashlight. Across from him, Truck kneeled with his RPK across his knees and checked the 75-round drum on his machine gun.

Marcus came out from under his poncho liner and placed it back into his pack. Finished, he moved to join the rest, who were already huddled and ready to move.

With the entire team together, Nick whispered, “All right, men. You know what to do. Remember, only Red shoots with his silenced pistol until there’s return fire breaking the silence. Once they open up, don’t hold back. Don’t forget to find cover and concealment when possible and yell when you’re reloading. You’re all pros, so I got nothing more I need to say. Let’s go bag this guy and get the hell back home. I’m due for a shower.”

The men hefted their behemoth packs and followed Red down the hill toward the compound. As Nick followed second in line -- his usual position -- he hoped they’d be able to figure out which one was Ahmud al-Habshi.

Each man carried a photo of him, but it was low-resolution and had been taken several years ago. Apparently there weren’t many photos to be found of al-Habshi, and the CIA had told Nick that they had struggled to pull up any information on the man at all. And they hadn’t meant that in a good way for poor, young Ahmud. Because information on Ahmud al-Habshi hadn’t been redacted or covered up like he was being protected. No. Information on him simply didn’t exist, because he wasn’t worth creating information on. Non-warrior, non-leader, therefore, non-important as far as the Taliban was concerned.

Nick thought it was all too ironic that the man largely responsible for promoting the Taliban into infamy managed to garner so little fame for himself. “Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain,” should have been his high school yearbook quote, thought Nick.

The little information Nick had been given on al-Habshi was that he had been a young university student studying computer programming when he was converted to the cause of righteousness. He had left the university, infuriated his moderate parents, and entered the fringes of the Taliban movement.

Ahmud had planned on becoming a foot soldier, but his computer skills had won out over his soft hands, lack of strength, and inability to fire a weapon in the right direction.

So although the men of S3 had joked about it, Plan B, for if they weren’t able to recognize al-Habshi, was to literally check hands and see whose were the cleanest and baby-softest.

The man would almost have to have soft hands. Al-Habshi spent nearly eighteen hours a day uploading propaganda videos and messages promoting jihad to chat rooms. He could type, and type fast, but no one expected him to have callouses from regular physical labor.

Still, if he was half as brainwashed as the rest of his terror group, he might not come quietly. And if that were the case, they’d have to put him down, and pray the seized computers would provide the intel they needed to locate Deraz.

But even if the intel wasn’t there, the raid would provide at least one long-term benefit for the struggling government of Afghanistan. Such a breach into Pakistan should force the Taliban to pull dozens -- if not hundreds -- of fighters out of Afghanistan to better protect their so-called “sanctuary” in the Federally Administered Tribal Areas. In other words, the raid could effectively thin the Taliban’s herds and give Afghanistan’s government a fighting chance.

The team worked their way down the steep ridge and didn’t stop moving until they were less than a yard outside the compound walls. They formed a tight circle and dropped their packs, laying them down as quietly as you can lay down a hundred-pound piece of gear.

They took prone positions after stashing their packs, and Nick allowed the team members to catch their breath after the exertion of the descent. Plus, it provided time for them to grow accustomed to the sounds of the compound and surrounding area.

Nick drank some water from his canteen and wiped the perspiration off his forehead with the back of his sleeve. The summer night air, the weighted movement downhill, and the tension had him sweating heavily.

They waited in the defensive position for ten minutes, listening for movement or anything else, but the night was quiet.

Nick passed the word to ready themselves. The men pulled small, powerful flashlights out and stood silently. With the lack of cloud cover and an almost full moon, the men could see about thirty yards in the darkness.

Nick looked at Marcus who smiled and nodded he was ready. Nick couldn’t help but smile back. Dwayne Marcus was the consummate warrior. The man headed for NFL stardom before September 11 and an amazing career in the Corps.

Nick turned and saw Truck with his machine gun, and Truck gave him a thumbs up. Nick saluted the Army Special Forces warrior, then looked to Red, who was watching the compound with absolute concentration.

Nick eased up behind him and squeezed him on the shoulder, the silent signal that the team was ready. Red nodded in acknowledgement without taking his eyes off the target and moved toward the compound.

Chapter 23

Red edged up to the compound wall, and Nick scanned the top of it. It was unlikely anyone would do a pull up and lift themselves over it, but tactics were tactics. And tactics called for watching the front, which in this case was the wall.

Nick covered the wall with his silenced .45 since he had stashed his sniper rifle with the packs. After all, a scoped sniper rifle was practically worthless for room clearing. He’d be using his pistol for tonight’s work.

Red and Marcus had removed their ACOG scopes from their AK-47s since their weapons had rail systems that would allow them to place them back on later with the scopes still be sighted in and accurate -- at least if they placed it back correctly in the right position. Nick’s sniper rifle lacked that capability, so he was stuck with his .45, which he didn’t see as too much of a disadvantage in close quarters. Especially with the flashlight in his supporting hand.

Nick scanned the wall with his pistol -- back and forth -- until he felt a hand tap his shoulder twice. He knew it was Marcus, and he knew that meant Marcus was now covering the top of the wall with his AK.

Truck moved past Nick and kneeled by the wall, placing his knee in a strong ninety-degree angle. Nick moved next to him and placed his leg in the same position and up against Truck’s knee, creating a step with their two legs.

Red holstered his pistol and put his flashlight in his pocket. He stepped on their legs and reached up with his hands for the top of the compound wall. He then executed a slow pull up, trying to limit the sound of his gear and body dragging up the dirt wall.

At the top, he held himself in a pull-up position with just his head and eyes above the wall. He scanned the perimeter while his arms shook from the strain. Seeing nothing, he raised a leg and hooked it over the wall.

The wall was a foot wide, and he lowered himself as easily as he could on the inside of it, performing the “down” portion of a pull up from inside the compound. He dropped the remaining distance, spun toward the buildings, and withdrew his pistol. He took a knee and steadied his breathing.

Nick listened as hard as he could on the other side of the wall. He hoped the noise from Red’s gear dragging against the wall hadn’t alerted anyone. Nick waited silently, counting to one hundred and twenty. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi.

Reaching one hundred and twenty with no alarm, Nick holstered his pistol and pocketed his flashlight. He stood, turned toward the wall, and stepped on Truck’s knee to pull himself over. Nick hooked a leg over the wall and swung himself to the other side.

Marcus stopped covering the wall and took a position on the wall next to Truck. Truck unslung his RPK, extended its bipod legs, and placed it on the ground. He used Marcus’s leg to clamber to the top of the wall, as well.

Instead of dropping to the other side, Truck held his position at the top of the wall. He stayed low, laying on it and remaining balanced on its crown. On the far side, Marcus picked up the RPK, snapped the bipod legs against the barrel, and hefted it as high as he could.

Truck reached down for it, grabbed it by the barrel, and carefully pulled it up and over the wall. He hung it down by the barrel and Nick reached up for its stock. Nick accepted its weight and brought it down to him. Behind Nick, Red kept watch with his silenced pistol.

Marcus repeated the operation, lifting his AK up toward Truck. Truck also nabbed it and handed it down to Nick.

All weapons across, Truck slid down the wall to join Nick and Red. On the other side of the wall, Marcus -- the tallest and most athletic member -- backed up six feet and ran forward. He jumped, kicked off the wall to gain height, and just managed to grab the lip of the wall. With complete ease, the exercise junkie pulled himself up, over, and down the other side as lightly as a ballet dancer.

Chapter 24

Truck recovered his RPK light machine gun from off the ground, and Nick handed Marcus his AK. The four men formed a defensive arc covering the three huts, each in the kneeling position and straining to hear anything that might signal danger.

They could see the three buildings fairly well in the moonlight though no door or windows faced their direction. Behind the huts sat a waist-high generator, a satellite dish, and a Toyota four-wheel-drive truck.

No one moved as Nick held them in position. He had thought their entry into the compound too loud until he remembered the mud huts had walls as thick as the one they’d just come over. Sound couldn’t penetrate such massive barriers, but still, if someone had been taking a leak or if they had a man roving on patrol inside the compound...

Nick again counted to one hundred and twenty. The team needed to catch its breath after the exertion of getting over the wall. He also wanted them to focus on their breathing. On relaxing. On accepting that they were in the compound, and the game was fully on.

Nick finished his count to one hundred and twenty. It was time. He leaned toward Red and squeezed his shoulder.

Red stood and switched to ninja mode, one of the few benefits of being small. He creeped forward in a smooth, heel-to-toe fashion, his silenced Glock .45 extended in front of him.

Nick mimicked his movement and covered him from the number two slot with his own silenced .45. Behind them, Truck and Marcus followed, with Marcus turned almost fully around watching their rear.

They passed the generator and satellite dish. Nick noted with relief that the wires and power cord from the dish trailed toward the middle hut. Intelligence sources believed Ahmud al-Habshi lived in the middle hut.

Red reached the back wall of the middle hut and moved to the left. At the rear corner, he peeked around and confirmed the alley between the two huts was clear. He took a deep breath and moved into it.

Red walked with his weapon up, his eyes watching the wall as he glided deeper into the abyss. Nick kept his pistol covering the front corner of the hut on the left, in case someone emerged from it. Truck kept his RPK toward the ground while Marcus maintained watch to their rear.

At the front of the column, Red’s eyes strained to see the details of the compound yard in front of the three mud huts. Even in the darkness, he could see two more trucks. Both were again four-wheel-drive Toyotas, which seemed so common in the area. He couldn’t see the front gate, but knew it was about thirty yards beyond the trucks.

Red stopped at the front corner of the middle hut. Nick, behind him, covered the left hut as best he could. The team held up for a moment while Red composed himself.

At this point, Nick was no longer in charge. It was on the point man, and Nick knew Red was setting himself before they hit their first hut, where he’d be in the lead.

Up at the front, Red knew he needed to move, but he struggled to swallow down his fear. He’d been in some deep shit during his seven tours in Iraq and Afghanistan, but this was an all-new level of deep shit. They were four men forty-plus miles behind enemy lines, with no radio or support or back up of any kind.

And once he cleared this final corner, there was a damn good chance that a non-silenced weapon would be fired and hundreds -- perhaps more than a thousand -- fiery, pissed-off Muslim men were going to come running from below in the valley.

In the end, he moved not because he was ready, but because waiting at the corner of the two mud huts was more dangerous than going. Someone might walk out for a late night smoke or a generator might run out of gas, and they’d be caught in a hell of a quandary.

Red took one more breath and turned the corner on his right. Nick followed, staying just behind, and Truck and Marcus completed the tight stack.

Red had barely turned the corner when he came face-to-face with a man standing outside the mud hut’s door.

Chapter 25

The man was taking a deep draw on a freshly lit cigarette, the red tip glowing brightly against the dark. Being a smoker himself, Red hated knowing that the man wasn’t going to get to finish his very last cigarette.

Red slowly lifted the barrel of his silenced pistol toward the man’s head. The man stood ten feet away, but sensed movement in the shadows and peered forward. His mouth opened in shock, and he turned for an AK leaning against the wall beside him.

Red focused on his front sight and pulled the trigger twice. TSK. TSK. The man appeared to try to yell, but his body crumpled lifelessly. Two .45s to the brain have a way of ending all body function.

Red rushed forward, knowing speed mattered now more than ever.

A man called from inside the hut. “Yossef?”

Red made it to the door of the mud hut, which was nothing more than a rickety-looking thing made of cheap wood. Nick caught up to him and put his hand on his shoulder.

Red pulled his powerful flashlight out of a pouch and heard movement behind the door, moving toward them. “Yossef?” the man called again, but louder this time.

Red kicked the door in. He flicked the tactical flashlight on, flooding the room with a blinding light of several hundred illumination.

A shadow moving toward him shouted “Aiyeehh!!!” as he spun his AK toward Red.

Red blinded him with the powerful flashlight and fired violently and quickly. TSK. TSK. TSK. TSK. TSK.

The man kept coming, either hit and fueled by adrenaline, or Red had missed him in the chaos of the hasty entry. The man’s AK opened up, roaring in the small room. BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Red shoved himself to the side, stumbling over a chair that toppled. As he fell, he desperately tried to re-aim his weapon, but the leg of the chair caught his arm, knocking his light and his weapon’s aim further off target toward the ceiling.

The man’s bullets tracked toward him, dirt exploding along the wall and ground. Red screamed, “AHHH!!!!” and knew he was dead.

But a powerful beam of light caught the man in the face, blinding him. TSK. TSK. TSK.

The man screamed as the rounds slammed him in the chest, and he fell to the ground, writhing in pain. Nick put the light back on him and shot twice more into his head. TSK. TSK.

Truck rushed past Nick and the immobile Red, who was tangled up in the chair. His web gear was hooked onto it, and he fought to free himself in the darkness with just the aid of his flashlight.

Truck turned and headed into the next room at a sprint. Momentum mattered more than control or tactics. Light filtered from the next room, and he saw Ahmud al-Habshi working frantically on a computer. The man was typing desperately and completely ignoring an AK leaning against a beat-up folding table.

The room was deep. At least ten feet long and al-Habshi was at the far end, working at a small desk in the corner.

“He’s sending a message!” Truck screamed, running forward.

Truck ignored all tactical considerations. His mind possessed a single purpose: knocking al-Habshi to the ground.

He barreled into the room and never saw the man lurking in the corner, waiting to ambush the first person who entered the room.

The man knelt with his back to the wall, with his AK up and ready. He opened up the minute Truck burst into the room, rotating his weapon to catch up with the man sprinting into the room.

Nick entered the room milliseconds after Truck. The shooter in the corner swung his weapon as fast as he could after Truck, but hit just behind the fleeting, laterally-moving target. Not only could he not catch his target, he also failed to notice another man entering the room.

Nick stepped into the room, spun his .45 to the left, and fired two rounds center mass. TSK. TSK. As the man fell, Nick raised his pistol and fired a round into his face. The man dropped and started convulsing on the ground. Nick fired once more into the man’s head, and he stopped.

Meanwhile, Truck had closed the distance to al-Habshi. Unable to buttstroke the man since his machine gun was slung, he pivoted the weapon horizontally in front of him and dove forward. The weapon, acting like the front bumper of a car, slammed al-Habshi in the side of the head and knocked him to the ground.

Truck was tumbling from the collision, and he fell on al-Habshi as he heard the sound of Nick’s silenced Glock behind him dealing with whatever had been back in that corner. Truck pinned al-Habshi to the dirt floor of the hut, spun him to put him face down, and wrenched an arm behind his back. He added pressure, and al-Habshi screamed. Al-Habshi complied and placed his other arm behind his back.

Truck zip-tied the man’s arms and pulled a sack from his gear. He covered the man’s head and turned to give Nick a thumbs up.

Chapter 26

Marcus yelled from the other room of the hut.

“Guys, we’ve got shouting outside,” he said, his AK-47 covering the front door. “I think they’re gathering to rush us.”

Without any of their flashlights on, the cave-like room was enveloped in a crescent of thick blackness. Therefore as Nick, followed by Truck, re-entered the front room, they made an immediate right turn, pressing tightly to the back wall. Then allowing their shoulders to lightly brush up against the surface, they felt their way along the back wall, banked left at the corner, and moved up the right hand side of the hut.

Thankfully, it appeared that Marcus had successfully collected and cleared the room of any trip-able debris. Though he couldn’t see it, Nick trusted that as was planned, there was a pile in the assigned back corner made of rugs, dead bodies, furniture, etc.

The only light came from the large moon outside. But even while at its near-full strength, the moonlight failed to push more than six inches in through the entry before it was choked out completely. Still the contrast between the moonlit scene outside, and the cavernous black inside, was great enough that Nick had quickly confirmed Red’s position when he and Truck had entered the room directly behind the kneeling shooter now covering the entry. The small man’s silhouette was lined up, facing out the open doorway but set back at the center of the room. So while he had been easy to spot from behind while framed the moonlit opening, his position was still deep in the shadows and hidden to anyone outside. Light can be tricky that way.

According to the plan, Nick knew where Marcus should be, but he could not see the man for anything. Then on the right side of the kicked-in door, Nick noticed the edges of a man’s strong profile slowly break the line of moonlight as Marcus peered out into the compound.

The utter lack of visibility inside the hut suddenly reminded Nick of the still-lit computer screen in the room behind him. He quickly looked back to make sure the light wouldn’t give them away. But thankfully it was deep enough in the back room that the monitor’s blinding light carried no more strength than that of a glow-in-the-dark sticker in the hut’s swallowing darkness.

Men yelled from outside, the silence and lack of light from al-Habshi’s hut seemed to encourage them. Some of the yells seemed to sound like questions or queries of concern. Others seemed to contain anger and foretell impending pain for those in the middle hut.

Looking out the door again, Nick guessed that visibility remained at thirty yards.

Nick turned his head to look over his shoulder and whispered to Truck, “Truck, take a corner position on the right.”

Nick eased over to Red, who was still in the center of the room covering the door. He leaned down by his ear.

“Red, you take the opposite corner on the left.”

As Red moved to the left, Marcus moved toward the center of the room closer to Nick.

Now, Truck and Red waited in crossed, kneeling positions six feet from the door, providing them with forty-five degrees of visibility into the courtyard. Their “X” positions on the door yielded them with better safety if someone fired into the entrance, and it also would prevent anyone in front of the hut from seeing their muzzle flashes. Any shots they fired would only be visible from an enemy who was oblique to the door.

Nick stepped next to Marcus and whispered, “Grab your syringe and go drug al-Habshi. I want him ready to go.”

Marcus unsnapped a pouch and glided into the other room, Nick unable to hear him even though he knew Marcus was moving.

“Here they come,” Truck announced softly. Nick -- centered on the door, but deep inside the room -- couldn’t see the angle from which Truck covered, but he trusted the veteran Special Forces soldier.

He could just make out that Truck was in the kneeling position, his machine gun supported by his left arm, which was propped up on his left knee. It was a great defensive position, keeping him low while also keeping him stable and accurate.

Nick heard Truck exhale.

Truck could see silhouettes moving toward him from out in his sector. Three men hunched over and stalking forward like lions of the savannah stalking their prey.

He aimed at the left one and pulled the trigger. A loud burst exploded the night’s silence. Truck eased off the trigger as the gun pulled off target, and brought it to the middle man. The man had kneeled and appeared to be torn between going prone and darting back from where he came.

Truck shredded him with a well-aimed burst. Even half-trained recruits can hit a target at thirty yards. Truck repeated the release of the trigger and moved to the third target, who had dropped in the prone and fired a hasty barrage of bullets toward the hut and the muzzle flash from deep within the front room.

A couple of bullets zipped into the room. Truck flinched but dropped the man with a torrent of bullets aimed low and worked up into his target.

This small event felt like a lifetime but lasted no more than a few seconds.

Aim. Burst. Adjust aim. Second burst. Re-aim. Flinch. A third burst, longer than the others.

Chapter 27

Nick had no idea how many rounds Truck had fired, but the drum of his RPK machine gun only held seventy-five rounds. Truck might have fired as many as twenty shots in the exchange, so Nick moved over by him and lifted his pistol to cover the opening.

“Reload that weapon, hoss,” Nick said. “Those damn drums take forever to reload, and we’ll be breaking out of this place any moment now.”

While Truck reloaded, Nick covered his sector. He couldn’t see anything in the gray, moonlit night except for the three bodies Truck had added to the landscape.

Behind him, Marcus re-entered the room and whispered, “Al-Habshi is ready to move. The man will be sleeping in thirty seconds.”

“Great. Now cover this sector while I break out the NVGs,” Nick said to Marcus.

Marcus moved into position, and Nick eased deeper into the room. He holstered his .45 and brought up the NVGs.

The compound lit up in tones of green, and Nick swept the compound yard directly to their front. He saw two 4x4 trucks, but nothing else. The NVGs easily allowed visibility all the way to the wall, so he felt confident no one was to their front.

Nick angled his way inside the room toward Truck and Marcus to scan their sector in the compound. As Nick peered into the darkness, he heard Truck finish reloading. Through the green world of the NVGs, Nick confirmed the three bodies wouldn’t be getting up anytime soon.

They lay mangled and unmoving, and Nick studied them a moment longer. Truck had done a number on the men. They lay in deep pools of blood, which looked black in the NVGs, and the bullets had twisted their bodies into what appeared to be uncomfortable, writhing positions. If they were playing possum, they were doing a hell of a job.

Nick checked the rest of Truck’s original sector and observed no one else.

He worked his way the opposite direction, confirming first that the middle area remained clear. Nick then swung the NVGs so that they penetrated the darkness of Red’s sector on the right side of the compound. It, too, appeared empty.

“We’re clear for now,” Nick said in a low voice. “Marcus, go grab al-Habshi.”

Truck, his RPK finally reloaded, stepped up behind Marcus to retake his position. Marcus moved to the computer room, and Nick stepped back into the depths of the room, inhaling deeply. He braced himself for the next part of the mission.

He heard dragging from the computer room and saw Marcus pulling their bounty by one arm. Marcus dropped him, and al-Habshi’s body slumped to the ground. They would leave him in the middle hut while they cleared the other buildings.

“Let’s hit the two other buildings so we can get the hell out of here,” Nick murmured.

Chapter 28

The team stacked by the door, still inside the middle hut and the protection of its darkness. Red was back in the lead, but Truck took the second position this time instead of Nick. Behind him, Nick took the third position followed by Marcus.

The three huts were set in a straight row, each building’s front wall perfectly plumb with the other two. Both the left and right hut were pressed directly up against the surrounding compound wall, creating twin alleys on either side of the completely detached middle hut. The plan was to clear the left hut first followed by the right side one.

Truck glanced back at his two leaders to confirm the stack was ready. Seeing Nick and Marcus nod, he squeezed Red’s shoulder -- the silent signal for “go.” Red stepped through the door, in his heel-to-toe, ready-to-fire manner. This was no time for running or noise. It was back to systematic clearing. Orchestrated death, studied and rehearsed to no end.

Red briefly covered ahead before turning sharply to the left. Truck peeled right and dropped into a prone position, his body parallel with the middle hut’s front wall. He rested the machine gun on its bipod legs and aimed it at the hut across the way on the right side of the compound.

Nick and Marcus exited and caught up with Red, who had paused against the wall to wait for the rest of his stack. Nick bumped Red, and the three-man stack moved along the front wall of the middle hut that they had already cleared. At its corner, they wanted to make sure the alley between the middle and left hut remained clear.

Nick stepped back a couple of feet from the wall and covered their target hut with his pistol. Marcus stepped even further out from him and brought his AK to bear on the door, as well. Red knelt and peeked left down the alley before yanking back. He then brought his weapon up and pivoted around the corner.

The alley lay empty, except for the truck and generator in the background, the latter humming loudly in the night air.

Nick and Marcus advanced past Red toward the left hut. Once they crossed the four-foot opening, Red stood and backed from the corner -- his AK up and covering the alley the entire time.

Nick moved left along the hut’s front wall enough for Marcus to hug the corner and take over watch of the alley. As soon as Marcus raised his AK down the alley, Red advanced behind him, past Nick, and assumed his position on point.

The cautious movement might have been overkill, but there were only four of them and neither the perimeter nor the two huts had been cleared. One thing was for sure, though, and that was the left hut was about to have fewer occupants.

Chapter 29

The left hut also had a flimsy door on it, but this one stood wide open. Perhaps the three men who had attacked them while they were in the middle hut had come from here and left it open. Or, perhaps someone inside had opened it so they could more easily shoot out it.

It didn’t matter which of the two scenarios it was. S3 was about to take the place down.

Red stopped a couple of feet from the door, his AK covering the entry. While he protected the stack from anyone stupid enough to exit the hut, Nick snatched a flashbang from his web gear. He pulled the pin and hurled it into the room.

BOOOM!

Red and Nick followed the shockwave of the flashbang. Flashbangs roared at 170 decibels and created a temporary loss of hearing and balance since the shockwave rocks the inner ear. The blinding flash also knocks your vision out for as long as five seconds if your eyes are open when it explodes.

The three S3 members had closed their eyes and lowered their heads as it left Nick’s hand, so they weren’t affected. And their ears thankfully had a nice, thick mud wall between them and the concussion.

Red and Nick burst into the room behind the shock. Both flicked on their blinding flashlights as they split up and cleared the room. Their beams cut through the dust and smoke from the flashbang, but they found only bed rolls and blankets.

“Clear,” Red said.

“Clear,” Nick echoed from the other side of the room.

This hut contained only a single room. Apparently, just a place fighters slept. Outside the hut, Marcus held security, but the team was in a vulnerable position as split up as they were. Truck had his back turned to the alley they had just cleared, so he was as good as dead if a fighter circled behind the middle hut.

Red and Nick knew they needed to move fast, so they spent only a few seconds scanning the room for intel or anything valuable before exiting.

“Man coming out,” Red said as he stepped out. Nick followed, and the team reformed then crossed the alley in the same method as earlier.

Truck remained behind his RPK in the prone. His weapon covered the third and final hut on the right of the compound. The stack closed on him and the target hut, heel-to-toe walking silently -- their weapon barrels barely moving with their practiced assault walk.

They were closing on Truck’s position when the door to the final hut suddenly flung wide open. Light poured from the doorway, and two men sprinted out of it. Truck’s RPK roared and raked the men. Red paused to add a barrage of fire from his AK-47 into them, as well. Both attackers dropped to the dirt.

The team dropped all pretense of silence and caution. Red, Nick, and Marcus sprinted to the opening. Truck spun around as they passed him and oriented his weapon toward the compound’s front gate further down the hill, which for the moment was closed.

The three men cleared the final hut with flashbangs, but it lay empty same as the previous one. With the compound secure and the computer-wiz al-Habshi in hand, they were one step closer to finding their primary target: Rasool Deraz.

Chapter 30

Nick, Red, and Marcus exited the third hut and headed back toward the middle one.

“Marcus, Red,” Nick said, “check the back of the compound and make sure it’s empty.”

The two nodded and left to clear the back of the compound and make sure no fleeing enemy (or squirters) had hidden back there. Nick walked over to Truck, who lay behind his RPK, still oriented on the front gate.

Nick knelt and said, “Hold your position and keep that entrance covered. We’ll get everything loaded up.”

Nick hurried to the middle hut, remembered he still carried his pistol in his right hand, and holstered it for his flashlight. He entered the hut and pushed into the computer room.

Marcus and Red investigated the back of the compound, even checking a couple of nooks and crannies behind the generator and behind a small upright structure that turned out to be a storage shed.

“Red, go find us a truck,” Marcus instructed. “I’ll run in and help Nick.”

Red ran up to the truck behind the middle hut. The truck was a four-wheel-drive Toyota. Burgundy. Exterior banged up a bit but probably a mid-90’s model.

Through the glass, he saw a long gear shifter sticking up from the floorboard in the middle. A stick shift. Not a problem. He tested the door handle and found it unlocked.

Red opened the door not worried about IEDs as he would have been back in Afghanistan. He slid into the seat, saw the keys were in the ignition, and pushed the clutch in. The ignition turned the motor, and the engine easily caught.

He pulled it out of gear and listened to the idle. The engine sounded good. He turned the lights on to test them -- both worked -- and noted the truck had a half-tank of gas. He revved the engine a few times then pushed the pedal to the floor to hear it roar. Nothing clanked or squeaked.

Mileage showed 113,743. It’s just a baby, he thought. Red felt good about the truck. He shut the door and pulled the seat forward three notches to fit his short legs. He leaned back, confirmed the seat was close enough to allow him to work the pedals easily, and drove the truck down the alley and around the front of the middle hut.

He turned it off to conserve gas and jumped out to investigate the tires and check the spare underneath. He also wanted to investigate the other two trucks to confirm this was their best option.

While Red checked the trucks, Nick and Marcus worked like madmen in the computer room. They yanked wires from computers, servers, and monitors, stacking gear they planned to haul off in a corner. The two men heard Red pull the truck up.

Nick nodded at Marcus, and they increased their pace. They hurriedly hauled servers and computer towers out to the truck and loaded them along the front near the truck cab. Back inside the room, they slung crap they didn’t plan to take into an opposite corner. The pile grew as monitors, power strips, and keyboards were tossed into it.

The two men also rifled their way through files, stacks of papers, and two metal file cabinets. Marcus spotted a duffle bag on the ground. He reached for it, unzipped it, and discovered a pile of half-folded clothes. He hastily dug in the bag and confirmed nothing else was hidden in it. He dumped it and tossed it to Nick.

“Let’s use this,” he said.

The two hastily began cramming files, documents, and disks into the bag.

Chapter 31

Nick and Marcus looked the room over one last time and departed the hut for good. Red was running across the compound back toward them as they reached the truck.

“The other two are shit,” he said, nodding back over his shoulder to the other two trucks. “Higher mileage, less tread on the tires. I slashed the tires so no one uses them to pursue us.”

“Might be courier vehicles,” Marcus offered.

“You find any spare gas?” Nick asked.

“No,” Red said, “but we have half a tank. That’s plenty to get us back to the border.”

“Good to go,” Nick said. “You two go get our packs and let’s get the hell out of here.”

Nick checked his watch and saw that dawn was rapidly approaching.

About a minute later, a blast made Nick jump, and he remembered Marcus and Red were blowing a hole in the wall to retrieve their packs. Nick pulled a map out and studied their route under a red penlight.

He had it practically memorized, but with all the adrenaline pumping through him, he wanted to etch it down in his mind once more. He traced their exit route with his finger and worked on some contingency plans, trying to rehearse mentally for worst-case scenarios.

Nick had learned that when it came time to actually need a solution, you didn’t have a chance to work one out. Marcus and Red returned, tossing two of their massive packs into the truck bed. The truck bed shook with their weight, and Nick wondered how the hell they had carried the things for two weeks straight.

Marcus and Red departed for the other two packs, and Nick reviewed their route one final time, studying it from where they sat to where he intended to cross the border.

Marcus and Red lugged the final two packs into the truck bed, and Nick folded the map. Marcus and Red stepped away again and entered the first room to carry al-Habshi out. They hefted the man’s unconscious body into the truck bed and slid him forward.

That must have been some kind of drug because he never moved or made a sound. Nick worried and checked his pulse. It still throbbed, though weaker than Nick would have preferred.

“Let’s go, Truck,” he hollered to the man still holding security.

Marcus looked up and checked the sky for any cloud cover and the possibility of rain, but stars flickered above them, mostly unobstructed. Red tightened a boot that had loosened up on him while a scuffing sound pulled Nick’s eyes up from the map he was stowing in his gear.

Nick watched as Truck pushed himself to his feet. He then reached down, grabbed the RPK from off its bipods, and trotted up to the truck.

“Let’s get ready to move,” Nick said.

Truck handed his machine gun to Red, who climbed up in the truck bed. Truck would be driving since he was by far their most experienced driver. After all, the man hadn’t earned his nickname for just being a big, beefing machine with only one gear: forward. Of course, his infamous reputation hit its peak while driving a heavy truck as a contractor in Afghanistan. But he’d also been a tractor trailer driver in the States, after being fired by said contractor.

Red lay the RPK down in the bed, and Truck passed up several seventy-five round drums to him. While they staged ammo, Nick said, “Red, put that gun on the cab of the truck on its bipods and stay behind it. We’re probably going to need it.”

Marcus jumped up in the crowded truck bed, as well, and Nick asked if they had grabbed his Dragunov sniper rifle. Marcus pointed in the corner, and Nick leaned over the bed to see it placed snugly among the soft packs, its scope facing up and protected from the bumps they all knew would be coming.

The truck bed was crammed pretty tight with their packs, the computer servers, and al-Habshi sprawled across the back.

“You have enough room, Marcus?” Nick asked.

“I’ll be fine,” Marcus replied, as he bent over to rearrange and organize things better. As Marcus created a firing position for himself at the back of the truck, Nick grabbed Red’s AK-47 from him. Red passed him all his magazines, and Nick stuffed them in pockets and pouches.

Nick checked his gear one last time and checked the AK to confirm it was on safe. Truck jumped in the driver’s seat, bitched loudly about the seat being too far forward, and made adjustments to it and mirrors.

Nick pulled the AK to his shoulder and aimed away from everyone at the wall of the compound. He repeated the maneuver several times and reacquainted his eyes to the notch open sights of the AK. He’d re-attach Red’s ACOG when dawn (and daylight) arrived.

He lowered the weapon and looked back at his team.

“Who’s ready to go home?” he asked with a grin.

“I am,” Red replied. “I haven’t seen a single woman, beach, or beer on this side of the border. And that just ain’t healthy for a sane man.”

Truck guided the Toyota down the hill closer to the compound’s front gate and stopped. Nick pointed to the dashboard.

“Figure out where the lights are and rehearse flipping them on and off,” he said. “If we make contact, I want them instantly turned off so we’re not lit up like a perfect target. The last thing I want is to catch some rounds through the hood and into the engine block. I am not walking back.”

Truck rehearsed flipping the lights on and off several times.

“Good to go,” he said.

Nick nodded, and Truck continued toward the gate, stopping five feet from it. Up close, with the light beams shining on it, they saw the “gate” was a gate by name only. In truth, it was a rotted, patched-up set of doors that weren’t heavy and daunting at all, but rather shoddy and flimsy.

It wasn’t even chained closed.

“Just hit it,” Nick said. “And be ready to douse those lights.”

Truck edged forward until the bumper made contact. He eased the truck forward, and the gates half-collapsed, half-flopped open. As the driveway down the steep hill became visible, Nick rolled his window down and pointed his AK toward the front.

“Be ready, Red,” he warned to the man above.

Red leaned into his machine gun and braced himself. He pushed the wrap-around turban up on his head to keep it out of his eyes and took a deep breath. Marcus stumbled on gear as fought his way forward and took a position next to Red. He leveled his AK toward what could be a mess of trouble. After all, who knew how many men might be waiting for them?

There had been shots, explosions, and shouts in the compound, which was presumably a well-known Taliban site. Surely the sympathetic locals would respond. It was more a matter of how many men down the hill might have climbed up to investigate in the minutes they had been in the compound.

Chapter 32

Truck pushed the clutch in and braked to a stop a mere ten feet past the gate’s entrance. No one was waiting on the other side -- or, at least no one that they could see within the thirty yards of their sight limit in the night’s darkness.

“Hold up here a minute,” Nick said.

He pulled his AK back inside the window and lifted his night vision goggles. The brilliant devices perfectly showed the terrain to their front.

Ahead, the ground angled down the mountain in a smooth finger roughly one hundred yards wide. Like the land they’d crossed getting here, the finger lacked any kind of cover or concealment. It was nothing but a barren, dusty slope speckled with a few rocks scattered here or there. The ground dropped off on each side of the finger fairly smoothly.

By Afghanistan and Pakistan’s hilly and mountainous standards, this was prime property.

Nick worked the NVGs across their front, the Toyota truck’s quiet engine the only sound in the night. A voice from the distance called out. Nick feverishly moved the NVGs back and forth, but could see nothing.

The voice repeated itself, but louder this time.

Nick finally realized what was happening beyond their sight.

“Truck, someone is coming up the hill to investigate. They aren’t firing yet because they can’t possibly know that it’s us in this truck. They must think it’s al-Habshi or some of his guards. Let’s back the truck up behind the wall before it gets shot up.”

Truck pushed the clutch, placed the truck in reverse, and pulled back quickly. He turned the wheel and backed the truck behind the cover of the thick, foot-deep wall of the compound.

The truck stopped, and Red grabbed the machine gun and jumped down. He moved to the corner of the gate and took a prone position behind their primary support weapon.

Marcus leapt from the bed, as well, while Nick told Truck to wait with the vehicle and keep it running.

“I want you ready to pick us up the moment we need it,” he said.

Nick turned and jogged to the compound’s only opening, joining Marcus and Red.

“Red, hand me your NVGs,” Marcus said.

Red withdrew the goggles from his gear and passed them to Marcus. The two leaders of S3 glassed the area down the hill while Red covered them from the prone.

Now, through the green light of the night vision, numerous men could be seen. Five or six had formed a line about fifty yards away. Below these men, a line of armed fighters ran up the hill in a column that stretched for almost a thirty yards.

Nick guessed there were twenty-five in the column.

“Shit,” Marcus said.

“How many you figure?” Nick asked.

“Thirty, worst case.”

“Damn,” Red said from below. “Next time, I’m bringing my helmet and body armor.”

Nick would have been happy with some body armor right now, as well. Level four.

“You think,” Marcus asked, “we can make a break for it? Keep the lights off on the truck, floor it, and go fifty miles per hour down the hill? Maybe even collect a few of them on our bumper along the way?”

“I have no doubt we could do it,” Nick replied, “but getting the truck down the hill is only half the problem. It needs to be running perfectly when we reach the bottom, and I’m not willing to bet that nearly thirty guys won’t manage to get at least a round or two into the engine. It’s not like they’re carrying bolt-action rifles.”

A yell from below in Pashto carried anger and urgency with it up the hill.

Marcus and Nick identified the man in the green light of their NVGs. The man stood and looked down the hill, ordering the men to hurry. As each arrived, he directed them left or right into the line of men forming up to face the compound.

“This isn’t good,” Marcus said.

“We can’t go back up the hill,” Nick said. “I’m not walking back. And we need to transport both al-Habshi and the computer gear with us.”

“If we’re not walking out, then that rules out taking off left or right down one of the sides of this finger,” Marcus said.

“Agreed,” Nick replied.

The mob of men below them organized into a tighter, more effective line. They formed a cordon around the front of the compound, and with every passing moment, the line adjusted and constricted.

“We have to go down the hill, taking that truck and following this road,” Nick said, pointing ahead. “It’s our only option.”

“And yet we can’t afford to fight numbers that are six times our size,” Marcus said. “We don’t have the ammo for that, and the last thing we need is an all-out siege.”

“Plus, the longer we wait, the more will come,” Nick added. “Especially once the shooting starts.”

“What do we do?” Marcus asked.

“Hell if I know,” Nick said.

Chapter 33

Nick saw no easy solution. They were trapped, and their only reprieve to this point was the darkness that kept their enemy from seeing them.

More shouting from outside the compound added urgency to his thinking. Marcus stepped closer and put his hand on Nick’s shoulder.

“Sometimes there is no easy solution,” he said. “You just have to fight.”

Nick nodded.

“Plus,” Nick added, “if we don’t do something soon, they’re going to rush us, and we can’t stop that many men from breaching the gate. They’ll start tossing grenades and eventually break through.”

Nick knelt by Red, who faced their direct front.

“Red, slide back, get behind some cover, and aim toward the opposite side.”

Nick started to say the same thing to Marcus, but he had already moved to the opposite side of the compound’s gate and aimed out the other direction in the prone, as well. Now, the two men were protected by the wall and would be firing out in an “X” pattern again to prevent their muzzle flashes from being seen from their direct front.

Nick pulled his NVGs back up to scan his front. The line of men advanced up the hill, creeping forward while hunched over. Their weapons pointed toward the compound’s gate; they were fifty yards away, but closing steadily.

“Shit,” Nick said. “Here they come. We’ve got to stop them before they rush us.”

Nick turned and ran for his pack. Truck opened the door and stepped out.

“How can I help?” he asked.

“Help me grab some illumination flares,” Nick said, reaching for his pack.

The flares were metal, foot-long tubes that were a couple of inches wide. They fired a small rocket that propelled to several hundred feet before stopping, deploying a chute, and igniting a massively bright flame. The flares wouldn’t make it daylight, but they’d allow you to see your target and roughly point your weapon -- something all elite troops had practiced.

Nick and Truck rushed back to the compound’s gate and prepped a flare to fire.

“Be ready, guys,” Nick said to Marcus and Red. “And, Truck, make sure you aim well behind them.”

Nick pointed his flare sixty degrees to their front and hit the back of it, firing it. The tube slammed backward into his hand and fired its rocket far into the sky. Truck launched his tube, as well.

The flares took a couple of seconds before they hit their full height and exploded with a harsh, bright light in the sky. The moment they erupted, the ground around the compound lit up as if it were dusk and not four in the morning.

The flares delivered forty thousand-plus candlepower, and would do so for more than thirty seconds. The flares caught the Pakistanis by surprise and with the darkness ripped from the night, the members of Shield, Safeguard, and Shelter could clearly see their enemy without the need for NVGs.

Best of all, the illumination rounds floated down behind the Pakistanis, so while the enemies were quite visible as silhouettes, Nick and his men would remain concealed. And that was assuming they could be seen within the compound’s opening. With Nick and Truck behind the wall and Marcus and Red in the prone fifteen feet back and angling away from those who might be able to see them, the team remained invisible and protected by the thick walls.

Marcus shot into his oblique line of fire, his AK-47 exploding the relative quiet of the night. Red followed, firing a burst from his light machine gun toward the other diagonal direction. The two men engaged targets methodically, as return fired snapped through the opening.

Nick and Truck prepped the next two flares, firing them before the first two struck the ground and completely burned out. This scene repeated itself several times while Marcus and Red worked their way through at least four magazines and drums.

The enemy fire continued, remaining steady and undeterred.

Marcus looked back.

“We can’t keep doing this,” he yelled. “They’re staying down, and there aren’t many good targets left. Plus, either we’ll run out of ammo or this will turn into a siege soon.”

Marcus returned his focus on his weapon and fired three more rounds. He turned back again.

“And if we slow our rate of fire too much, trying to save ammo, they’ll rush us,” he said. “Then hit us with grenades.”

Nick looked down, feeling hopeless. He glanced over at Red and saw the little Marine from Ohio still in the fight. Resolve and focus pouring from every fiber of his body.

Nick wished he was behind a rifle right now, instead of holding another parachute flare and thinking so hard his head hurt. Leadership wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

Marcus glanced away from Nick and fired again toward his sector. Nick focused on Red once more and racked his brain for some solution.

Red stopped firing, yelled he was reloading, and twisted behind him to grab another drum. Truck stepped forward and fired his AK from the standing position above Red’s head. They had to keep some suppressive fire going.

As Red fumbled for the next drum, Nick saw the pistol on the point man’s hip and had an idea.

Chapter 34

Red completed his reload and returned to firing the RPK. Nick stepped closer to Marcus and yelled, “Slow down your rate of fire. Nice and slow, sustained fire.”

Marcus nodded, never looking up.

Nick sprinted across the compound’s opening, dodging several bullets in the process. He slid to a halt and grabbed Truck by his harness and pulled him close.

“No more flares. Use your AK to cover any reloads Red needs to do.”

“Roger,” Truck said.

Nick bent down by Red and slapped him on the shoulder twice. Red stopped firing and looked back. Nick yelled, “I need every pistol mag you’ve got.”

Red searched his gear for every pistol magazine he could find. Truck saw the pause in firing and stepped to the left, lifting his AK. He fired single shots toward the opening, as the two remaining flares drifted and swayed to the ground.

Red had three magazines, and Nick knew he had two. It would have to do.

He threw three flares by Truck’s feet.

“Only use these in a worst-case scenario. Hold the gate at all cost and don’t you dare try to follow me.”

Truck gave a questioning look as it dawned on him what Nick was about to do. He didn’t seem inclined to follow the orders.

Nick grabbed the front of Truck’s web gear, shook him hard, and screamed, “I fucking mean it! Don’t you even think about it.”

Truck shook his head in begrudging agreement, but he didn’t look happy about it. Nick didn’t have time to worry about anyone’s feelings.

Nick thought of the hole at the back of the compound made by Marcus and Red, but a hundred-yard dash was out of the question. Time was of the essence, so Nick spun toward the truck and sprinted up to it.

He yanked the door open, leaped in, and threw it in reverse. It was running as he’d ordered, and he slung dirt as he floored it and raced backward. Nick didn’t slow until he was sixty or seventy yards away from the front gate. He yanked the truck close to the wall, grazing it a bit, and slammed on the brakes.

He opened the door before it fully stopped. He put the parking brake on, but in his haste, forgot to take it out of gear. The engine strained against the brake for a moment, then died.

Nick barely noticed as he spun out of the truck. He certainly didn’t care. His men were chewing through their final stores of ammunition. Losing one of them wasn’t an option, he thought, as he sprinted to the back of the truck. He jumped on the bumper and hurdled into the bed. He dodged packs, computer gear, and the body of Ahmud al-Habshi, who was still completely unconscious.

Nick stepped up on the side of the truck bed and reached for the wall. He found a purchase with his fingers and kicked away from the truck. He yanked himself up and threw his leg over the wall. He slowed and eased himself over it, staying low and noting with satisfaction that the final flare had hit the ground and darkness was returning to the night.

He dropped and landed as easy as he could, staying low in the kneeling position. He pulled his Glock .45 out and checked the suppressor to confirm it was still screwed in tightly. For a moment, he waited. He checked the sector to his left, front, and right. He saw no one within the thirty yards that he could see.

He stood and rushed away from the wall, leaning forward and running hunched over. He would have preferred to low crawl, but he didn’t have the time and felt it worth the risk.

Both sides continued to exchange fire, but it seemed almost miles away compared to how loud and violent it had seemed by the compound’s gate. Nick stopped twenty yards from the wall and dropped in the prone to see further in the dark.

Nick hastily searched his three sectors. Clear. He pushed himself up and again darted forward, staying as low as his back and knees would allow.

At fifty yards from the wall, he saw his first target. A man lay to his left, firing toward the compound’s gate. Nick checked his right one more time to make sure there were no flankers. He didn’t expect any, but these boys might be better than he’d figured. Apparently, they weren’t though.

Nick turned and made his way toward his target. He was in stalking mode now, and silence mattered more than anything else. He eased forward, crouched and ready.

But it was unnecessary. The man on the end of the line never saw or heard a thing. Nick came up behind him and fired two rounds from his silenced .45 into the man’s back.

Nick dropped to the prone immediately after firing, not moving at all. After a few seconds, he raised his head and checked behind the man to confirm he wouldn’t be blindsided by some rear or flanking element. Still he saw no one.

He pushed himself up and moved on to the next man, who lay ten yards further ahead. He dropped that man, too, but by then the Pakistanis were grouped tighter, so he stayed in the prone, crawling and sliding down the entire line.

He never saw the leader behind the line, or anyone else, so he assumed the man had either been gunned down or joined the line. As he progressed, a few of the men sensed or heard something, but as each turned, Nick poured .45 calibers rounds into them with barely a sound. TSK. TSK. TSK.

It was too dark to use sights, so he’d point the pistol and trust his intuition. The closest he came to dying were a few rounds that snapped by from his own team members when he first started, but they quickly realized what he was doing and raised their fire to well above standing height.

Nick slithered, located a target, and downed him. Nick rushed forward, saw another one reloading, and shot him in the back without hesitation. Over and over, Nick knifed through the line of unsuspecting fighters, none of whom grasped that they were being flanked by a man with a silenced weapon.

Nick burned through four and a half mags before he was done, and when he finished, he dropped to the ground. He tried to stand, but he couldn’t catch his breath. And it wasn’t just from exertion. The insanity of what he had just done gripped him. Panic sent his heartrate rocketing, and he couldn’t catch his breath. He gasped on the ground, holding his chest. He got the shakes and looked down the hill, expecting to see some fighter coming up to shoot the helpless American. Nick put his pistol on the ground and slapped himself in the face.

Get ahold of yourself, he thought. He breathed in as deeply as he could, but couldn’t pull off taking a deep breath. He couldn’t regain control of himself, and there was no point in hiding it and dying because of his stubborn pride.

He swallowed and bellowed out, “All clear. Now get out here and fucking cover me!”

It took several tries, but eventually his men ceased firing and left the compound in a wedge formation, their weapons lifted and ready. Nick tried to stand, staggered a bit, but finally found his legs. He wasn’t sure if it was fatigue from the two-week mission, the fading effects of adrenaline, or about the worst case of the shakes that he’d ever had, but his body felt weak and unresponsive.

Regardless of the cause, he didn’t care. He wanted to get to the truck and get the hell out of there.

Chapter 35

The team advanced toward him in a wedge formation, weapons up and on edge.

Nick heard Marcus say, “Stay alert, guys. You see movement, or even if you think you do, engage it.”

The team kept ten yards between themselves and stayed focused on their sectors. Nick stood, shoved the pistol and its long silencer into his gear, and knocked the dust from his chest, knees, and elbows.

The heat from the silencer was uncomfortably warm through his Afghan clothes. Nick glanced behind him to see the littered trail of bodies.

The team arrived, and Marcus studied Nick’s face. Nick stood upright and tried to look more in control than he was, but Marcus noticed.

“You all right, boss?” he asked. “You look a little pale.”

Nick didn’t even argue.

“Not sure that was one of my wisest moves ever,” Nick said. Had he really just gone after nearly thirty men armed only with a pistol? Not many of his mentors would approve of such stupidity, but he didn’t have time to reflect on it. What was done was done, and he seriously needed to get control of himself. And keep his men from worrying about him.

“Let’s go,” he said, as he marched back toward the compound without looking back at his men or the bodies.

They made it back to the truck without taking any more fire. Back behind the compound wall, they loaded back up as they had. Truck jumped in the driver’s seat of the four-wheel-drive Toyota and handed his AK-47, which was technically Red’s, to Nick in the passenger's seat. Nick kept the silenced Glock .45 stuffed in his web gear in case he needed to silently dispatch anyone, and accepted the AK from Truck. He placed it barrel down between his knees and performed a brass check. He then removed the mag and confirmed by its weight that it was crammed full.

A screech of metal-on-metal told him Red was ready, having plunked the RPK machine gun’s bipod legs on the roof of the cab. Nick glanced behind him to make sure Marcus was loaded and saw the muscle-bound, prior drill instructor tending to Ahmud al-Habshi.

Truck looked at Nick and asked, “Lights or no lights?”

“Let’s go no lights, at least down the hill,” Nick said. “Might be that some of those assholes are still alive.”

Truck eased the 4x4 off the wall.

“Nice park job,” he said, trying to bring some levity to the situation.

Nick didn’t know what to say and said nothing. His hands still shook and he gripped the AK to keep it from being obvious.

Truck drove toward the gate. Visibility should have been still roughly thirty yards, but their eyesight had been shot by the flares and bright muzzle flashes of their own weapons. Bottom line, they could barely see, so they wouldn’t be going anywhere in a hurry.

Truck kept his foot on the brake, and the truck crept forward at less than five miles per hour. No sounds could be heard, but Nick didn’t trust his ears, which still rang from all the firing. He finally remembered the NVGs hanging from his neck.

As the Toyota continued around the corner of the compound’s gate, Nick pulled the NVGs up and searched the terrain below them. Through the green shades, he could see approximately one hundred yards down the hill.

“Hold up a sec,” he said.

He scanned from left to right and back across the front, slowly checking pieces of cover and depressions. Nick saw nothing. Perhaps everyone that was available to attack had rushed the compound and been killed or seriously injured in the action.

“I think it’s safe to flip the lights on,” he said, pulling the NVGs back down.

“You won’t have to tell me twice,” Truck replied. “I’m ready to get the hell out of here.”

He flipped the lights on and guided the vehicle into a rough truck path that curved its way down the hill. As they descended down the steep hill, the truck bounced side-to-side, and he navigated the rough spots with care.

Nick checked his watch. It read 0448.

“We gonna make it back to the border before dawn?” Truck asked.

Just as he said it, the right tire slammed into a hole on the right side, slinging Nick to his right and into the door.

“It’ll be close,” he said, as he recovered. “Depends on what the road is like below in the valley.”

Chapter 36

But their escape via the road below was soon forgotten as the Toyota’s headlights revealed a worsening driveway directly ahead. They had not gotten more than a hundred and fifty yards from the compound’s entrance when the trail suddenly went from rough yet passable to something more like a location sought out by professional 4x4 enthusiasts.

“Damn it,” Nick growled, glancing down at his watch again and looking up at the sky for signs of dawn around the corner.

“Nothing to do but try it,” Truck said.

The path had two deep channels for vehicle tires, but rain and lack of maintenance through the years had washed out the ruts to dangerously deep levels. The severe grooves were made more treacherous by the higher ridge between them that hadn’t been worn by heavy, spinning tires or rushing water racing down the hill.

Avoiding the driveway wasn’t an option as big boulders and basketball-sized rocks covered what little ground there was on both sides of the trail. They were, after all, on the finger -- or apex -- of the ridge heading down to the road below. Both sides of the finger were steep enough to threaten to overturn the truck.

“Bring it, bitches,” Red said from behind them, his voice ringing through the cab’s roof. “Ain’t nothing on this mission been easy yet, so why start now?”

Marcus and Red shared a laugh, while Nick stared at the terrain ahead and grabbed onto his seat a little tighter. Nick ventured a look over at Truck as the Toyota’s axle caught violently on the middle hump of dirt. The big man was in his zone focused determinedly ahead. Nick would have guessed that based on Truck's overall body language and his frequent, and seemingly casual, glance at the rearview mirror -- most likely a habit of having years behind the wheel since the only thing that could be seen out this particular back window was crotches -- that the man was practically relaxed. The only wrench in that illusion was the telltale flutter of a flexed jaw as he gritted his teeth.

Nick also would have guessed that considering Truck’s set expression that he had completely blocked out Red’s earlier remarks. But as the truck again snagged on the ground beneath them, slinging them to the right, a hopping-skitter sound of tripod legs tapped its way across the cab’s roof in an arc.

A look of irritation flickered over Truck’s face as the big man reached his arm out the driver side window, pounding his meaty hand on the cab’s roof, and barked at Red.

“Hey, Tiny! Take a chill pill, will ya? And get my gun down off that damned roof! This ain’t gonna get any prettier, and any scratches you put on her, I plan to take out on your ass!”

Red complied, pulling the RPK down with him, leaving Marcus standing over the cab, while he and the big gun settled down into a lower position in the truck bed.

“Most vehicles coming up the hill probably don’t have so much weight in them,” Truck said, once they had rammed through another piece of ground.

“We do have five men, four heavy packs, and quite a bit of computer equipment,” Nick said.

The truck’s weight and downward momentum served them well, tearing through most of the snags until suddenly the vehicle slammed into something in the middle that didn’t give. Everyone was slung forward, and the packs and gear careened ahead with impressive force.

“Ahh!” Marcus yelled as packs hit him in the back of the knees and dropped him ass over backwards. Nick had been looking out the window and banged his elbow and head into the dash.

After that incident, with both his buttocks and his pride a bit bruised, Marcus decided to join Red down lower in the truck bed. Similarly, Nick decided from that point on that having both hands pressed against the dash for support was not at all unmanly or overly cautious. Hell, he thought, I’ve got these ruggedly handsome good looks to protect, after all. Besides there ain’t nothing less manly than having to eat mashed potatoes the rest of your life, because this one time a damned dashboard kicked all your teeth down your throat.

Once everyone stabilized and stopped cursing, Truck shifted the Toyota into reverse.

“I had been worried about whether the truck would make it all the way to the border,” Nick said, “but with how rough this driveway is, I’m now worried on whether it’ll even make it down the hill.”

“No kidding,” Truck said, attempting to coax the vehicle backward.

The vehicle’s motor strained, but the ground was dry and its tires caught hold. Truck backed them up about ten feet and rolled forward again. This time, he angled the wheels left and caught just enough higher ground on the side of the ruts to clear the obstacle before the truck slid back down into the grooves.

“Probably a buried rock in there,” Nick said.

“Agreed,” Truck said, his hands straining on the wheel. “And I don’t know why I’m even bothering to try to drive. As deep as these ruts are, the truck is driving itself.”

They picked up speed again, returning to their pace of three miles per hour almost instantly, the truck yanking and jerking and banging inside the deep trail ruts. Nick wanted to punch his fist through the dash, he was so angry.

It was frustrating to think that the truck was going so slow that they could have matched its speed on foot. Not that he wanted to carry those damn heavy packs again.

They maintained this pace for thirty feet until their headlights revealed a massive boulder in the right rut. It was just a tad smaller than a bathtub and extended from the right bank through the right rut and into the middle groove. Moving the truck left to avoid it wasn’t a possibility as a boulder the size of a Volkswagen Beetle sat up on the left bank.

“Damn it,” Truck said as he stopped the truck.

“Fucking lazy-ass Taliban don’t know how to do a damn thing,” Red shouted. “All they do is sleep all day and wouldn’t know what to do with a shovel if it was handed to them.”

The boulder in the rut wasn’t some smooth stone like you might find in a river. It was jagged and hard edged. It looked as if it had destroyed many a good 4x4 tire.

Nick wished there were four more feet of width on the top of either bank alongside the boulders. That would provide just enough ground for them to flank it, but no such luck. Both sides had steep cliffs that were sheer drops of more than thirty feet. Erosion and time had not been kind to this finger coming off the ridge. Probably in another year or two, the road would be completely washed out, and they’d be hiking to the compound by foot or ATV.

“That rock has a great chance of blowing a tire,” Truck said, stating the abundantly obvious.

“We’ve got no choice,” Nick said. “Let’s go. We’ll deal with the consequences afterward.”

Truck guided the Toyota toward the obstacle and angled the wheels to the left. The tires gripped the surface and pulled the truck up higher from the ruts, but the Volkswagen to the left prevented further height away from the obstacle. As if on cue, the right bumper collided with the bath-tub that jutted into the rut.

Even with the lack of speed, the hit was hard, rocking the truck. The boulder hadn’t even budged, but without question the bumper had.

“There’s no way we can climb that if the bumper won’t even clear it,” Truck said.

“Don’t any of these lazy fuckers ever fill in any of the roads here?” Red cursed again from behind them.

Nick yanked his door open and stepped out. He slung his rifle across his body and looked at Red, “Jump down and help me pile some rocks in front of this. Marcus, you jog down the hill a piece and see if it gets any better.”

Truck backed the Toyota up, and Nick and Red piled smaller rocks in front of the bathtub boulder in the right rut. It wasn’t hard to do as rocks of all sizes lay about in abundance.

“Why doesn’t anyone open up a damn rock quarry over here?” Red asked.

“They’re too busy building mosques and bombs to see the opportunity,” Nick said as he dropped a particularly heavy rock in front of the obstacle.

“Wonder if us repairing this driveway would qualify as giving aid and comfort to the enemy?” Red asked.

“Probably,” Nick said, wiping some sweat from his forehead. “But we’ve got to get al-Habshi back, so we can find out where that bastard Rasool Deraz hides at. And once we do that, we’ll show them some real ‘aid and comfort to the enemy.’”

“That might just make all the hell we’ve been through worth it,” Red replied. “But as of right now, I’m leaning toward a transfer back down to Mexico.”

Red groaned as he hefted a nearly eighty pound rock and stumbled toward their growing pile. He dropped it, and it bounced once and smashed to a halt.

“S3 still have a bureau open in Mexico?” Red asked, panting. “I might not mind seeing Isabella while I’m down there.”

“Easy,” Nick growled, as he added another rock on the pile. His voice had carried more anger than he had meant.

Guys were supposed to be able to joke about ex’s. Why couldn’t he? It’s just because she was the first after Anne, Nick told himself. He shook the thought of her from his mind and selected an even larger rock to pick up. Nothing like hard work to help you forget about a woman.

The two of them constructed a half-decent ramp of rocks leading up to the jagged boulder, and Nick surveyed the work, deeming it acceptable.

He stepped out of the deep rut and waved Truck forward.

The Toyota’s motor groaned as its front right wheel searched for traction among the pile of stones. The ramp shifted some but remained remarkably stable. And with the aid of their makeshift ramp, the 4x4 fought its way over the boulder and dropped off hard on the other side.

Marcus came jogging up and shook his head with disgust.

“It doesn’t get any better,” he reported to Nick. “If anything, it’s worse. Lots of big rocks just like that one blocking the ruts on both sides all the way down. And no way around them -- same as here.”

Nick wanted to break the AK over his knee. At the rate they were progressing, they might as well apply for citizenship in Pakistan.

“We’re not going to make it back before dawn,” he muttered, glancing down at his watch. “Which means we’re probably in for a lot more fighting.”

Nick scanned beyond Marcus’s shoulder down the rocky, shitty driveway. The road did look worse, and the hill dropped down even steeper. It even looked quite dangerous in places. And this is why you can’t count fully on drones and satellite imagery, Nick grumbled to himself in anger. He knew he was thinking like an old veteran who hated technology, but none of the men had expected the driveway to be this difficult.

And partly it was an assumption, which truly pissed him off. They had assumed that the Taliban regularly traversed it, so surely they could. Nick reminded himself that to assume anything “makes an ‘ass’ out of ‘u’ and ‘me.’”

Even a single sniper pulling recon on the objective would have been able to tell them they were wrong by watching just one truck wrestle to make its way up the mountain.

“Marcus, you and Red empty out your packs and run back up the hill. I’d say there’s some ammo we could collect from those attackers outside the compound. Find what will fit our weapons, and if there’s a bunch of 5.45 mm, go ahead and grab it all, plus one or two of the best AK-74s you find.”

Nick and his team carried the older style AK-47s, preferring a heavier bullet (7.62 x 39 mm) with more punch, especially when distance was a concerning factor. Newer AKs fired a smaller and lighter bullet (5.45 x 39 mm), quite similar to M-16s (5.56 x 45 mm).

Nick figured if there were five hundred to a thousand rounds of 5.45 mm ammo up on the hill, it would be stupid to leave it and much better to grab a couple newer AK-74s so that they could use it, as well.

For all Nick knew, his team could be headed toward an Alamo-like situation, needing all the ammo they could find. And since they had the truck, a little more weight and a couple extra weapons weren't a bad thing. Not a bad thing at all.

As Marcus and Red jumped in the truck bed to dump their packs, Nick had one other thought. “Oh. And Red, you might as well run back to the compound and grab that RPG we saw if there are at least a couple rounds for it.”

“Will do,” Red said, with a wicked grin.

Nick nodded and moved down the hill to build more rock ramps. They’d get down the hill eventually, one way or another.

Chapter 37

While Nick and his team struggled to get down the hill so they could return to their base in Afghanistan, a thirteen-year-old boy emerged from the shadows on the hill near the compound. The boy had been ordered to stay at home by his father, but he had snuck out to follow the warriors of his village.

He had kept his distance during all the firing, but now there was only silence. So in the last minutes of darkness, the boy emerged from a wadi and stood before a field of riddled and broken bodies. Moments ago, he had seen a truck drive off down the hill and felt it was now safe to approach the fallen.

A few lay gasping out their final breaths while others wept softly, murmuring strangled words. Whether the words were pleading or prayerful, the boy could not tell. But nevertheless, those anguished voices rang like echoes in his heart and summoned up the courage buried deep within him. No longer did he fear what punishment might befall him for disobeying his father. Men lay dying all around him, and he had to do something.

However, the boy’s newly discovered bravery threatened to sputter out as he drew nearer toward the wretched bodies. The site. The smell. He had to will his stomach to not be sick, will his legs not to run.

He slowly kneeled to keep from fainting, closed his eyes, and slapped his face in an effort to clear his head. But even as the haze left his brain, he felt helpless, unsure of what he was supposed to do. Then, a few feet away he saw a radio on the ground next to the outstretched hand of a dead fighter.

Instantly, it was clear. He needed to call for help, and with that, he scrambled over the ground toward the dropped device. Picking up the radio, he pressed the button and screamed, for all that he was worth, for help.

It was only after the call and the subsequent reply of confirmation that the boy noticed his own ragged breath and trembling hands. His courage had lasted long enough to press that button, but ultimately no further. A boy had made that call, and a boy was all that remained.

The call was directly received by a radio operator at the current hideout for Rasool Deraz. Mushahid Zubaida had not been at all happy when a young boy came to wake him, claiming the news was “urgent.”

Yesterday had been very long and unpleasant, to say the least. And after the day’s grisly events, a good night's sleep had been the one thing Mushahid had felt he had to look forward to. Now, here he was being shaken from a dream -- a good dream, too, as it didn’t include the faces of dead villagers -- by an equally blurry-eyed boy, and it was highly unlikely that he was about to hear urgently good news. And though he probably should have reacted with a tad more restraint, the boy had fled from Mushahid’s hut terrified and in tears after delivering the message.

The poor radio operator didn’t get off much better. Mushahid had stormed into the room, interrogating the man about his identity and proof of any intelligence. But by the third stuttering repetition of the operator’s report, Mushahid had slipped from anger into shocked disbelief.

While he had selected a team of their best Taliban fighters for a quick response force, neither he nor Rasool had even imagined the possibility of another attack so soon, and certainly not one that very night. They, truthfully, hadn’t anticipated an attack at all, for that matter.

With their secrecy exposed after the standoff with the villagers earlier that day, the enemy shooters should have been rushing back for the border. That being the expectation, Mushahid had resigned himself to holding his team back and let the trespassers exhaust themselves as they scrambled to escape on foot. He had planned to go tomorrow with his trucks loaded with rested fighters. They would quickly catch up and intercept the interlopers.

But upon hearing that not only had the Taliban’s communication center been raided, but another mass of local fighters had been gunned down, Mushahid felt like he was tumbling head over heels down a mountain of questions.

Had he been blinded by his own arrogance? Should he have sent his men to hunt down the invading party immediately? It had been what his blood-roaring instincts demanded to be done at that time.

But Rasool had ordered him otherwise. Should he not have trusted his leader? No. It had been the right answer, the rational answer. It was nothing short of suicidal for such a small team to trek deeper into enemy territory, especially now that the enemy had to be aware their presence.

The concept seemed so absurd, no impossible, that Mushahid was now considering the possibility of a second team or other hostile forces moving about Pakistan without their knowledge. It was a terrifying thought, but also one that Mushahid couldn’t afford to let take root any deeper in his brain. So forcing himself to remember the wisdom of his beloved and trusted mentor, Rasool Deraz, Mushahid quickly shook the distracting thoughts from his head.

No. Mushahid didn’t have too many answers, but he certainly intended to get some. He just had one problem: none of his fighters were ready, and most were not even awake as it was still a couple hours from sunrise. For this reason, it took precious minutes to find and wake young boys to run to each hut and roust sleeping fighters.

And even once the men were awake, none had their gear ready. They, too, had not expected an attack.

To make matters worse, as more and more men began to wake and pull themselves together, the scene grew frenzied and louder. Neighbors and relatives were abruptly jolted from their slumber. Babies and small children wailed. Dogs barked, running in and out of huts, either excited or frightened by the sudden flurry of activity. Wives fussed and offered to prepare food for their summoned warrior-husbands. Some wives begged for their men just to eat something before they left, or at least allow them a minute to pack food for the trip.

Mushahid yelled in frustration as the scene descended into mayhem, barking orders as loud as he could. His booming voice caused an immediate reaction, but not the one he was aiming for. Instead of inspiring his men into quick and efficient action, Mushahid’s aggressive leadership slowed progress further as the already startled men became flustered and panicked.

In their haste to comply, the fighters became forgetful and confused, frantically searching all around with flashlights for gear, weapons, and even clothing. At least one fighter had torn an entire hut apart, hunting for his shoes and viciously screaming at his wife and children to find them. The man’s face had turned blood red with shame after his youngest child meekly pointed out that the items in question were already on his feet.

Mushahid was livid and embarrassed. He stood feeling helpless as he watched the swelling chaos. The time to react was fleeting. And by the way it looked right now, time was about to bleed out from two slit wrists.

Nick and his team had no idea that Taliban reinforcements were scrambling to intercept them. Nor did they know about the delays among those fighters that were giving the men of S3 a crucial head start. All Nick knew was that he felt major relief at finding an improved road at the bottom of the hill, once they finally arrived at it. For the moment, the team could really make some headway. Maybe even hitting speeds of twenty or thirty miles per hour.

Nick needed the lucky break. His muscles were shaky and weak, and exhaustion weighed heavy on his shoulders. His body screamed for rest and recuperation, the kind that could only be gained by some uninterrupted deep sleep. A shower would be nice, too, he thought, as he looked down at the layers of sweat-caked dirt covering most of his body and clothes. He couldn’t even imagine how bad he smelled. Suddenly he was very thankful for the gift of olfactory fatigue.

All of which supported the idea that Nick believed they should push to make it home today, if it were at all possible.

The reasons for this were many. The men were dog-tired, same as him. And if they didn’t make a break for it, they’d have to find a place to hide the truck in. The drugs for Ahmud al-Habshi would also be wearing off, and there was no more to inject him with. That was yet another oversight the team had made on their pre-mission packing.

Nick tapped Truck on the arm. “Slow down and stop here.”

The Toyota pulled to a halt, and Nick opened the door, stepping out. Acknowledging Red behind the machine gun propped on bipod legs atop the cab and Marcus in the rear of the truck bed with his AK, Nick nodded toward the east.

“Sun’ll be up soon, guys, but I’ve decided we’re pushing on. Even though it’ll be daylight.”

He let that sink in.

“I don’t think,” he continued, “we have it in us to hole up for another day, and who knows how many fighters will be assembling to find out who nabbed this computer punk in the back of the truck. So, we’re going all the way today, even though part of the travel will be by daylight.”

“Hellz yeah,” Red said. He patted the stock of the RPK. “Might get to bag some more bad guys.”

“Again, easy with my gun, you little gremlin,” Truck growled from the driver’s seat.

“We probably kicked over a hornet’s nest with that raid back there,” Marcus said, “so I think it’s best we keep moving, as well.”

“Then, we’re in agreement,” Nick said. “Let’s stay sharp and not ruin our track record of dodging bullets the past couple of weeks.”

Nick climbed back in the cab, and the 4x4 resumed its westward trek toward Afghanistan. Besides numerous possible ambush sites, they still had one small town to push through. And Nick had a bad feeling that Red might get his wish to use Truck’s machine gun again before all this was over.

Chapter 38

Rasool Deraz walked toward his designated truck, an AK in his arms. He stopped to see Mushahid several feet up ahead. He watched the strong man let loose a visibly deep sigh as the last of the men -- finally -- loaded up into the three awaiting trucks.

Poor Mushahid had allowed himself to get so frazzled so quickly by the situation. As the younger man’s friend and mentor, it had been very disappointing to witness Mushahid, yet again, lose control of his temper.

The man had not even realized how badly he had inflamed the chaos and confusion. Rasool truly did the best he knew how with Mushahid, but sometimes he wondered if the overly passionate man was only meant to be a fighter and no more.

The old man offered a sigh of his own up to Allah and continued moving toward the truck. There were bigger things than Mushahid to worry about right now, Rasool thought. He began to prepare himself for what they might discover at the attack site, as well as theorize what kind of efforts might help repair or at least minimize the damage. Rasool was deep in thought when Mushahid suddenly appeared at his side.

“Please don’t get too close,” Mushahid softly pleaded with the older man.

Rasool stopped, but he did not bother to look over at the man. He already knew what he would find. It was always the same look: a face forced into a bland expression to suggest passivity, but betrayed by eyes that practically pulsated with concern, as if hypnotic in purpose.

It was the only form of leverage his protector was brave enough to employ, as Mushahid knew better than to beg or even hint that the older man should stay behind. As the head of the Taliban, Rasool reserved the sole right to make those decisions. For only he understood the full weight of the title, the responsibility, the burden, the regret.

And with the growing number of men lost, this was a personal affront to Rasool. These were his people, whether they be soldiers or villagers. They were dead because they fought for the very cause he commanded.

There would be no holding him back. Not this time.

Rasool finally turned to face the other man, locking onto the other’s gaze and matching it with his own. From head to toe, Rasool’s body was set straight and square. He held his head high like the proud warrior he was, and his eyes emanated a declaration of unyielding defiance toward his opponent’s will. As well-intentioned as the man’s motives might be, Rasool would not surrender an inch to his Mushahid’s over protective manipulations.

The stare down lasted only seconds before Mushahid slowly closed his eyes, hanging his head in submission. Rasool knew Mushahid wasn’t a stupid man, but his focus and judgement were much too limited.

Their communication center had been targeted for a specific reason. But Mushahid, so preoccupied with guarding Rasool and performing his duties as the Fist of the Taliban, failed to comprehend just how significant of a loss they might be facing. If sensitive information had indeed fallen into the wrong hands, not only could it compromise Rasool’s personal safety, but it could threaten the entire organization.

Seeing the strong man finally surrender, Rasool relaxed and sighed. He appreciated Mushahid’s concerns. However, inevitability was gaining on them, and if Mushahid wasn’t careful, he would likely break when the time came for him to face it.

“My brother, we must all trust in Allah’s shield of protection,” he reminded the strong man in a voice soft but insistent. “And we must never assume any single life is more important than a willingness to surrender and become a living, breathing tool for His purpose.”

Mushahid raised his eyes to look at his mentor, and Rasool patted him forgivingly on the arm. Then without another word Rasool, stepped past the man and toward his waiting vehicle.

As Rasool stepped away, it occurred to Mushahid that the only time he ever felt truly afraid was when he thought about losing his leader. Mushahid worried about what would happen if Rasool was taken. And he reminded himself that he needed to remember his place and receive rather than give orders from Rasool. He struggled mightily to find the right balance in this regard. And the Old Lion didn’t make it any easier being so stubbornly humble.

It had taken much longer than Mushahid had wanted to assemble his men, but finally, the pursuit team was ready to go. There would be three trucks with six fighters in the back and two up front. That would make eight men per truck, equaling twenty-four total.

It was a decent number of men to take on such a task, but these also weren’t just any men. These were twenty-four of the Taliban’s best fighters. And it was actually thirty-one fighters if he included the additional fourth truck carrying Rasool and his guards.

But Mushahid was determined to keep Rasool out of harm's way at all costs. Thankfully, the plan was for Rasool to focus on inspecting the attack site and communication center while Mushahid and his men pushed on and pursued the invaders.

Rasool and his guards would also remain on alert and be ready to respond should Mushahid’s three truck strike team call for assistance. Mushahid had agreed to the plan, but he would make certain that there would be no call for backup.

But watching as the older man walked away, Mushahid’s stomach clenched at the mere thought of letting Rasool out of his sight. Suddenly he was overwhelmed by a desperate determination boiling up within him. Then spotting the driver of the fourth truck, in which Rasool would be riding, Mushahid called him over and commanded him to keep Rasool as far back as possible, and at all times.

He evoked a vicious threat into every syllable of the command, an absolute promise that the driver would suffer severely for the slightest deviation from his order.

“Do not listen to him,” Rasool countered, with a light dismissive tone.

Rasool had circled back around by them. The man had sounded almost playful even.

Most likely Rasool was simply trying to assure the driver of his safety. In fact, Mushahid practically guaranteed it. But why then did it seem to sting him so badly? The big man took a slow, deep breath and let the subtle rebuke settle. Then turning his head briefly to nod toward Rasool, a signal of his full acceptance and cooperation, Mushahid then quickly jogged to take his position in the first truck.

Nearly fifteen miles away, Nick’s team approached their final obstacle: a small village almost straddling the border. Their plans had always been to push through the village at night, relying on darkness to keep them safe. Or, relatively safe.

They weren’t opposed to fighting their way through in the daylight, but with darkness, they would have only had to engage a few targets. Speed and surprise would have given them their best shot at passing through it safely.

After forcing their way through the village, they’d hit a side road that circumvented the closest border checkpoint. This was mostly an extra cautionary measure, as the checkpoint was vacant more than 320 days of the past year, according to satellite intelligence.

But the cover of darkness was definitely no longer an option. A gray haze announced dawn and with full daylight just a few minutes away, the clock was ticking and their problems rapidly multiplying.

Truck stopped the Toyota more than twelve hundred yards away. He turned the lights off since they were no longer helping in any case. It was a small town, made up of several dozen huts and probably eight or ten walled compounds. And their only way out of Pakistan, was a single road that ran straight through the center of it.

Up to this point, the road they had been driving down had wound through narrow passes created by steep hills on each side. But the road had opened up as the hills retreated and grew less sharp and steep. Before them, the valley widened. It was mostly free of rocks and obstacles, and the villagers ahead of them had taken advantage of the mostly flat ground and planted crops. Probably heroin, but thus was life in this barren part of the world.

The road had even been good enough for them to easily hit speeds up to forty miles per hour. Presumably, such quality roads allowed for these villagers to distribute goods and buy supplies, but Nick guessed the road had been maintained so that Taliban fighters and arms could quickly be pushed across the border into Afghanistan.

But this town was their final hurdle. Further out, beyond it, the hills came alive again. Vertical. Wrathful. Alive. A tight road cutting through a tighter passage.

Nick stepped out of the truck and glassed the town with a pair of binoculars.

“We’re almost home, guys,” Nick said. “Across those hills is Afghanistan.”

“No,” Truck answered. “Across those hills is a clean shower and all the beer I can drink.”

“And with luck,” Red said, grinning like a ten-year-old boy about to eat ice cream, “maybe a few hot chicks.”

“I just want to hit the damn weights, once I’m cleaned up and rested,” Marcus said. “My arms feel like they’ve lost two inches with all this humping and shitty food.”

“I don’t see anyone out and moving,” Nick said, lowering the binoculars. “We might make it through this town before they wake up.”

“Be the first break we’ve caught yet,” Truck said.

Chapter 39

They headed off for the village, Nick instructing Truck to approach at a moderate pace. Partly, this would prevent alarm. Nothing like a roaring truck in the early morning hours to bring everyone running out with their weapons.

But the other reason was Nick didn’t want them driving into a well-constructed ambush, on the off-chance the residents had heard about the raid. So at eight hundred yards, he asked Truck to stop while the four men scanned the town with scopes and binoculars. It still looked clear.

But as they loaded up to drive further forward, moving several hundred yards closer, two boys stepped into the road from behind a compound wall. The boys were laughing and smiling but stopped when they glanced down the road and saw the stopped Toyota truck.

“Gun it or hold up?” Truck asked.

Before Nick could answer, the boys turned and raced back into the compound.

“Don’t sweat it,” Nick said. “We couldn’t make it up there and through the town before their fighters came shooting at us. Personally, I’d rather take our chances at long range than a close firefight.”

“That’s what they make scopes for,” Marcus said, leaning across the top of the cab with his scoped AK-47.

Truck backed the Toyota down the road until they had re-established some safe distance. Ahead, men stepped into the road and looked toward them. They were roughly eight hundred yards away, barely visible at such a distance.

Marcus said, “Some of them are coming out with weapons.”

Nick saw the same thing through his binoculars. He stepped from the truck and checked their six o’clock. No other vehicles were approaching them from the rear. Nick returned his attention to their direct front. Ten or twelve men had moved into the road, blocking their path. Weapons could just be made out among them. One struggled to hold a medium machine gun against his hip.

“Before things get any crazier,” Truck said, “can I interject that this has just been the damned mission from hell?”

“Yeah. Nick sure knows how to plan them,” Red said with a laugh. “You should really start your own travel agency, boss.”

Nick stepped from the truck and spit in the dirt. “Red,” he said.

The little man seized mid laugh. “Uhh. Yes, sir?”

“Get me my sniper rifle.”

Red left the RPK sitting on its bipod legs on the cab and moved back by Ahmud al-Habshi, who was still out cold. He picked up the Dragunov and handed it to Nick, who set aside the binoculars and accepted it.

“Red,” Nick said, “let’s give them a warning. Fire a burst well over their heads. We’ll let them know it doesn’t have to go down like this, but they’re going to have to let us through.”

Red climbed back behind the RPK, clicked the weapon off safe, and aimed more than twenty feet over their heads. Bada, bada, bada. The sound ripped apart the peace of the quiet morning.

The villagers dove to the ground, spreading out into a skirmish line. A few flashes could be seen across the way, and Nick heard a round snap by. The rest fell short.

“Fair enough,” Nick said. “They want to play. We’ll play.”

Nick jogged over with his Dragunov to a piece of soft ground that would make a good prone position. Nick worked the Russian-issued PSL scope along the line of men. They had stopped firing, having realized the distance was too great. Nick figured it to be seven hundred and seventy yards if he had to bet.

The 7.62 mm bullet would drop 129 inches over that distance, or nearly eleven feet. At this kind of distance, he would have preferred his American rifle and scope. Both were better. But he had practiced at this range with this rifle prior to the mission, and now it was time to see if he could make it work under real field conditions. Not to mention after days of intense exhaustion and fatigue.

Nick used the bottom left part of the PSL scope to confirm the range. The scope had a line that allowed you to measure the height of a standing man and better determine the range. The scope confirmed eight hundred yards. Nick raised the scope to aim with the lower “v” crosshair, which should strike relatively on target at eight hundred yards.

Nick checked the wind, noting only the smallest crosswind moving from left to right. He fixed the necessary adjustment in his mind and aimed in on a bearded, turban-wearing fighter who was kneeling and staring their direction.

“Watch for an impact,” Nick said. “I have no damn idea how I’m going to do using this.”

Nick didn't have to explain that “this” referred to his weapon. His men knew. All of them missed their American-made weapons. And while the Russian-made weapons were more durable and reliable, their ruggedness sacrificed the accuracy possible from American-designed rifles.

Nick could shoot at minute of angle, even with the Dragunov. This meant at one hundred yards he could keep each of his bullets within one inch of the bullseye. But at each additional hundred yards, the circle gets an inch wider. Thus, at eight hundred yards, his bullets would strike within eight inches off the mark. And that didn’t take into account the crosswind he was estimating (perhaps wrongly).

Nick focused hard on the scope and the target. He had to push out the thoughts of discomfort and weariness, as well as the feeling of a sharp rock cutting into his quad. He stifled the pain and focused, focused, focused on the job at hand. And as he did, and as he took control of his breathing, he felt himself slip into the zone.

There was no mission. There was no Ahmud al-Habshi or Rasool Deraz. There was just Nick, the rifle, and a target that felt like it was about a mile away. But as Nick further controlled his breathing, the scope moved less and Nick regained that extra confidence he needed before making such a long shot.

Finally, Nick knew the target was a dead man. That he lay in the sights of one of the world’s greatest snipers. And with that thought, Nick eased the trigger on back, as softly as one might run his finger down a particularly delicate feather.

Chapter 40

KRAK. The rifle seemed to go off by itself, the kind of surprise Nick loved to achieve. Anticipating the shot was a mistake far too many shooters made, which usually caused them to miss. Despite the kickback of the rifle, Nick managed to see that the man went down.

“Bullet hit him in his left shoulder,” Red said, his eyes straining through a pair of binoculars

As Nick moved the rifle toward the next target, he tried to remember exactly where the scope had been aimed before the rifle fired. The scope had been properly on target and not drifted, so Nick would adjust his next shot so that it’d strike five inches to the right. And while on a range you’d shoot multiple rounds to confirm your grouping before making such an adjustment, Nick didn’t have that luxury. He also felt confident he had made a quality shot on the previous round, so he’d adjust a bit to improve the next attempt.

The Pakistani villagers had heard the whack of the bullet hitting their neighbor before hearing what sounded like a crash of thunder echoing across the valley. The man howled in pain as he dropped to the ground. Then the tribesman began to react. Some ran for cover, others ducked lower, some just screamed in righteous anger.

One ran to aid the fallen man, and others fired back in force. After a few rounds, they realized the distance was too great and corrected their aim, firing higher and bringing their rounds into range by watching the dust-ups of their impacts.

As the villager’s rounds snapped past or kicked up dust mere yards short, Red popped his weapon off safe and leaned into the light machine gun. Bada. Bada. Bada. Shell casings bounced and clattered into the truck bed as he caught sight of a burning tracer bullet -- they’d loaded a tracer every fifth round -- hit about five yards short of the man he was engaging.

Red aimed higher and fired again. These rounds smacked the dirt in front of the villager, several of them skipping up from the ground and driving into the man who had been firing an AK at them from the kneeling position. Three bullets twisted and tumbled through the fighter, giving him a sucking chest wound, a shattered knee, and a ripped bicep (which was the least of his problems).

While Red was putting his man down, Nick dispatched a man who had been working the bolt on a scoped weapon that looked like it dated back to World War II. Or earlier.

Nick traversed the scope to find the next target when the air split like a dozen firecrackers over his head.

“Machine gun!” he heard Marcus yell.

“Ahh, hell no!” Truck said as he kicked open his door and rolled away from the Toyota.

Machine guns, even handled by poorly trained villagers, were no joke. They had a high rate of fire and a stability and accuracy not found in AKs. Between the bipod and weight of the weapon, they were easy to fire with noticeable impacts, allowing the shooter to walk the rounds into a target. Throw in the standard tracer every fifth round to assist in aiming, and you were dealing with a weapon that a twelve year old could wield with deadly precision. Given just a little practice.

The first burst from the machine gun had been high -- a classic mistake. Much better to aim low and let the rounds and debris fly up into the faces of your targets. Unfortunately for him, the inexperienced machine gunner was about to learn an ugly second lesson, too.

Machine gunners draw a lot of attention in a firefight and are usually quickly silenced. Marcus and Truck were firing well-aimed, single shots at the machine gunner, arcing bullets to fall into the man. They guessed on how high to hold their weapons and watched for impacts, trying to walk their own effective fire onto the threat. They both knew the chance of a hit was nil, but the goal was to suppress the machine gunner before he hit the truck or one of them. Force whoever was behind the gun to duck and cover, unable to effectively wield it.

Red, as well, was firing at the rocks from which the machine gun bursts had come. At the same time, Nick scanned the outcropping to locate the gunner with his scope. Their target had indeed flinched under all the fire, and he naturally fired a return burst to gain a short reprieve. Sadly for him, the rounds soared far less accurately than his first deluge. Sadder still, it gave away his position with its sound, bright muzzle flash, and dust it kicked up.

Nick saw through the scope rounds landing or passing all about the machine gunner. The man lay in the prone behind the machine gun, and it was indeed being fired from its bipod. Nick worked the scope’s crosshairs from the weapon up to the man’s face. His turban had apparently fallen off in all the close calls and ducking he had done, and Nick aimed in on his nose with the lower aiming mark in the scope set for eight hundred yards.

Nick knew from his prior shot -- it had only been his second -- that his adjustment five inches to the right had improved his shot placement. He pulled the trigger back, and the rifle fired again. He lost the man’s face in the scope from the recoil. If only he had a spotter working with him. As he searched for the man in the scope again, he noticed the machine gun had stopped firing.

Marcus, Red, and Truck didn’t know if the machine gunner had been hit or merely suppressed, and for the moment, they didn’t care. They continued to fire at the man’s position.

But it was an unnecessary effort. Nick and his Dragunov had struck the man in the lower jaw and practically ripped it off.

Chapter 41

There’s a common slip-up in war known as tunnel vision. It occurs most often in the heat of a firefight when a unit’s focus gets locked exclusively on the direct threat they see. Nick had used this earlier to take out the men outside the compound.

And it’s the natural thing to do, of course. Who wouldn’t, when under fire, completely focus on the men firing at them? The direct, known threat.

Despite all their experience, Nick and his team fell prey to tunnel vision. Perhaps it was fatigue -- so many never-ending days behind enemy lines with interrupted sleep and bone-tiring nights of transporting crushing loads. Perhaps it was because this small village was the final obstacle to their return home and was thus their entire focus. It hadn’t exactly been planned either.

Whatever it was, they were off their “A” game. Nick normally avoided shooting too much in any encounter, since a leader needs to maintain situational awareness during a firefight. But at this distance, his sniper rifle was the most effective weapon the team had, and they were counting on him.

Furthermore, the machine gun had drawn his full attention on taking it out immediately, versus methodically settling in to pick off targets one at a time. Nick didn’t want to get this close to the border only to have some untrained dimwit with a potent weapon put an easy bullet through the engine block or one of his men. Self-preservation had overridden the trained discipline of battlefield awareness.

Thus, between the fatigue and checking for anyone to pick up the machine gun, the four men of Shield, Safeguard, and Shelter never heard or saw the convoy of trucks flying toward them from behind.

Mushahid Zubaida couldn’t believe his eyes, as he lowered a pair of powerful binoculars. There, just a couple of miles in front of him, was the four-man team they had been pursuing. The four men were firing at villagers, who were far off in the distance, but still clearly blocking their way.

Mushahid smiled. Even men who were too old or too young to leave their village and join the Taliban do not fear these elite troops, he thought. He really hoped they were American, so their bodies could be displayed far and wide in propaganda videos. Even better, he hoped one or two were taken alive.

“Get ready!” Mushahid yelled, rapping the top of the cab to alert those riding in the back.

Mushahid sat in the passenger seat of the lead truck. Behind him trailed the other two trucks. He glanced back and saw they needed no warning. The fighters could hear the firing, and they stood with their weapons ready, eager to punish these dogs who had come into Pakistan and killed so many.

Mushahid had learned these men they were chasing had proven themselves to be murderously good with their accuracy. He wanted to limit the number of men who died in the looming battle, so there’d be no dismounting and attacking. Even at twenty-four against four, he’d lose a lot of men.

Yes, the best course of action would be to rush them. Drive in as fast as possible across the mostly flat, open ground. Get in close. Literally run them over (where possible), dismount everyone, and gun them down like sheep from so close they’d be in pistol range. A range where his men’s rugged Soviet-bloc weapons would not be at a disadvantage.

Mushahid passed his orders to his men by radio, instructing them to hold off on firing or screaming.

“Now, spread out and let’s go as fast as we can.”

Chapter 42

The enemy machine gun remained silent, but Nick’s men hammered the position on and off as if it were a dragon, waiting to rise from the ground and bathe them with fire.

Nick allowed it a few moments more, then yelled, “Cease fire. Everybody cease fire.”

Each team member passed along the order down the line until all shooting had stopped on the American side. A relative silence took hold though the Pakistani villagers fired a few rounds in angry, half-hearted attempts that fell nowhere near the mark.

Nick, Marcus, and Truck scanned the terrain for targets, but the villagers stayed low. A few periodically lifted a rifle to sling an un-aimed shot in the team’s direction. And though they still outnumbered Nick’s team 2-to-1, they had learned their lesson about showing themselves. Even at such a distance, they could be hit and killed.

Nick inched his scope along the rugged, rocky terrain. He detected pieces of fighters -- a top of a head, a shoulder, a hand atop a boulder -- but nothing large enough to engage.

“Nobody’s showing themselves,” Nick said, still behind his scope.

He grunted, unsure. What now? Nick pulled down his rifle and looked at his team.

Red was reloading another seventy-five round drum into the light machine gun. Truck was taking in some water from a green canteen. And Marcus was looking down at his watch, checking the time with a look of concern.

Nick wiped his sleeve across his sweaty forehead. Damn, he felt as tired as he could remember feeling in a long time. He studied his men -- all bearded and turbaned up, to fit in better. They looked like a ragtag bunch of religious wackos. He stood and felt his legs shaky with fatigue. This needed to end soon. He was getting too old for this shit.

The Fist of the Taliban could feel the imminent victory as his trucks raced across the open ground. The three trucks were fanned out, driving side-by-side on terrain that had mostly flattened out. They and their twenty-four fighters were flying at more than forty miles per hour across the rough land. And forty miles per hour on this rocky, hard ground felt more like eighty.

Mushahid couldn’t believe that none of the fighters ahead had noticed them or turned in alarm. Everything was going according to plan, and these men were as good as dead.

Nick couldn’t figure out an alternate plan. Though he was focused obsessively forward on the machine gun, while also searching for other targets, he allowed his mind to chew on the situation. But no matter how hard he thought, he kept coming up empty.

There was no way around this town if they were planning on staying in the truck. The valley was a bowl that ended in a small pass through the mountains ahead. The only way through the steep terrain was through the road beyond the village. And the road passed through the village, which had some really pissed off folks waiting for his team to get within range.

It was an impasse. And there were no other options unless they wanted to go on foot. Nick had walked all he planned to walk for a long damn time, so that ruled that out.

Nick, frustrated, laid back down, incredibly pissed off. He was a sniper at heart. And he’d just have to rely on his gun once again to get through this damned mess. Maybe he could crawl forward and play turkey peek with these folks until they decided the fun was all gone.

Red apparently wasn’t happy either. He pushed himself off the cab of the truck, cupped his hands, and shouted, “Come on you fuckers! You bunch of damn cowards! Let’s do this!”

His voice echoed across the open ground, but no one on the opposite side even bothered shooting at the standing target. Both sides appeared to be conserving their ammo – the distance too great.

Red seized the RPK off the cab, placed it against his shoulder, and loosed a burst of machine gun fire toward the targets across the distance.

Nick looked up and said, “Knock it off, Red.”

Thankfully, it was only a five-round burst.

Nick returned to the scope and saw a very different picture than he’d seen only moments before. The villagers weren’t hiding anymore. In fact, as he watched, more and more stood. Their hands held up, weapons lifted.

Nick couldn’t figure out what they were doing

“They’re literally cheering,” Marcus said, looking through his own scope.

“What the hell they celebrating about?” Nick asked.

“Red’s shitty shooting, apparently,” Truck said.

Nick ignored the banter, placed the scope’s crosshair on a target, and eased back the trigger. But before he could fire, the hair on the back of his neck stood -- his involuntary alarm system that had kept his sorry ass alive numerous times -- and Nick answered it immediately. He lowered the rifle and turned. And when he did, he nearly threw up.

Chapter 43

Dust climbed behind them like a tidal wave racing in their direction. It rose in height and width, its breadth and density revealing the hazard beneath its cloud.

It appeared ominous, and Nick froze for a moment after turning. The glint of the early morning sun pinged off the glass and chrome of the vehicles and forced Nick to squint his eyes against its glare.

“Contact rear!” Nick hollered, his voice screeching, his alarm too great to control or hide the fear in such a moment.

All four men turned to confront their new threat. Nick was the first to fire. He estimated the trucks at a thousand yards away but closing fast.

Nick aimed several inches high and began shooting quickly, grateful in this moment that his Dragunov was semi-auto instead of bolt action. Marcus and Truck fired on semi-auto with their AKs, as well. Everyone trying to fire as accurately as possible.

Red stood in the bed of the Toyota and fired from the standing position with the RPK. Not the most accurate position, but he, too, had panicked upon seeing the trucks and wasn’t thinking entirely clearly. Each man knew they had to stop the trucks, or they were all dead.

The three trucks hurtled toward what was looking more and more like American invaders. Mushahid Zubaida, riding in the passenger seat, was holding on for all he was worth. His right arm was braced in the window, and his left hand gripped the truck’s dash as tightly as he could squeeze it.

The truck bounced and hopped, spending as much time airborne as it spent on the ground. He glanced at the speedometer, but couldn’t brace his head still enough to read it. The dry, dusty ground wasn’t rough here by most Pakistani standards, but no open ground was designed for trucks to drive at more than forty miles per hour.

Make that fifty, he finally saw the speed between all the bouncing and jostling. No doubt this charge was wrecking the undercarriage of the truck. Well, when they uploaded the video of four dead Americans caught in Pakistan, he was sure more donations would pour in from his Muslim brothers across the world. They could buy new trucks then.

He turned his attention from the speedometer to their target, and a smile appeared on his face. They were eight hundred yards away, and while their surprise had been blown by something (it was too far for him to see the cheering villagers), only light, ineffective fire from the Americans snapped by.

Mushahid Zubaida had the infidels, and he knew it.

Chapter 44

Nick changed mags on the Dragunov as the charging vehicles cleared the eight hundred meter mark.

“Change mags, everyone,” he shouted.

As he slapped his own fresh magazine in, he knew the next few moments would be the difference between life and death. The trucks were about to enter effective range, which is why he ordered everyone to reload. At this range, a single man running dry could very easily turn into the kind of situation that ended up with no one making it out of Pakistan.

They would either make a few great shots and hit all the “should make” shots or they’d die. Period. There was no middle ground, and Nick didn’t like their odds.

A few rounds snapped by, fired from the villagers behind them. Great, Nick thought. Now the villagers are back at us. He hoped they weren’t advancing on them; there was no time to check. They wouldn’t be able to cover enough distance to matter before the trucks decided their fate anyway.

Stay focused, Nick, he thought as he brought the Dragunov back into his shoulder with its fresh mag. But before he settled in to aim, he had an idea.

“Let’s all focus on the middle truck,” Nick yelled.

The trucks cleared six hundred yards. Closing fast. Nick noticed out of the corner of his eye that Red was jumping down from the truck to take a prone position. Good. With that bipod, he wouldn’t be missing anymore shots from this point on. And he had seventy-five in that drum.

Nick brought the scope up, aimed at the engine, and fired. KRAK. KRAK. KRAK. The other men of S3 poured bullets into it, too, and Nick saw two tracers cut into the engine. Those were from the RPK, and two tracers meant ten rounds had just zipped into it. It also meant Red was really holding the gun tight and keeping its groups controlled since machine guns often rose up on you.

More bullets riddled the front of the middle truck, but the group of vehicles passed five hundred yards without a pause. But now they were very much in the effective range of their weapons.

Nick knew his team didn’t miss at this range. Not at a man-sized target and definitely not a truck-sized one. Four of the best gunman in the world were firing at a single truck in the middle of a formation.

The Americans’ fire had completely ceased. “They must be reloading,” Mushahid said to his driver. “Hurry, Khalid.”

Mushahid quickly glanced right then left out both windows to make sure the two flanking trucks were still matching pace. Mushahid smiled and again urged Khalid to drive faster.

Suddenly the machine gun let loose. He could tell from the muzzle flash that it was firing now from a lower position on the ground. He could also tell that its accuracy was flawless.

Mushahid braced for impact as the rounds slammed and cut into the truck. It sounded like a mass of sledge hammers hitting one after the other, shaking the truck and punching holes through the front window.

Khalid screamed. “Agh!!!”

“Be strong, my brother,” Mushahid yelled. “We have them.”

Then a second burst and other weapons opened up. The truck appeared to be catching bullets like a giant magnet. It sounded like sticking your head in a metal trash can and banging both sides with baseball bats.

“Be brave, Khalid!” Mushahid called out.

Khalid didn’t answer, and Mushahid saw his driver’s body slumped against the window as the truck veered sharply to the left. Mushahid reached over to grab the wheel and stabilize the vehicle before it flipped.

Chapter 45

Nick saw the middle truck veering and slowing, the other two trucks roaring past it.

“Shift left,” he shouted. “Shift left. Shift left.”

They each shifted their fire onto the left truck, now within three hundred yards. It came under even more withering, accurate fire than the first. At two hundred yards, it, too, slowed -- its driver riddled with bullets, the hood shredded and flapping above a smoking engine.

No one needed to say “shift right.” The final truck was at one hundred yards and flying straight toward the middle of their line. Without question, the driver intended to run over them.

Red unleashed the light machine gun on it while Marcus slammed in a new thirty-round magazine. Nick doubted they’d stop the truck before it and its fighters were on top of them. But then he remembered the best news ever.

He released his sniper rifle, jumped to his feet, and leapt over the side of the truck bed. He landed precariously, stumbling all over packs and gear. One leg crumpled under him, and he bashed his knee into a computer tower.

But in that death dance when time slows, Nick’s body responded as it always had. He found his footing, hoisted the stolen RPG, and switched off the safety as he spun it toward the oncoming truck.

He aimed low and fired. WHOOSH. The smoke trail flew toward the truck and an explosion thumped the truck, striking in front of the passenger side front tire. The blast ripped the wheel off, and the truck jerked to its right and flipped on its side. It rolled and rolled and rolled, fighters flying, falling, and flattening under the weight of the truck.

The fighters (who still could) struggled to engage their assailants. But none of them had a chance. Bullets lanced them with laser-like precision. Not a single bullet fired from Nick’s team missed at such a close range. And how could they at less than one hundred yards, outfitted with scopes and precision-tuned weapons synced in by one of the country’s best armorers.

The closest truck’s eight Taliban fighters were each dead in a matter of seconds. But there was no time for cheering. The fighters from the first two trucks were getting their act together.

Those from Mushahid’s middle truck, which had been stopped at five hundred yards, had deployed from the truck. These were some of Mushahid Zubaida’s most loyal fighters, and they needed to close the distance while the Americans were focused on the other trucks.

“Let’s go, my brothers,” Mushahid yelled.

His troops had seen the riddled body of Khalid in the driver’s seat, and they needed no urging. The seven of them sprinted forward, covering ground as only lightly armed guerrillas can do. Unlike most troops, they had no heavy flak jackets, helmets, or gear ranging from canteens to first aid kits to weigh them down.

The seven fighters from the second truck just two hundred yards away from Nick’s team were already spreading out and firing. The shots from these fighters were intense and accurate enough to drive Nick’s team into the prone, searching for cover.

“Fuck!” Red screamed as three bullets smacked in front of him.

Nick rolled out of the truck and ducked as bullets snapped by his head.

“We can’t stay here,” he yelled.

Red pulled his machine gun into his shoulder and yanked the trigger, but it clicked. Dry. Out of ammo. And the ammo was in the truck bed.

Truck noticed the situation and rolled next to Red.

“Take this,” he said, tossing Red’s AK-47 to him and grabbing his RPK back. “I’ll grab more ammo from the truck.”

Red immediately resumed the fire to cover Truck, as did Nick and Marcus. Not having a machine gun up and running was a guaranteed way to lose a firefight.

Rounds snapped by, their whip-like stinging coming painfully close to pinning the team down. The seven Taliban from Mushahid’s truck had caught up and joined the line of fighters already firing.

The incoming fire picked up, heavier and more deadly.

“Shit!” Red screamed. A round had blown a fist-sized rock toward him from just a foot away. Nick ducked after a particularly close round snapped by so loud it felt like it burned. All Nick wanted to do was crawl into a hole or ball up into the fetal position.

Nick all of a sudden remembered the villagers. The last thing they needed was for those bastards to be running up on their rear. He leaned up, looked behind him, and felt something smack his shoulder. He slammed his body back into the ground, to avoid further damage.

He burrowed his face into the ground as more rounds whipped past him within inches. His glance to the team’s rear had confirmed his worst fear. The villagers behind them were firing and moving toward them. They were about to be doubly fucked.

Chapter 46

“We’ve got to move,” Nick screamed, his head down again.

His Afghan clothing was turning red from the wound, which he was afraid to investigate. His arm and shoulder still moved, but that could just be the adrenaline. And seeing the wound would only accelerate the shock and panic.

Nick fought every fear that overwhelmed him by telling himself that they were dead if they stayed. They were pouring through their ammo and quite outnumbered, facing assaults from two directions. Probably still ten or fourteen men to their front from the stalled trucks, and six or eight villagers behind them. Assuming he assigned someone to shift fire to the villagers, they were most likely looking at a stalemate, absolute best case.

A stalemate would favor the enemy. They could be reinforced and re-supplied. Nick’s team was as good as dead.

Nick forced himself to his feet, firing off his sniper weapon by just pointing toward the enemy. The point was suppression, not accuracy at this point.

“Let’s go!”

No one needed any encouragement. Truck dropped his reloaded RPK in the bed and hurdled over the truck bed to get in the driver’s seat. Red and Marcus leaped into the bed, firing liking mad men and clambering aboard.

Truck slammed the clutch to the floor and yanked the Toyota into first gear. Bullets pinged through the tailgate and zinged by their heads. Nick’s rifle clicked dry, and he hopped in the bed, the last man to load up. He saw the RPK among the gear but had no idea if it was reloaded or not. Worth a try, he figured, hefting it and loosing a long burst. The gun roared, dominating the sound of the battlefield. It joined Red and Marcus’s fire.

Their rate of fire was more like that of scared recruits than calm professionals. It was inaccurate but heavy. And volume trumped accuracy in this case. If only one or two Taliban fighters took their time and truly aimed, they wouldn’t be making it to the border.

The Toyota slung gravel and nearly dumped the three men in the back. They careened and collided into each other and the gear stowed inside the bed. The only person in the truck not completely scared out of their mind was Ahmud al-Habshi. He was coming to and beginning to regain his senses. But fortunately for him, he was still a little too high to not be enjoying life.

The Toyota picked up speed and roared as Truck pushed the engine to the brink in each gear. The villagers to their front saw what was happening and concentrated their fire.

“Bring it, boys!” Truck yelled as he headed right toward them. He’d had it with being cautious and was most definitely done playing nice. And if he hadn’t accepted the possibility of his death a long time ago, then he would never have signed on for another mission a la Nick Woods.

Rounds cut through the windshield, but Truck never flinched. Behind him, Nick, Marcus, and Red climbed across gear and assumed firing positions over the cab, engaging the villagers. But Truck didn’t notice. He was in his own world now. It was just him at the reigns of a hundred and fifty horses charging full speed ahead.

What was death? Death was definitely staying where they were. Death was definitely fighting all the men behind them. Besides, what was death anyway? Death was staying put and letting your ass get surrounded. So while Truck accepted death, that sure as hell didn’t mean he’d go easy.

Consequently, death brought no fear to Truck or any of the other men. They’d faced it too many times to sweat it. As the saying went, “He who cares the least, wins.”

All four men had accepted that death was a likelihood on this mission, for sure, so they’d said their prayers long ago.

The battered Toyota cleared forty miles per hour and seemed to glide on the loose sand and gravel as it lost traction and skimmed over the ground. Truck realized he’d momentarily lost control of the two-ton vehicle.

The seven men facing the truck could have stopped it statistically speaking, but they lacked the training and mindset of professional soldiers. Between seeing their buddies gunned down from impossible distances earlier to seeing the determination of the driver headed fearlessly toward them, they decided they’d had enough.

They broke, turning and running to dodge the path of the oncoming vehicle.

Truck considered aiming toward a couple of them and running them down. But the 4x4 felt too loose and unresponsive in the shale and gravel. He figured there was a decent chance he’d turn, and the truck would fishtail sideways then flip once the wheels caught on something.

No. A couple squashed villagers were not worth killing themselves over. Especially this close to the border.

He stuck to the prudent course of action and kept the steering wheel straight for the village and what passed as a road in this wild and forbidden land. They screamed by the fighters and zoomed through the village. A few stray rounds spit by from behind them, but the bullets were high and the real danger had passed.

Chapter 47

Three miles down the road, the ramshackle village of mud huts barely visible behind them, Truck stopped the Toyota so the team could regroup. The fighters climbed out of the truck bed and checked weapons and magazines. They sipped water, crammed down chocolate energy bars, and wiped off sweaty brows.

A euphoria gripped the team for having survived the ordeal, but there were no laughs or jokes as was so common following most firefights. The team was still in enemy territory, and they hadn’t made it across the border to safety yet.

Marcus noticed Nick’s blood-soaked Taliban jacket and checked the wound. He helped Nick remove his gear and pulled the Afghan khet, or traditional tunic, off the injured shoulder. The round had clipped his left shoulder -- a bad graze wound. It had cut into the skin perhaps a millimeter or two, doing no real damage. Just creating a real bleeder.

Truck joked, “We wouldn’t even report that in Special Forces.”

Marcus grabbed some blood clotter and a bandage and patched up Nick’s shoulder. Red stepped away to relieve himself, and Truck popped the vehicle’s hood to inspect the engine.

“Looks good,” Truck said, slamming the hood down minutes later. “It’s got a few small leaks, but it’ll get us where we’re needing to go.”

Red lit a cigarette, catching a much-needed hit.

Nick kept an eye on their rear while Marcus doctored the wound. Nick grimaced, as Marcus finished the job, then said, “Let’s redistribute ammo while we have a moment. Dig in the truck bed and make sure everyone has as much as possible. And Red, help Truck load some of the empty drums for the RPK.”

Nick pulled his top back on and dug a map out. He oriented the map and studied their upcoming checkpoints before they crossed the border. Up ahead was the side road they’d use to bypass the closest checkpoint. Even if the checkpoint was almost always vacant, Nick was done taking chances for the day.

Their bypass road proved more difficult to navigate than expected, but it wasn’t anything worse than what they’d already seen. After a few more self-built rock ramps, like before, the Toyota made it up over the high ground and into the sanctuary of Afghanistan.

“It’s nice to be back home,” Red said, as they headed down the high ground.

“Speak for yourself,” Marcus answered. “This isn’t my damn home.”

They drove on ten miles to put plenty of distance between them and any Taliban pursuit force that might be after them. They also avoided all forms of civilization, attempting to stay as covert as possible.

Nick directed them to an empty spot that had great visibility around them and would be easily defendable. With that, the team started laying rocks into straight lines spelling out “HELP” in big, capital letters. Ahmud al-Habshi was completely alert by this point, and he seemed fully aware that he’d been abducted and transported to a country he probably didn’t want to be in.

“Shit’s not so fun when you’re not sitting at your keyboard in a safe house, is it?” Red said, taunting the man.

The man looked at him stupidly, clearly not comprehending English, and too frightened to stare back with anger.

Red pointed at him. “This man’s a damn coward. A complete damn coward.”

“We’ve got them in every army,” Nick said. “He’s just a fucking pogue who thought this was a game. Turns out, it’s not. Now leave him alone and get back to work.”

The team worked for a couple of hours, building up the letters until they were each eight feet long.

“They look good,” Truck said, once they were finished. “But how long before anyone is brave enough to check on the signal?”

“Probably a long damn time,” Red said, laying down against his pack to rest. “There aren’t many Americans left in the country, and we’re practically in no man’s land. There probably hasn’t been a patrol or flyover of this area in months or maybe even a year.”

“No doubt,” Nick said, “that they’ve given up on this district. But they’ll come eventually.”

He dug in his pack and pulled out an emergency beacon used by pilots in the Air Force. It was designed to automatically transmit a distress signal, and would get someone investigating in a hurry since almost nothing caused more alarm than a stranded pilot.

Nick spent a few minutes putting the device together with its battery in place. He had been given it in a completely deactivated state since on real planes they activate on their own once the ejection seat leaves the plane.

The team had opted for using the beacon as their rescue plan because they did not want to deal with Afghan checkpoints and disloyal villagers, who might see four men as an easy target. The thought process was that since there had been no American patrols in months, none of the local villagers would be keen on helping four exhausted Americans looking for help.

Worse, word was probably spreading wider-and-wider by shortwave radio that the Taliban was looking for one of its men who had been abducted. Villagers would be heavily rewarded if they aided in his return.

Chapter 48

Nick looked down at the beacon and hoped it was working, then stowed it away in his gear.

“Everyone grab some shut-eye,” he said. “I’ll take first watch.”

Nick had his Dragunov sniper rifle slung across his back. It wasn’t the most tactical of ways to hold a weapon, but his right shoulder ached and didn’t need a rifle stock digging into it. Plus, the ground was flat, and they could see for miles.

He scanned a 360, and content they remained safe for the moment, he walked up to al-Habshi and offered him a canteen. The man nodded, and Nick gently poured some water down his mouth. Some of it spilled down his face and chest, but there was no way Nick was going to unbind his arms or legs.

Nick really wished they had a large American flag they could hoist or spread out and tack down, which would be easily visible from the air. Or, having a radio would have been even better. That’s how you’d do it in the movies, but this wasn’t the movies and you didn’t carry American flags or encrypted radios on deep strikes into foreign countries where you were quite likely to be killed or captured.

He shuddered at the thought that the Taliban might have gotten their hands on an encrypted radio with which they could have used to spy on America or Afghanistan. It frightened him more to consider them nabbing an American-issued satellite radio, which had been another item that would have been nice to have had.

Nick listened for a drone and hoped someone had taken note of the emergency beacon. Five minutes later, he arched his back and grunted from the soreness that screamed from too much abuse the past eleven days. He straightened and twisted his upper body, working out some stiffness.

Damn, he hurt all over. He resumed watching the direction he expected the drone to arrive from. And after what felt like two hours of boredom -- but was actually fifty minutes -- a drone investigated in the distance. No doubt the drone’s operator quickly recognized the large word “HELP” written in English and alerted his superior to the strange sight.

Nick knew that would lead to more calls even higher up the chain of command, with lots of questions about exactly what unit might be operating in that district. And all would soon discover that no unit was actually operating in the area, which would lead to even more questions.

Eventually, it would be decided that it was a trap, but no officer would rest easy without finding out why an emergency beacon went off.

Nick wasn’t sure of what was being said, but the drone was eventually followed by the arrival of two Apache helicopters. Nick woke everyone up, and they stowed their weapons and walked away from their gear.

You really didn’t want to anger a couple of Apaches.

The Apaches circled in warily, beginning at more than a mile away. They searched for traps and ambushes with their sensors and infrared. They then slowly, carefully closer.

Two fighter jets had been armed and sat waiting on a runway to respond should it prove a trap. The Apaches circled four different times, sliding in closer and closer.

The entire time, Nick’s team stood away from their gear, their weapons stashed among their packs. No one wanted one of the pilots getting an itchy finger with the armament the Apaches carried. One burst from their 30 mm cannon would shred their entire party.

Eventually, they had closed to within a thousand yards -- still essentially out of small arms, but easily within the range of their cannon and Hellfire missiles. Finally, one of them backed up and raced overhead at more than a hundred miles per hour, while his partner covered him, hoping to spring whatever trap might be set.

When no trap occurred, one of them sat down a hundred yards away. It remained facing them and its sister provided in-air cover just behind them. A pilot climbed down and approached with his pistol drawn. Nick instructed his men to put their arms up and stay put as if they were surrendering.

Nick removed his turban and walked toward the pilot, who wore a green flight suit. Nick moved slow and kept his arms parallel to the ground, out in a cross-like position. Nick remembered as he got closer that he was dressed like an Afghan, and realized he should have removed his outfit before they arrived. But he didn’t want to stop now and fidget with any clothing. The last thing he wanted this pilot to think was that he was some kind of suicide bomber.

“That’s close enough,” the pilot warned, stretching out his Beretta M9 pistol and putting up his hand in a universal halt position. Thirty yards still separated him.

“I speak English,” Nick said, “and boy, are we glad to see you guys.”

The pilot, who wore the rank of Captain, lowered the pistol just a tad.

“Who the hell are you guys? And what the hell are you doing out here? We were told no friendly units were operating in the area.”

“That’s right,” Nick said. “The guys we work for don’t tell anybody where we’re working or what we’re doing.”

Nick nodded back to his team and the bound body of Ahmud al-Habshi. Nick smiled and said, “Let’s just say we got a little turned around and failed to read our maps properly. And who knows? Maybe we ended up on the wrong side of the border.”

“Roger that,” the pilot said with a smile. “It’s becoming clearer now. But I’ll still need to get some guys out here with some rifles to process you guys.”

“Just have your commanding officer call our embassy and tell him there’s a Nick Woods out here in the middle of nowhere, asking to be picked up,” Nick said. “I promise you once you do that, we’ll be out of your hair in no time at all.”

Chapter 49

Rasool Deraz, the Old Lion, paused to catch his breath. He leaned on his walking stick and said to his bodyguard Mushahid Zubaida, “A little further, then let’s rest in the shade.”

“As you wish,” said Mushahid, bowing his head in reverence.

The two walked a little further before Rasool took a seat in the shade of a rock outcropping. It was clear the enemy had escaped again, and he wanted to rest and pray, now that they knew the enemy was gone.

Mushahid, off to the side, switched his AK-74 from the ready position in both hands to a slung position. He cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Mujahideen! Mujahideen! We stop now. Find cover and rest.”

Mushahid looked up the hill before returning his attention to their immediate surroundings. He caught glimpses of his fighters moving toward concealment and fighting positions. Mushahid pulled his AK-74 back into the ready position and flexed his strong arms and abs, still angry about their recent battle.

Rasool saw the fire in his best fighter’s eyes and said, “My dear friend, look all you will, but I don’t think Allah will be bringing our enemies today.”

Mushahid stopped searching the hills and met Rasool’s eyes. He nodded solemnly to his mentor, noticing against his wishes how old and tired his leader looked.

Rasool’s face was lined with wrinkles. Around his eyes and neck, Rasool’s skin was creased and grooved as deeply as the draws along the mountains in which they called home. Mushahid averted his eyes and gazed down the hill, seeing in his peripheral the old man’s long, gray beard blowing in the wind.

He truly is an Old Lion, Mushahid thought.

“Please give me a little space,” Rasool said.

Mushahid stepped back and watched Rasool pulled out his prayer mat and fell to his knees, clearly crying, his eyes sparkling as tears built up.

Rasool was indeed crying. He hadn’t meant to. He had bowed to pray but soon found himself choking back tears. Seeing so many of his own men dead and wounded today -- after just seeing so many villagers dead on the side of the hill -- had shaken him as badly as anything. And still the Americans had gotten away.

At least they were about ninety-nine percent sure they were Americans now. The villagers had heard English as the truck raced through, and one of the men had been black. Another had a red beard.

With their escape clear, Rasool had found himself again left comforting the wounded. This time had been harder because, unlike the villagers that he hadn’t known, he had known every one of the men in the trucks of the pursuit force. The moans of the broken and the sight of the dead had brought back years and years of painful memories. Decades, really.

How much longer, Allah? How many more must die? How many more villages must be flattened? How many more fighters and leaders will die from a missile screaming down from the sky from an unseen drone.

Rasool wept until he could weep no more. He had hoped today would have brought a great victory, and yet somehow, it had brought one of his greatest defeats. Rasool had fought with his driver to get to the fight faster. Not for the reasons of sheer courage, but for the reasons of fatigue.

Rasool couldn’t bear to face more of his followers lying crippled or dead. Every death. Every wound. Each took some of his strength out of him.

Give me strength, Allah. Give me determination.

Rasool ended his prayers and sat up. He beheld the hill before him and several that rose beyond it. How beautiful they looked. How gorgeous, yet daunting. How steep and cold and rough.

It was the mountains and the history of the land that strengthened him when he couldn't feel the strength of Allah. Yes, he thought. We’ll win this fight as we’ve won with every other invader. The Americans are no stronger than Alexander the Great had been. Nor were they stronger than the British. Nor the Soviets.

We will win yet again, he told himself. We, these tough and poor people. We, these devout and religious followers of The Way. We, these steep and unbreakable mountains. We will prevail.

Rasool solemnly folded his prayer mat and placed it back in his satchel. He knew his fighters wouldn’t find the Americans who had skirted the Pakistani border checkpoint today. Clearly, they were gone.

But there would be tomorrow. Rasool Deraz felt the strength of pride fill his soul, and he used the walking stick to push to full height.

“Mujahideen,” he yelled as deep and strongly as he could, his voice not nearly as strong or deep as Mushahid’s.

Many of them popped up and looked toward him.

“Mujahideen, we will make them pay. They may have gotten away this time, but we will make them pay.”

A roar arose from his fighters as they lifted weapons and began to shout, “Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!”

Chapter 50

After a quick flight to Bagram Airfield, which was about as safe a place that existed in Afghanistan, the team had only a short time to wolf down some food before they began individual debriefings by S3 Intelligence Officers. The officers were technically straight-up CIA, but because of the secrecy of this particular operation, they were working under the S3 company name for additional protection.

As every veteran knows, debriefings are a huge pain in the ass. The only plus side, Nick figured, was that Ahmud al-Habshi was going through the same thing. Only rougher. On the bright side, it worked in al-Habshi’s favor that he didn’t seem to have much stock in the bravery department. Hopefully, the soft man would cave quickly.

But then again, Nick had learned not to assume weakness based only on superficial observations. A couple years back he’d met a man who had taught him a thing or two about mental toughness. Allen Green, the chain-smoking, veteran reporter for The New Yorker, had shown as much fearless courage as any knuckle-dragger Nick had ever met. And he had fought violence and danger with the forces of good, using transparency and the power of the media combined with truth to confound his opponents to no end.

Allen Green had also just about driven Nick to another level of insanity before ultimately becoming a trusted ally. And if Nick was ever willing to admit it, he might even have come to consider Allen as a friend.

The truth was that Ahmud al-Habshi acted and looked like a pathetic mess, but Nick was willing to bet (at least a small sum) that the man might be clever enough to be at least a little bit dangerous. After all, even cute, little baby sharks can take a good bite out of you. Not to mention that some sharks breeds have even been known to eat their siblings while still in the womb. But at least their soft, and potentially evil, baby problems were in the trusted hands of professionals.

For Nick and his team, it took four hours before they were finally released from their debriefings. Nick then instructed his men to get cleaned up, scrub down their gear, and get their asses straight to bed. There had been no arguments, not even from feisty little Red. Apparently several hours of reporting and CIA gibberish is all you need to suck the feeling of victory from a man’s soul and leave him begging for respite.

So while his team headed off to shower and sleep, Nick went to have his injury poked and prodded. The base medical staff had quickly looked it over and redressed the wound when he first arrived on the base. Thankfully, they had also confirmed that he wouldn’t need surgery.

But now as he sat waiting on the exam room table -- tired as shit, in pain, and thoroughly marinated in layers of man-funk no longer identifiable -- he began to wish that he’d thought to rip his whole damned shoulder off for a chance at some anesthesia.

He had been dozing, still in a sitting position, on the table when he finally heard a knock on the exam room door. Nick opened his eyes, lifting his head to greet the doctor, and suddenly wished he was dead.

Nick sat staring in utter horror as a very attractive female doctor walked into the room. She only looked at him for a second -- presumably to check and just make sure someone was in fact in the room -- as she appeared to be in the middle of making notes in a file of some sort.

“Just give me one moment, and I’ll be right with you,” she said, moving over to a raised counter to finish her notes.

She had actually finished in a matter of seconds, but it had been all the time Nick needed to thoroughly check her out. She looked to be in her late thirties, early forties. She had a natural shade of brown hair that was cut just long enough to put up into a short … “ponytail,” Nick believed it was called.

She was average height with what appeared to be a healthy overall physique. But if Nick was honest, the first thing he’d noticed (as probably every male she’d ever met had) was that her bustline was not at all average. Let’s face it, scrubs aren’t really designed to show off the human body that much.

So while Nick couldn’t trace all of her curves from here, it was very easy to see that she had a rack, plus some. Unfortunately, all that information did was give Nick a reason to become real insecure and frustrated.

When the doctor had finished with the file, she left it on the counter and turned to face him. Oh crap, thought Nick as she gave him one of those genuinely gorgeous and radiant smiles. It was the kind of smile that people talk about being able to light up a room, the kind of smile that could instantly make the worst day of your life feel manageable, maybe even conquerable so long as she was there beside you.

But for Nick, all that smile did was instantly turn his frustration into anger. He didn’t want this woman, let alone any woman for that matter, looking at or touching him while he was this gross and weak and hurt.

The truth was that Nick didn’t have all that much experience with women, even on a general basis. Sure, he’d charmed a few girls here and there when he’d been younger. But even in those days, he’d never collected near the amount of stories his buddies had. Nick had always just figured that he was just a one woman kind of guy. And up until a few years ago, he’d thought that he’d be spending the rest of his life with his wife, Anne.

But now after losing Anne several years ago, the only other woman he’d even thought about had been Isabella, who he’d met a year ago on a job in Mexico.

And even with Isabella, it had been about more than just having a little fun. Nick’s attraction to Isabella had been immediate on the physical side of things, but he’d found that his real desire for her had grown as he’d gotten to know her, to respect her even. Now, maybe that was the way things were supposed to work, but it had been a long time since Nick had been in that kind of situation.

Nick was sure that most of his men thought he had gotten with Isabella because, well, she let him. Also, because she was drop-dead gorgeous. And God knows she was, she was possibly the most beautiful woman Nick had ever seen in real life. However, both Nick and Isabella knew that those moments together had been something special. Though it hadn’t been anything serious either, but it also hadn’t been just “banging,” as they say.

The overall point was that he felt a little lost on the concept of women, and Nick Woods was not the kind of guy that liked to feel lost or confused by anything. And he most certainly didn’t like being surprised. Now here before him stood a surprise that he was without a doubt not ready for, and frankly, that just pissed him off.

Nick saw her react to his scowl. She seemed slightly surprised, but only for a second. And then she recovered well.

“Listen, lady,” he said. “Whatever ray of sunshine crap you’re about to blow up my ass, trying to make me feel better, well, I just don’t have time for it. Alright?”

Her smile barely wavered. The only change, if anything, was a mischievous twinkle suddenly sparkling in her bright brown eyes.

“Well, I have to tell you, Mr. Woods, that’s actually a huge relief. Because as it just so happens, I spent the last little bit of sunshine I had left on my last patient. And to be honest, I consider my time to be quite precious, as well.”

Then she just stood there smiling at him, her hands clasped together in front of her. There was a challenge in that look, daring him to go ahead and take another shot. Apparently this woman was more than prepared for whatever crotchety card she got dealt. But having no good retort on hand, Nick settled for rolling his eyes and grunting.

“Well, now that pleasantries are out of the way,” she said, still smiling, “how about we take a look at that shoulder now?”

He didn’t say anything, didn’t even look at her.

“Good,” she replied, picking up a tray of instruments and other medical paraphernalia, and dragged a stool over toward the table. Snapping on a pair of gloves, she then stood still beside him giving him an expectant look.

“What?” he snarled, hating the feeling of being forced to look at her.

“Well, Mr. Woods. It’s your shirt,” she said.

Nick just sat there with a stupid look on his face too flustered to decipher her code.

Luckily, she was more than happy to help him out. “See, it appears to be blocking my access to the wound. I assumed that, given your inspired, can-do attitude, you’d prefer to remove it yourself. Yes?”

Nick growled again. His irritation getting the better of him as he quickly, and not at all gently, tore off the shirt. The wound on his shoulder howled, and Nick wanted to kick his own ass for the audible groan of pain he allowed to escape.

Thankfully the lady doctor didn’t comment or call him on it. She simply honed her focus onto the wound and became all but oblivious to Nick. She carefully cleaned the injury, inspecting it for any potential problems.

When it came time to stitch him up, she ended up beside him, sitting on the table facing him so that she could attack the wound from the side. She kept one foot lightly set on the floor with her other knee bent and butterflied out on the table, bearing most of her weight. When she had settled, she had then reached across him and delicately grabbed his uninjured shoulder trying to angle him so she could get a better view to start her stitch. Nick had resisted for a moment not realizing her intention, but obliged when he saw the focused, non-combative expression on her face. She’s just doing her job, Nick reminded himself.

Nick tried desperately to stay calm, knowing it would be both easier for her and him to get through the sewing process if he was relaxed. But he couldn’t help but stiffen every time one of her breasts brushed or lightly pressed up against his arm. Not to mention the intoxicating scent of her shampoo she kept forcing him to inhale. He knew better than to think any of it was intentional, but with his present mood came a limited perspective, and he petulantly blamed her for every single slip.

Despite it feeling like hours to Nick, the doctor had finished stitching and patching him up in less than five minutes. She stood, removing the instruments and bloodstained debris while dutifully rattling off instructions of when and how to replace his bandages, what changes to watch for, and more medical details. Nick, both physically and emotionally spent, simply nodded, his eyes on the floor refusing to look at her.

In the midst of her final remarks, she informed him that, as he was significantly dehydrated, he was also to be fitted with an IV before bed. And instantly upon hearing that news, Nick was able to scrounge up the little bit of fight still left in him.

“Now look here, lady. I don’t need no damned IV!” he barked “Can’t you tell that I’m tired of being picked at and bothered today? And you, you come in here trying to get me to drool all over myself, acting like everything is damned rainbows and ponies. Well, get over yourself, sweetheart!”

Nick had no idea how long he’d ranted for, nor did he honestly remember a great deal of what he’d even said to her. The information had practically vanished from his head the second after it left his mouth, or more likely the information hadn’t passed much through his head at all. All evidence pointed at the latter because he’d finally looked up to find the doctor’s brown eyes burning into him, her face devoid of any humor. It looked like the doctor’s professionalism had held, but just barely.

She briefly let her eyes flutter to a close, before immediately snapping them back open. “You’re all set to go, Mr. Woods,” she said now appearing serious as a heart attack. “Medical staff will find you later for your IV. If you have any problems, please let someone from the medical staff know. Have a pleasant rest, Mr. Woods.”

She then smartly turned on her heel and headed for the door. Nick continued to watch her as she snatched up the file she’d come in with and reached for the door.

“Oh and Mr. Woods,” she said suddenly, releasing her grasp from the door handle and turning back around to face him. “While proctology may not be my specialty, it’s fairly obvious that, sunshine or otherwise, the attempt to blow anything else up your ass would not only be impossible, but it would also be of no benefit to anyone.”

And with that, she turned and left the room.

Chapter 51

Nick had intended to storm out of the base hospital mad as hell. But the presence of several blisters on his feet, which he hadn’t actually noticed until now, demanded that his stomp be downgraded into more of a pathetic shuffle with a limp.

It was more than just the blisters and the fatigue, though. Nick didn’t fully understand what had happened back with the doctor. He knew that he had been an inexcusable jerk, and deep down he was slightly ashamed of his behavior. But at the same time, from the moment she’d walked into the room, he’d felt like she was somehow manipulating him. He’d felt vulnerable and stupid, ultimately like he was the victim of some cruel joke.

He didn’t know how or why, but some instinctive defense mechanism had been tripped. And sure it didn’t make any damned sense, but Nick honestly just wasn’t in the mood for an emotional riddle right now.

So Nick trudged back to his room, determined to shut his mind off and enjoy a much needed shower, as well as the clean, air-conditioned room that awaited him.

Nick sat on his bed, his body now showered and very much ready to slip into a deep, long sleep. But as so very often happened whenever Nick finally found calm and quiet, his mind refused to get on board with the concept.

Knowing the drill, Nick figured he might as well put his hands to use while his brain ran its course. So he stretched out to grab his nearby Dragunov rifle and give it a quick cleaning.

His mind started off by replaying the past eleven days and nights. The miles and miles of walking. The attack by the villagers on the side of the hill. The night assault on al-Habshi’s compound. And as the movie reel raced through his mind, various frames stood out. Men he’d shot. The sight picture just prior to the rifle firing. The bodies he’d seen afterward, frozen in grotesque positions.

Those wouldn’t be going away for a while. But, it wasn’t just the memories of the past mission that had Nick’s mind racing. He and his men had endured the day-after-day march through hell not for Ahmud al-Habshi, but for Rasool Deraz.

And now only Deraz occupied his mind. The man propped up the entire infrastructure of the Taliban, and in truth, he affected and inspired more than just the Taliban and its supporters. Probably three-quarters of those opposing the government of Afghanistan -- villagers, town leaders, and drug runners -- followed the lead of Deraz. The revered leader pushed, prodded, and rallied the entire resistance movement.

And it was crucial that the men of Shield, Safeguard, and Shelter end the man’s reign. Nick wondered what the wizened leader was doing now. Probably not sitting on his duff over-analyzing everything, Nick thought. He focused on the Dragunov he was cleaning. It had served him well, but he looked forward to stowing it away for good and going back to his American-made M4, which he was far more comfortable with. Or he’d be carrying his bigger caliber M14 if the range warranted.

As Nick worked his brush on the Soviet-made sniper rifle, his mind wandered from Deraz and the thoughts of combat. In the comfort of his safe room, his thoughts ultimately drifted back to the events earlier with the doctor. His brain tried numerous times to replay the scene and force him to reconsider his opinion of her by highlighting her many positive traits, both physical and nonphysical. But mostly the physical traits, because, like most men, his brain was a back-stabbing pervert. So Nick repeatedly shut the memory down until it stopped playing altogether and all that remained was a raw and ragged anger.

Pretty or not, Nick would not waste one more thought on her or what had happened. He had work to do, and it didn’t matter if she, or anyone else for that matter, thought he was an asshole. Besides, being an asshole was what he was good at. And it was probably one of the characteristics that made him so damned good at his job. Point blank and period, Nick was what he was. Everybody else would just have to get over it.

And so with his identity secure and his mind thoroughly exhausted from its spinning, Nick set aside his rifle and climbed beneath the sheets. The last thought that passed through his head was that of reassurance: Once this is all over, he thought, at least he would never, ever have to see that woman again.

Chapter 52

Nick slept hard for fourteen hours. His exhaustion kept his nightmares mostly at a distance, and he awoke only a couple of times with a start and soaked in sweat.

Ignoring even the wound on his shoulder, Nick hurt all over. His feet were a mangled mess of bloody blisters, hot spots, and cracked skin. His back felt as if he’d been run over, and a crushing headache topped it off. He shook his head and realized the headache was from dehydration.

Oh, yeah, he thought somewhat regrettably, as he remembered the poor orderly who came to give him his IV. Nick had chased him out of his room and then a good bit down the hall too. The terrified man had bolted so suddenly that he’d ran right into the rolling IV stand and knocked it over. And instead of stopping to stand it back up, the desperate bastard just kept running, leaving the IV stand, bag and all, to drag behind him like an anchor.

Nick dragged himself from the cot and reached for his canteen. He guzzled about half of it, let the water settle in his stomach, then swallowed down the rest of it. Just like boot camp, he thought, where screaming drill instructors forced frightened recruits to gulp down an entire canteen at a time.

He reached for his shower kit and towel, heading for the bathroom. No question about it, he felt like shit and figured it might take three days for him and his team to get ready to go back out.

It actually took four days for him and his team to fully recover, but by day three, still lethargic, sore, and slow, the four members who took part in the deep mission into Pakistan trudged out to the range with the rest of S3’s Primary Strike Team. The Primary Strike Team was a squad of the most elite and veteran roster of shooters in S3.

Everyone in S3 wanted to be on the Primary Strike Team, but it was highly competitive and difficult to land a spot on the squad. The Primary Strike Team had six members on it, same as the other squads in S3, but it handled the most dangerous missions, breaches, raids, etc.

Nick and the Primary Strike Team fired five hundred rounds through their rifles and two hundred and fifty through their pistols. Nick participated, but avoided the quick reload drills. He needed to take it easy so he wouldn’t reopen his wound.

He avoided re-injuring it but ended the day disappointed with what he had seen. Despite being some of the most skilled shooters in the world, Nick could see the target groups of his three shooters who had gone on the deep-strike mission were more ragged than usual. And morale looked rough.

Red wasn’t talking shit. Truck wasn’t bitching. Marcus wasn’t motivating.

Frankly, Nick felt like hell, too. On the bright side, his other two Primary Strike Team members looked sharp. Bullet holes lay centered and tight throughout their targets.

“Nice job, Lana and Preacher,” Nick said, nodding to both of them.

His command had grown from its time in Mexico. These days, S3 had five squads of six. There was the Primary Strike Team, three supporting squads, and a sniper squad, which had three teams of two scout snipers.

Five squads of badasses. Plus, additional personnel who handled security, logistics, and intel.

The original Primary Strike Team in Mexico had lost a SEAL who went by the name of Bulldog. He had been wounded too badly in Mexico to remain on the team. And Lizard, the quiet Puerto Rican Marine, had died from a gunshot wound to the neck. That left only Nick, Marcus, Red, Truck, and Preacher, who had recovered nicely from his combat wound in Mexico.

Preacher was the most religious man on Nick’s team. His parents had been missionaries, and the 5’10” man had felt “called” to join the Marines. Nick didn’t know about being called, but Preacher had done four hard tours, two of them with MARSOC.

One man short of the six needed for the Primary Strike Team, Nick and Marcus selected an unexpected candidate to fill the final roster spot. They looked past some incredible options who were men -- Navy SEALs, Delta, Marines -- and picked a woman. And not just a woman, but also a Muslim. She was college educated, to boot, making her the only college educated member on the team. (Nick and Marcus weren’t real keen on bringing in some know-it-all prior officer.)

But Lana Haider defied about every standard Nick held prior to meeting her. He had gone into the selection, which included physical tryouts and shooting contests, wanting a knuckle-dragging shooter. But it didn’t take long to focus on Lana, one of only two women to make the final twenty prospects.

Marcus had argued prior to the tryouts that a woman would aid S3 in its undercover work, especially in the area of surveillance. Nick agreed, but made clear he wouldn’t lower the standard simply to make it happen.

He hadn’t needed to with Lana.

She shot well. Certainly not as good as some of the best from Delta and the SEALs, who worked on it daily for hours. But Lana brought a ton to the table that the Delta, SEALs, and Marine shooters didn’t bring.

Lana had been born in Saudi Arabia. And like most young girls, she was raised under a father who was a strict disciplinarian and ardent believer of Islam. He also frequently abused her mother. Unbeknownst to him, his wife worked hard behind the scenes as part of a movement to grant women more rights in Saudi Arabia, including the right to drive.

Unfortunately, Lana’s mother was eventually discovered, so she fled to America with her daughter to seek asylum. Lana was raised in America from the age of eleven. Following in the footsteps of her mother’s perseverance and drive, Lana received an abundance of scholarships, and after attending the finest private schools, she graduated with honors from Harvard.

She mastered several languages used mostly by Muslim fanatics -- no accident -- and made it her life-long mission to fight the radicals perverting the religion of Islam.

After school, she did a stint with the CIA as an analyst before convincing them to put her in the field. Her background in basketball and volleyball as an athlete growing up had conditioned her body and toughened her for the training she endured, all of which she accepted without complaint.

She thrived in fieldwork for the CIA but rebelled with the rest of it all. The bureaucracy. The politics. The paperwork. The lack of trust and routine polygraphs.

Consequently, when word spread among those in the know about a new group called S3, she inquired further. Once she confirmed it was a legit organization doing serious work for the CIA, she pursued joining the group with an admirable tenacity. And this was even prior to the openings that occurred following the nasty fighting in Mexico.

But it wasn’t until Nick and Marcus saw her in action that they pushed her to the head of the line. That seemed like so long ago, but only a few months had passed. The eleven-day long mission had wrecked Nick’s sense of time.

He helped his Primary Strike Team pick up their brass after they finished shooting. Once they were done, he called them into a huddle.

“Guys, I’m not saying anything you don’t already know, but we looked like hell out here today,” Nick said, specifically looking at Marcus, Red, and Truck. “Thankfully, Lana and Preacher showed us how it’s supposed to be done, but we need to get our shit together. And fast.”

Nick removed his helmet and adjusted his heavy armor to remove some pressure off his shoulder.

“Marcus, you heard anything from intel?”

“They’re saying it’ll be a couple more days before they have anything off of al-Habshi’s computer,” he said.

“We clearly need it,” Nick said, a bit relieved. “And while we’ll have some free time in the next couple of days, let’s not get crazy. Red, no fighting. Truck, take it easy on the beer.”

Both men grinned at each other.

“Let’s go get some damn chow,” Nick said, and the group walked back toward their rooms.

Chapter 53

While the Primary Strike Team of Shield, Safeguard, and Shelter recharged and primed themselves for the next mission, a team of analysts dove into the treasure trove of equipment brought back from the mission into Pakistan. These men and women were non-S3 members, and Nick and Marcus were glad they didn’t have to oversee this part of the operation.

The CIA had deployed several technology specialists and IT experts to Bagram Airfield after Nick and his team pushed off for Pakistan. The thinking behind the move was that if, by some near-miracle, the team pulled off their mission, the intelligence gathered would be absolutely time critical.

The Taliban would quickly learn that loads of valuable information had been seized, and they wouldn’t hesitate to relocate key leaders, munitions, and safe houses. Consequently, the analysts were completely prepared to tear into the computer and servers the moment they arrived at Bagram Airfield.

A special room had been built that had several additional generators for increased electrical capacity, and the computer team had brought in more than two hundred pounds of various computer parts (older and newer), as well as wiring configurations. No one knew whether the Taliban was using ratty computers ten or twenty years old, or brand-new, top-of-the-line equipment. And the IT specialists wanted to be prepared for either option without any delay of trying to track down some hard-to-find part in Afghanistan.

Having to wait for some special part to be flown in from America or China wasn’t an option, so they had spent hours and hours debating what all should be brought as they prepped and packed for the mission. It turned out the equipment was modern and in pretty fair condition, giving the jostling it had received and a couple of bullet impacts. The impacts were to non-critical areas, so quite quickly the team had a data link set up by satellite to load thousands and thousands worth of terabytes to language and cultural experts waiting back at Langley, Virginia.

Additional translators from the Department of Defense had been brought in, and the intel was torn into with a ferocity not seen since the post 9/11 frenzy following its aftermath. The analysts focused primarily on emails and documents, setting aside videos (and non-published videos) for later. Tracking down new faces and locations recorded on these video clips would take place after the initial urgency ended.

And while all this work took place, Nick and the Primary Strike Team rested, began running again, and practiced their shooting skills and immediate action drills. S3 would be ready to rock and roll once the word arrived on where to strike next.

Chapter 54

Deep in the recently renovated tech room, the CIA analysts scored their first real find on the same day that Nick’s Primary Strike Team put forward a lackluster day on the range. The analysts discovered from the servers an email about an upcoming supply convoy, which appeared to be scheduled for only three days away.

The analysts searched further back in the archives for additional messages related to it and stumbled upon supplemental clues and data that provided a fuller picture. It turned out that the truck convoy was a regular occurrence, taking place each month. Supplies came out of Pakistan and were delivered at a number of stops throughout Afghanistan.

The motorcade shipped into the country badly-needed RPG and recoilless rifle rounds, as well as huge amounts of currency. RPG and recoilless rifle rounds were hard to come by in Afghanistan, and money wasn’t much easier. The country was so poor that even a well-structured organization like the Taliban, which taxed and preyed on the people for “gifts,” struggled to accumulate financial resources.

The crucial weapon deliveries brought the Taliban goodwill and allegiance from the tribal leaders throughout the country. In a country where even poor, eleven-year-old boys carried assault rifles, the RPGs and recoilless rifles were difference makers. They brought power to whichever tribal warlord wielded them. In addition, the weaponry resupplied various commanders of their organization. Once in the hands of Taliban chieftains, the currency worked its way down as payment to fighters and bribes to informants.

Past emails revealed the monthly convoys ranged in size from three to four trucks, with between ten to fifteen fighters providing protection. Best of all, the analysts had been able to determine the route the convoy used by tracing messages between the Taliban and various villages the convoy stopped in along its course.

Now, S3 had a target, a date, and a route.

The team needed to pick the best ambush location and time of day to strike. Nick called the Primary Strike Team together to assemble in the briefing room.

Nick glanced down at his watch and saw it was time for the meeting to start, but Marcus wasn’t there yet.

“Let’s wait a few minutes,” Nick said to the Primary Strike Team members. “Marcus is checking in with the analysts one final time for any new intel they may have discovered before we pull together our plans.”

While the team waited, the usual banter broke out. Nick kept to himself at the front of the room, while Red and Truck argued about football. Red wouldn’t shut up about Ohio State while Truck went on and on about his home state's team, the Texas Longhorns.

Lana and Preacher were bent over a map, studying a few possible ambush locations. The delay from Marcus returning with the information was taking longer than expected, and Nick found his mind drifting. Drifting to a moment that would happen after the mission was finished.

Smith, the high-level CIA official whose real name Nick didn’t even know, and who truly was in charge of S3, had promised Nick that when S3 completed its mission in Afghanistan, he’d give Nick the name behind the CIA unit that had gone off the rails and led to the death of his wife, Anne. Nick and his reporter friend, Allen Green, had killed the lower-level leader of the group -- a man named Whitaker.

But the true leader behind the rogue CIA group had never paid for his crimes. Nick and Allen had accepted a deal from the man and ended their search upon facing imminent death from a drone strike and troops in helicopters waiting to pounce.

Nick recalled word-for-word the conversation he’d had with his boss prior to their departure to Afghanistan.

“How do I know you’re telling me the truth about who’s behind this?” Nick asked. “What keeps you from using me to take down the wrong person? Just some enemy of yours?”

“Logic,” Smith said. “When I tell you the name, you’ll know he’s the only possible person who could have been behind it.”

Nick had held the phone and chewed on that. He still had never met in person with Smith, or Mr. Smith, as Nick had jokingly referred to him the first time they talked.

“Why can’t I do it before we pack up and leave?” Nick asked. “I want this man bad.”

“Because the man is well guarded, and there’s not the time to do it right. We need your unit in Afghanistan pronto before Deraz topples the government there.”

Nick pondered that answer but decided to push back.

“You underestimate me. I can get him. Plus, I have a great team around me. We’ve got time.”

“No,” Smith said. “You don’t have near enough time. He’s guarded by Secret Service agents, and we can’t have a bloodbath. It’ll really need to be planned.”

Nick paused. He wanted to push hard, be a total demanding asshole, but he also knew Smith was his only way of getting to the man. Plus, Smith was his boss and kept him doing what he loved more than anything else in the world. But their relationship was complicated and often nasty.

Taking a deep breath, Nick calmed himself down and said, “How do I know you’re not just stringing me along? That after we go to Afghanistan, you won’t delay again afterward. Make up some other reason why I can’t get him.”

“Again, logic,” Smith replied. “The man has become too big a thorn in the CIA’s side, so it’s time for him to pay for all his dozens of misdeeds.”

“Sounds a little convenient,” Nick grunted.

“It is.”

“And if I get killed over in Afghanistan, trying to take down this Rasool Deraz feller?”

“We’ll get someone else.”

Nick realized he was the perfect man to take down this public official. If Nick died trying or was captured, the CIA wouldn’t mind a “war vet gone mad” headline in the paper. And the press would quickly discover the death of Anne. They would immediately cite it as the reason for Nick’s actions.

“Just tell me his name,” Nick said. “Tell me his name before I go over there so I can have something to look forward to.”

There was a brief pause, then Smith broke the silence.

“Senator Ray Gooden.”

The moment he said it, Nick knew it had to be the man. The Texas Senator had been around for almost forty years. And he’d chaired the Armed Forces Committee for nearly two decades, as well. He was perfectly positioned to have led the off-the-books group.

More to the point, Nick wasn’t a huge follower of political news, but you didn’t have to be to know Senator Gooden was always under investigation for something. Not to mention he had a serious black mark on his record following the mysterious death of a democratic opponent. The opponent had been more than twelve points ahead in every poll with the election just two days away when his plane crashed soon after takeoff following yet another successful fundraiser. An investigation found faulty wiring, which oddly had not been found in a preflight inspection conducted two hours prior to taking off.

During that campaign, four major newspapers had endorsed his opponent. Since then, the number had continued to rise, regardless of the opponent. Senator Gooden was hated. By the press. By his opponents. By the majority of the people across the country, except for in Texas.

And yet he kept getting elected. Everyone knew how dirty he was. He had taken illegal campaign contributions. He had been investigated twice by the Senate Ethics Committee for conflict of interest. But, with every opponent since candidate Bob Kile, who died with his wife, four aides, and two pilots in the fiery crash just outside of Houston, Gooden had easily been re-elected.

The man’s tactics were as brilliant as they were barbarous. Nude pictures of daughters or wives of rivals leaked to media outlets and bloggers. Strange investigations by the IRS were launched. Unexplained endorsements for the Republican Gooden would emerge from Democrats who had spoken poorly of him just weeks before.

Gooden was old school politics, and he believed a little dirt and leverage could win any political battle. To date, he’d been right.

But now Nick had him in his sights.

Nick remembered not overplaying his hand or showing how big a deal it was to discover Gooden’s name. Instead, Nick merely thanked Smith for the information, ended the call, and then immediately prepared contingency plans for Gooden in case Nick was killed in Afghanistan.

Nick relayed the name to Marcus and famed reporter, Allen Green, who had publicized Nick’s story of being sold out a few years earlier. Through a ton of hard work that spanned literally years, Allen had pieced together the full story of how Nick and another Marine Scout Sniper had operated on top secret missions in Afghanistan against the Soviets in the ’80s. After the story had broken, the two had been forced to go on the run. And in those weeks that followed, they had become good friends.

Nick informed Marcus and Allen in person so that no trace of Senator Gooden’s name would be found on either audio or written means by the NSA. Allen assured Nick that if something happened to both Nick and Marcus while they were in Afghanistan, he would expose Senator Gooden and take him down through the media.

Nick remembered the brilliant mind of Allen, as he had used everything from websites to former news contacts to break down the undercover CIA wing run by Senator Gooden and a man named Whitaker. Allen practiced a different kind of warfare. One in which the power of the internet and media was harnessed. But he also remembered the anti-gun, anti-violence man using an MP-5 to help finish off Whitaker, saving Nick’s life in the process.

Nick was confident that Allen would follow through with Gooden, just as he was confident Marcus would, as well, should Nick go down in a blaze of glory.

A door slammed shut and broke Nick from his thoughts. Marcus walked toward him with a file folder and a legal pad covered in scribbled notes.

“I’ve got the latest intel,” he said. “And it’s not all good.”

Chapter 55

The unit made its plans for the ambush, rehearsed its actions, and rested with what time remained. And at dawn of the morning the convoy was expected to arrive, the members of S3 waited in concealed positions. And they waited some more.

This was the part that sucked most about ambushes. Just waiting and waiting. And as the morning sun crept higher and burned brighter, the suck factor escalated quickly.

Unlike most, Nick didn’t mind the waiting. Laying perfectly still had saved his skin too many times to count. He ran his hand along the dust and gravel, picking up a small piece of dirt between two fingers and crushing it, a growing habit of his when waiting. He returned his gaze to the route below them and thought back to the time he’d outwaited a counter sniper in the woods of Camp Lejeune, North Carolina.

Yeah, being patient and learning to wait was definitely a skill worth keeping sharp. And on the bright side, at least they were in American uniforms again and carried what they preferred, including tactical gloves, CamelBaks, and knee pads, for those who liked them.

Finally, four hours later than expected, the “dawn” convoy showed up just a bit before lunch. Four trucks eased their way down a rocky, dirt road, which cut through a valley flanked by long ridges on both sides. No civilization existed in either direction for better than five miles. This was Taliban country, and the men bouncing about in the trucks appeared relaxed.

Nick pressed a push-to-talk button on the front of his gear and whispered into his throat mike.

“This has to be them. Government troops, even local police from the nearest village, would be nervous as hell this deep in enemy territory.”

A sniper team came on the net.

“We confirm weapons in the back. Break. Thirteen men visible. Break. Light weapons. No heavy machine guns present, over.”

“Roger,” Nick said.

S3 was deployed in a classic L-shaped ambush formation. Above the road, the six members of Nick’s Primary Strike Team lay in hiding. They waited in a horizontal line, paralleling the road. To the front of the ambush site, the six members of 1st Squad concealed themselves. They formed the short part of the L-shape, intersecting the road. They had equipped themselves with two M240 medium machine guns, which sat on tripods and were placed low near the road for maximum coverage. They’d be firing knee-high along the ground, their two beaten zones overlapping in an “X” approximately where Nick wanted to spring the ambush.

Adding to this destruction were two sniper teams perfectly hidden on high ground of their choosing. The thirteen Taliban didn’t stand a chance against the six shooters on the hill from the Primary Strike Team, the six shooters to the enemy’s direct front, and the two sniper teams who never missed.

Fourteen Americans in near-perfect positions against thirteen men riding in the open. Worse, thirteen men who were overconfident, tightly compacted, and about to be surprised on their “home” turf.

Nick liked the odds, but he’d stacked them further in his favor by having 2nd Squad on the hill behind them. That would keep anyone from walking up on the Primary Strike Team with their backs turned. Additionally, 2nd Squad’s six men were prepared to come over the hill and assist if any unexpected Taliban reinforcements arrived.

And if things got incomprehensibly ugly, 3rd Squad sat a half-mile up the road guarding all their vehicles. But they could always leave a man on site and deploy down the hill as an additional reserve element. Nick slowly eased his scoped M14 and watched the convoy cover its final distance.

The men in the trucks weren’t even looking up at the hills. They were that confident. It’s been awhile since they’ve had much to fear, Nick thought.

The vehicles entered the kill zone, and Nick pressed his mic button, “Contact. Contact. Contact.”

A single sniper shot cracked the silence, followed by a fusillade of M240 machine gun and M4 rifle fire. Nick hoped that first shot had been one of the sniper teams taking out the front driver. The most important thing was stopping the first truck, to keep them from driving through the ambush site.

Nick noticed with glee that probably three-quarters of the ambushers were focusing their fire on the front truck. Nick centered his scope on the front truck’s cab and saw that the two men in it had been riddled with bullets. He decided to avoid taking any chances and quickly fired once into the passenger and driver. At barely two hundred yards, both were easy shots.

As the truck rolled off what passed for a road, it slammed to a halt in a ditch, its bumper crumpling against a massive boulder.

Nick shifted the scope left into the bed of the truck and saw a man springing into action, trying to stand and bring his AK to bear against the massive machine-gun fire coming up the road from the two M240s in 1st Squad. Since Nick was shooting laterally from up the hill, he aimed at the man’s shoulder and pulled the trigger.

The M14 bucked, the man dropped. At such close distance, Nick wouldn’t be missing today. Nothing else moved in truck one, but fighters were scrambling out of truck two. The Taliban planned to fight their way out of this, it seemed. Not a terrible strategy in most cases.

Nick followed a bearded man running forward, waited for him to stop behind a rock, and put a 7.62 round through his head. Nick tracked the next man through his scope, but the young man stumbled and landed hard from someone else’s bullet before Nick could pull the trigger. Nick put a round into the man’s prostrate body, but it was probably unnecessary. Someone had hit him hard.

Systematic, well-aimed shots continued from the Primary Strike Team, while the M240s continued to roar in a talking guns manner -- left machine gun, pause, right machine gun, pause, no different than if they were practicing on the range. Nick scanned his sector for targets but saw none. He looked up from his M14 and observed that all four trucks were shot up. Bodies lay slumped, piled, and broken throughout the ambush site.

It was a little surprising with how fast all their targets had been dispatched. Nick pulled his weapon down and keyed his mike, “1st Squad, cease fire.”

As the machine guns from 1st Squad stopped firing, Nick stood and saw his Primary Strike Team members standing, weapons at the ready and aimed on the kill zone.

“Snipers,” Nick said into his radio, “keep your eyes peeled for reinforcements. We’re going in.”

Nick hand-signaled the Primary Strike Team forward. They’d clear the ambush site, stack the RPG munitions, and blow them in place. They’d hang onto the currency for S3’s use in future operations since turning it over to the Afghan government would only lead to it lining someone’s pockets.

Chapter 56

Nick’s Primary Strike Team, the other three squads of six, and his six man sniper squad pulled back into Bagram Airfield following the mission. S3 was renting massive MRAPs, or Mine Resistant Ambush Protected trucks, from the Afghan government. These vehicles featured a v-shaped bottom to protect troops from IEDs and mines.

Marcus had worked out a lease for enough MRAPs to transport all four of S3’s squads, plus an additional four vehicles to replace any that broke down or became damaged.

Just the thought of the sixty thousand dollar lease made Nick sick to his stomach. He hated how big S3 had already grown. The unit was now just shy of a hundred men, with only twenty four of those folks being actual shooters on active squads.

The management and coordination of S3 had become a nightmare before the group even deployed, so Nick and Marcus brought on Dean, a logistics expert to combat this. They promptly put him in charge of dealing with supplies and organization -- the beans, the bullets, and the Band-Aids.

S3 also now had its own internal security element. Nick and Marcus had learned in Mexico that having no additional security meant one of the squads was constantly on duty, something that cut down the sharp edge of these units since guard duty was boring and tiresome. Worse, it affected operating tempo, since squads lost time that could be spent training or resting -- or even operating.

Nick wanted four squads of trigger-pullers ready to go at any time, so S3 had grown even larger and hired additional shooters to serve as its own internal security element. It, too, had a leader in charge of it -- an expert in physical security who was a former Marine Staff Sergeant that had helped protect several embassies around the world.

Nick didn’t like how big S3 had grown, but he appreciated the fact that he and Marcus could focus solely on going after bad guys without having to worry about trucks needing maintenance or if the perimeter was secure.

Once back inside the perimeter of Bagram Airfield, the convoy of MRAPs pulled to a nearly abandoned part of the base. This area had also been leased by S3, and around the small installation, the team’s security expert had built their own fortifications: HESCO earth-filled defensive barriers, loads of concertina wire, and anti-vehicle barriers, not to mention cameras, optics, and defensive towers.

It might have been overkill since the base had its own defenses, but Nick didn’t want an internal attack from Taliban infiltrators. The Taliban regularly infiltrated the Afghan army, as well as placed fighters inside the large number of local manual laborers. These workers had almost free rein over the base while the Afghan soldiers were armed for bear in full-fighting gear. Already more than one hundred and fifty Americans had been killed by insurgents who had infiltrated the ranks of the Afghan army.

The trucks halted outside the S3 perimeter. A member of the security force removed the anti-vehicle barrier and waved the MRAPs into the smaller perimeter.

The squads dismounted, and everyone felt tired, as was always the case after a mission. Unfortunately, there was a lot to be done. The MRAPs needed to be refueled and have basic maintenance done on them. The squads needed to be debriefed. Marcus needed to check in again with the CIA analysts digging into Ahmud al-Habshi’s computers while Nick checked in with the intel experts on the latest moves made by Rasool Deraz and the Taliban.

And at some point, they’d need to find time to shower, eat, and rest up before they went out again. Just another lovely day in Afghanistan, Nick thought. And it was a pattern hundreds of thousands of Americans had gone through and mastered on deployments lasting up to a year or longer in this harsh country.

Chapter 57

Rasool Deraz felt a deep sense of foreboding. A fear that left him feeling sick to his stomach. He and his main security man and confidant, Mushahid Zubaida, had been enraged by the raid into Pakistan.

They had felt personally insulted that four men had brazenly entered their sanctuary and executed a raid on one of their compounds. It was scary enough that the Americans had known which compound to hit but even scarier that so much had been taken from their outpost. The stolen computers had given them great concern, specifically because they had no idea what all might have been on them.

Neither Rasool nor Mushahid had ever even used a computer -- Rasool too old to want to learn, and Mushahid having lived the life of a Mujahideen fighter in Afghanistan, a place where electricity was mostly non-existent in the countryside. And since the Taliban’s primary computer expert had been snatched, as well, it wasn’t like they could ask him what was on the computers.

And so Rasool and Mushahid had been extremely worried about the new developments. Both the unprecedented deep strike into Pakistan, which had required them to beef up security along the borders, and the intel they had lost presumably to Americans.

Still brooding on the developments several days after the raid, Rasool had said to Mushahid, “We need to move our timelines up.”

“Agreed,” Mushahid replied.

Mushahid preferred aggressiveness over timidity anyway, so it wasn’t a tough decision for him. Rasool, on the other hand, was a patient and cautious man. His prudence was about the only way a male fighter ever made it to old age in Afghanistan.

Back when the Americans first invaded, Rasool had been content to be composed and even-tempered as he had fought the Americans. It was the same strategy his elders had employed when they led him against the Soviets. Small hit and runs. No major offensives. Use IEDs and ambushes. Never get pinned down. Keep your forces dispersed. Win over the people, and spread misinformation and fear.

But clearly something had changed. Perhaps with so much pressure on the Afghan government, they had asked for more help from the Americans. In some ways, that was good. It was harder to get the Afghan people to fight the government when it was composed of (and controlled by) Afghans who were known and respected. However, the Americans brought almost unprecedented competence with them.

The recent battle between the villagers and the Americans on the hill, as well as the vehicle battle that occurred near the border was evidence enough of that. And clearly, not only had the Afghan government brought back in some Americans, they had taken the leash off this unit. Perhaps it was a CIA group? Or maybe some of their Delta Force or SEALs?

Rasool had read about each of the groups, looking for an edge against them. Whoever it was, he didn’t really care. But he needed to deal with this new wrinkle before the group pulled apart his organization piece by piece, no thanks to all the information that was probably stored on Ahmud’s computer.

Rasool and Mushahid plotted and planned over an entire day, interrupting their plans only with meals and prayers. In the end, they came up with a three-part plan that would not only deal with the new unit but would also once and for all finally topple the Afghan government.

Chapter 58

The day after the ambush on the Taliban convoy, Nick and Marcus scheduled a full-on training day. The four squads of S3 were to rotate between four training stations. At one station, they’d work on hand-to-hand combat. At another, a circuit course with weights. At another, a weapons range. And finally, a fire and maneuver course. Unfortunately, they couldn’t do any firing on the last one, due to the size of the range at Bagram Airfield, but rehearsals were still possible.

The four squads formed up with full-battle gear on, and Nick and Marcus led them on a jog down to the range. The run covered a couple of miles, and that proved pretty challenging since they were wearing vests, helmets, and gear. Plus, running in boots isn’t fun, even on a good day.

At the range, the other squads broke off to continue to their stations. The Primary Strike Team took the weapons range first. Still breathing hard, they inserted hearing protection and locked and loaded their weapons. Nick put them in a line and slapped Red on the helmet.

Since the logistics element of S3 had put up some flimsy cardboard walls stapled to some 2x4s, no one knew what to expect on the range beyond the walls, which extended twelve feet high. Red entered the make-believe hallway and pushed forward. He followed the “hallway,” turned the corner, and then moved on.

They heard the sound of gunshots from his M4. Finally, Red yelled, “Clear,” and exited the range from the right side. Marcus went next, wasting no time. And once he finished, Lana, Truck, and Preacher took their turns.

Nick heard Preacher yell “clear,” and he raised his M4 up from its assault sling. His shoulder wound burned, but he blocked the pain out as he walked down the hall, heel-to-toe, his rifle barrel steady. He twisted right, cleared the next hallway, and took the obvious left. It was obvious, because they were, after all, on a range and the targets had to be in the expected direction with the berm behind them.

As Nick entered the kill room, he realized the logistics folks had done a hell of a job, given the fact they were forward deployed. They had somehow found a couch, a chair, a wall locker to resemble a closet, and numerous targets. Nick flushed the thought from his mind as he concentrated on the task.

Five targets loomed before him, each realistic picture silhouettes. Nick scanned them, looking for weapons. One had an AK pointed at the entry, and Nick put two rounds in his chest and a kill shot in his head. He twisted and nearly fired on a burqa-wearing woman. But her hands were empty and he moved to the next target.

The next two had weapons, as well, and Nick quickly engaged each with three shots. The final one was another burqa-wearing woman, and Nick lowered his weapon until he noticed the left hand had a detonator in it. He cursed, yanked his weapon up, and put three rounds straight into her head -- ignoring the two, typical, center mass shots.

Damn it, he thought. He hoped the others had momentarily botched it, as well. He’d know soon since the logistics team always recorded the squads from an elevated camera. They’d review how the team members entered and cleared their sectors, as well as examine how long it took.

Thankfully, they wouldn’t be scoring shots today, unless someone missed a shot. Today, hits on target were all that mattered. Hits and how long it took. If someone missed, they’d review the tape to see when the misses showed up on the target.

Nick walked off the course pretty sure he could feel his shoulder bleeding. But as his team members watched him exit the range, he knew he wouldn’t be standing on the sidelines for the upcoming stations in hand-to-hand, circuit course, and fire and maneuver.

Chapter 59

“Crap!” Nick spit angrily, realizing he’d just popped the stitches in his shoulder. The slobbering curses he threw in his head, however, were much more vicious and colorful.

Despite all the effort he’d put into avoiding another trip to the base hospital, he was now headed straight back since, for some damn reason, he couldn’t manage a hair of self-restraint.

The training had started off simple enough, and Nick had been doing well up until it came time for some hand-to-hand combat practice. Now, in hindsight, Nick could see how Truck had goaded him into it, but that really didn’t help much now. At least Truck had learned a little bit better not to mess with him, because “old man” or not, Nick could whip some ass. Nick smiled, only to curse himself more, as the split on his lip stung and began to bleed again.

And now here he was in another exam room, waiting for a doctor to stitch him up. As soon as Nick realized the walk of shame he’d have to make back to the hospital, he’d started prepping himself for another showdown with the pretty lady doctor who’d stitched him up before. He drew lines in the sands of his mind and decided that if she nudged a single toe over, he’d become really uncooperative.

But all his preparation appeared to be unnecessary as a tall, bespectacled, and straight-faced man entered the room.

“I’m Dr. Blair, Mr. Woods,” the man said in an informative manner, as compared to a greeting.

“Alright there, Dr. Blair.” said Nick, “And is my regular doctor not coming?”

The robotic Dr. Blair, who’d been watching Nick expressionless, while maintaining a slightly unnerving level of steady eye contact since he’d entered the room, was suddenly overcome by a brief series of fluttering eyelids. He then sharply cleared his throat and responded in a voice sounding a bit higher than before, “Uh, no. Mr. Woods, I’m sorry. But your regular doctor is unavailable, as she is presently in surgery.”

Wow. Well, he’s clearly not the best liar, Nick thought, a little stunned and perplexed. But instead of calling the man out on it, Nick simply nodded his head and let the odd doctor stitch him up.

Oh well, thought Nick, I guess that’s that. And good riddance.

Two days later, Nick was on a phone call with his CIA representative, Mr. Smith. The two men passed inconsequential intelligence updates back and forth. And through some unknown means of magic or maybe a conveniently timed concussive head injury, Nick had yet to bark or growl once.

They were about to finish up when Mr. Smith announced, “Oh, and I have one more business matter to share with you.”

“Hit me with it, man,” said Nick, still uncharacteristically pleasant and unconcerned.

“We have selected a physician to join your team, starting immediately.”

“You did what?” Nick asked, the long-lost edge returning to his voice.

“Well, it just so happens that we received an application from a highly qualified candidate,” Mr. Smith replied, either missing the threat in Nick’s voice or quite possibly choosing to ignore it. “And considering the needs, or more specifically, the hazards of S3’s collective skill set, we have determined that a full-time physician would not only be more convenient, but efficient as well.”

“Listen here, you,” Nick said as the embers of his temper began steadily flaring back to life. “S3 is my company. I decide who or what we hire.”

“That as it may be, Nick, your company is still under contract.”

“Well, ‘that as it may be,’ asshole,” Nick growled, “it was my understanding that I have the authority to decide who works for me.”

Mr. Smith sighed. “What do you want me to say, Nick? You’ve been overruled.”

“Again, I don’t see how that’s possible,” Nick shot back, the timbre of his voice rising. “It seems to me that someone needs to remember who’s in charge of S3.”

“Well, I agree with you there,” Mr. Smith fired back.

“You…” Nick started to argue.

“The reasons are clear. First, considering the conditions you and your three men recently returned in,” Mr. Smith stated dryly, interrupting the incoming name-calling, “it seems necessary. Secondly, the unending physical harm that you and your men seem unable to prevent yourselves from inflicting on one another during training. Because, correct me if I’m wrong,” Mr. Smith continued, his tone becoming antagonistic, “did you not require additional medical attention only…” Nick could just make out the sound of a file folder being briskly flipped open, “... ah, yes. Two days ago?”

Nick wanted to throw the phone, but Mr. Smith continued before he could get a word in edge-wise.

“And let’s see here, it says that in addition to reopening a gunshot wound, ‘the patient also presented a patterning of bruises, a swollen left eye,’ and ‘a split lower lip.”

“I tripped,” Nick hissed through clenched teeth.

“Of course you did,” Mr. Smith replied sardonically. “Even without such consideration, the CIA has decided that continual and easily accessible medical support is not only in S3’s best interest but in ours as well.”

“And how the hell do you figure that?”

“It will be much easier to maintain secrecy in such matters if medical assistance can be done in house,” Mr. Smith asserted. “Also ensuring the continual health of active S3 members reduces our liability.”

“Pfft.” Nick scoffed. “I’m pretty sure you guaranteed me that ‘you and the powers that be’ wouldn’t shoulder any liabilities, anyway.”

“That’s true, but let’s face it, a dead American is still a dead American.”

Nick started to speak, but Mr. Smith quickly jumped in to explain. “Think of it this way, Nick. If our enemies were to stumble upon a dead American, then the United States will, without question, fall under immediate and harsh scrutiny. America’s innocence will be compromised to some degree, no matter what the resulting verdict may be. But if we are able to verify the satisfactory health of our team members, theoretically, employed to venture into enemy territory, then we have also, in fact, increased the probability of survival and, therefore, the continued indemnity of our great country.”

“So, basically,” Nick said, “you’re looking to cover your ass.”

“Well, your ass as well. But yes. That’s the idea.”

Nick hated how much sense this made, but he’d be damned if he’d relinquish any more ground or authority. Yet still, the health of his men was a priority, even by his standards, so he decided to let this one go.

“Who’s the doctor?” Nick relented.

“Oh well,” Nick could see the smug smile on the bastard’s face, “I think you’ll be very impressed. I’ve gotten some excellent recommendations on Dr. Clayton. Even one from a member of S3’s leadership.”

Nick had no idea who Dr. Clayton was, but he was pissed he had been kept out of the loop. “You should have conferred with me, not Marcus.”

“Oh, come on, Nick. I’d thought you’d appreciate knowing that a member of your team showed such great confidence in Dr. Clayton’s ability to do the job.”

“You know you should have come to me.”

“Well, I would have,” replied Mr. Smith, restraining the anger in voice, “but you had gone and gotten yourself shot recently. And as you were incapacitated,” his voice now rising, “I assumed you were unavailable for consultation!”

Nick silently fumed, hearing Mr. Smith steady his breathing in an attempt to calm himself.

“Now,” the CIA officer said, “Dr. Clayton has already received official orders and has been immediately transferred to S3’s employment directly from the Army. And it just so happens she’s already in Afghanistan. If you should desire to meet with her yourself, then you will have to schedule that yourself. Now do you have any other questions?”

“No,” growled Nick.

“Good,” Mr. Smith responded and briskly hung up.

“Bastard,” Nick said, throwing the phone against the wall.

He stood staring at the carnage. Then suddenly his eyes went wide, and he nervously asked the remains of what used to be a phone, “Did he just say ‘her’?”

Chapter 60

After his phone call with Mr. Smith, Nick found himself trying to process through a lot of questions and feelings. Manly feelings, that is.

Mostly he was nervous about the identity of this Dr. Clayton. He truthfully had no idea how many doctors were even stationed on Bagram Airfield, and he had even less of an idea how many of those doctors were female. But he guessed that the statistical probability of it being the female doctor he had dealt with earlier was likely working against him, and chances were strong that he had most likely (and certainly, indirectly) hired a woman who he already didn’t like.

And it seemed that the feeling might be mutual. However, that might also be the one thing that helped his odds. Hopefully, someone he’d already successfully pissed off wouldn’t think to apply for a job at his company. Would they?

Argh, Nick thought. Why had he not learned the woman’s name? She had to have told him, right? She probably did, but you were too busy coming up with a reason to hate her guts. Remember?

Well, at least he knew of one way to figure it out. Mr. Smith said he had talked to someone not just in S3, but in S3’s leadership. Barring any technicality, Nick was pretty certain that there was only one person other than himself that could be classified as leadership in his organization.

Nick could hear Marcus’s voice before he even reached the weapons room. And either the man had just finished having a heart attack, or Marcus was telling one of his stories. Marcus was definitely one of the most disciplined and serious men Nick had ever met, but when he had a good story to tell, the man went all out. Nick could hear Marcus lost in an eruption of laughter. He could just make out Truck’s deep, hearty laugh in between Marcus’ attempts to catch his breath.

When Nick entered the room, he saw Marcus hee-hawing in a squat down on the floor. He was teetering so far forward that he required both hands out in front of him to keep him from falling on his face. Marcus had this reputation of when he got tickled enough about something, his body suddenly and very mysteriously became too heavy for him support on his own. If you got him going good enough, the man would either literally crumple to the ground or slowly stumble from person to person clutching at them for stability until he finally managed to steady himself or gave in and allowed gravity take him down.

Meanwhile, Truck was seated with his M4 on his lap, clearly in the middle of cleaning it, but at the moment, the big man appeared to be having a straight-up, giggle fest. His face was splotched and red, and he had one meaty hand fanning back a collection of tears that threatened to pour out and down his face.

Nick looked around the room and saw two unattended weapons and cleaning kits. One obviously belonged to Marcus and Nick assumed the other belonged to Red. However, as the little man appeared to be nowhere in the room, Nick had a suspicion that Red might somehow be at the butt of this particular joke.

When Marcus finally saw Nick standing in the doorway, his face lit up. He stood precariously trying to find his balance and moved in a drunken fashion toward Nick. The man was obviously too lost in his amusement to read the serious expression on Nick’s face.

“Oh, man, Nick,” Marcus said, “you are not gonna believe this, brother.”

The man chuckled a bit more, and Nick looked over to see Truck slapping his thigh as a fresh wave of hiccupping laughter tumbled over him. Apparently it was a good joke if it had Truck willing to be seen with an unmanly amount of tears spurting from his face.

“Okay,” Marcus exhaled, attempting to rein his amusement in. “So I had gone to get Red to tell him to get his gun and kit, right? But when I got there, dude was already gone, okay? But I happened to see that the man left his lamp on. So being the conscious man that I am,” he said, bobbing his head briskly from side to side, “I went to turn it off for him, right? And as I get over to the lamp, I look down and find this stick or whatever on the ground by his nightstand, kind of hidden. Well, I have no idea what it is. But it seems kind of familiar, you know, so I grab it.”

Now by this point, Nick was genuinely curious about the “stick,” so he adjusted his face to grumpy where before he was ragingly pissed off. Both Marcus and Truck looked to one another and fell into another fit of giggles.

A few deep breaths later, and Marcus continued the story, “So I find Red and Truck in here already cleaning. And so I go ask Red, ‘Yo, man. What the hell is this thing?’ Then the little man’s face goes all bug-eyed and red. But he won't tell me anything. So I keep at him. Even Truck starts asking him about it, but the man won’t say shit. Then finally, it hits me.”

Nick looked over and saw that big ole’ Truck had started snorting and panting, a tear-stained mess again. Nick was, honest to God, sure the man was going to pass out from a lack of oxygen.

Marcus came over to stand directly beside Nick, placing a big hand on Nick’s non-injured shoulder. “You remember at the compound, that first hut we hit?”

Nick simply lifted his eyebrows, urging the man to move the story along.

“Okay, well you remember how Red got tripped up on that chair in the front room, and you had to advance past him? Well, while you and Truck were clearing out the back room, I could have sworn I heard some kind of scuffle still going on in the front room. Of course, I’ve got the door, so I can’t do anything about it. Can’t turn around, right? I just wait until I get Red’s signal that he’s covering the door so I can start moving the furniture and shit from the room.”

Then Marcus smiled so big that Nick thought he could get a pretty good guess as to how many teeth the man actually had in his head.

“Turns out,” Marcus continued, “that the little dude got his gear caught in the damned chair…” Marcus suffered another fit, unable to finish the sentence.

“... so the boy is wrestling and karate chopping the thing into pieces,” Marcus said, snapping his arms in the air imitating the scene as his words became less and less decipherable through the hoarse squeak in his voice.

“And then I realize that not only has this boy gotten his ass handed to him by a fucking chair, but he’s gone the entire mission without noticing an eight-inch-long piece of chair leg still caught in his gear.”

Marcus seemed to dissolve as he all but fell to the floor while Truck had come to the clear end of his sanity. At some point, the big man must have set his gun down as he was now half-pitched backward in the chair bouncing his leg and waving both hands in a gesture suggesting that either Marcus stop or the big boy was going to wet himself.

Nick allowed them to laugh for a minute longer as he moved over to look at how much progress Red had made on his gun. The proud little man must have decided to abandon ship and let the two girls in the room have their fun. Ultimately, Nick was glad that they’d had something to laugh about. And he’d look forward to laughing about this later. But right now, he needed to get some shit straightened out.

From behind him, Nick could hear Marcus say to Truck, “I mean it took me a couple trips to clear that chair from the middle of the room, man. Red must have beat that thing into ten or more pieces.”

As soon as the giggles began to die down, Nick turned to look at Marcus. The grin on the man’s face fell as recognition suddenly won over his amusement. “Is something wrong, boss?”

“We need to talk,” replied Nick, keeping any sign of anger out of his voice.

Truck, who was still a little too giggle drunk, interjected an “oooo” attempting to sound girlish, but lost his enthusiasm for it when he saw that neither of the other men was laughing. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

“The hall?” Marcus offered.

“Yeah,” Nick replied. And the two men made their way out of the weapons room into the adjoining hallway. Bagram Airfield was, at present, mostly vacant as the majority of US forces had been ordered to finally pull out of Afghanistan. And S3 had its own area on the base, so for the purpose of a private conversation, the empty hallway was as good as a high-security war room.

“What’s going on?” Marcus asked.

“We need to talk about Dr. Clayton, Marcus.” Nick was suddenly very glad that he’d walked into the weapons room when he did. Although he hadn’t exactly been able to enjoy the humor earlier, the scene of his two men having a moment of rare and genuine laughter had been a valuable reminder to Nick.

These men were people, his people. And if he was going to ask for their respect, then it was important that he do the same for them. Ultimately it would be unfair for Nick to lash out and accuse Marcus of anything without hearing the man out first.

“Dr. Julia?” Marcus inquired. “Yeah, what about her?”

So definitely a woman, Nick thought. He cleared his throat, then said, “Well, I assume you know that S3 has officially hired Dr. Clayton as its full-time physician. I was just informed of this by Mr. Smith.”

Marcus looked confused. “I mean, I knew that there was the possibility. I didn’t know that she had already been hired.”

“Okay, Marcus,” Nick said, “Can you just tell me what your whole role in this was? Because all I know is that Mr. Smith told me he’d spoken to someone within S3’s leadership. And since I knew he hadn’t talked to me about any doctor, I’m assuming he went to you, correct?”

“Yeah. I mean, listen. Here’s what happened, alright? I get word that I’m supposed to call Smith as soon as possible. So I call him, and he gives me orders to go and interview this doctor. And he tells me to interview her under the same process we would hire anyone else for S3, except for adjusting the questions to better suit a physician.”

The man stopped, looking at Nick as if trying to gauge how Nick was taking the information. But Nick simply nodded and said, “Okay, so what happened?”

“Well, I went and interviewed her. I mean, Nick, Smith gave me an order.”

Nick waved his hand and shook his head, dismissing any defensive instincts Marcus had about needing to explain his actions. Nick wasn’t mad at Marcus. Sure, he wasn’t too happy about the situation or how his slimy CIA boss had worked a damn loophole in order to get their way.

“No, Marcus. I know you were just doing what you were told. And even though I’m not exactly happy about what happened, or even how it happened, you did the right thing, okay? So just tell me what you told Mr. Smith about Dr. Clayton.”

Marcus sighed in relief. “I told him that Dr. Julia met all of S3’s standards as far as I could tell.”

“You think she’d be good for S3?”

Marcus gave Nick a look of exasperation.

“Nick, I told you forever ago and several times since then, how I thought a physician, or a medical professional of some level, would be valuable to S3.”

Oh yeah, remembered Nick. He did recall Marcus saying that a time or two, or twenty. But it had never been a pressing concern, so Nick had consistently kicked the can down the road, barely filing it away in his head.

“Okay, so what’s the deal with her? Is she really up for this, or even able to handle the kind of trouble we get into?”

“Look, Nick, from what I could tell, she’s overqualified for the job,” said Marcus. “She’s worked for years in austere conditions on small, forward firebases. She’s saved lives with limited medical gear on some firebase in the middle of nowhere. And her background is impressive. She graduated from Harvard and spent years patching up gunshot wounds on gang members in Baltimore before joining the Army after 9/11. This woman is one of the best. I’ve researched her.”

“Hmm…” Nick said, folding his arms across his chest and looking thoughtfully down at the floor. “She say why she wants the job?”

“Actually,” Marcus said curiously, pausing, “As a matter of fact she did.”

“Yeah?”

“It sounded to me like she’s been here for a long time, Nick. She seems a little hallowed and ready to move on. And the opportunities in the Army for real trauma work are becoming more and more limited. Plus she seemed to feel that moving to work beneath a corporate company might make it easier for her to move into the private sector one day.”

“Is that what she said then?”

“In so many words, yes. Look, I think she’s a doctor, meaning she wants to help people. And let’s face it, Bagram doesn’t have much of a need for her anymore.”

Nick nodded. He could definitely understand the need to be needed.

“So,” Nick said, starting to feel a bit uncomfortable, “She’s tough enough to put up with us?”

“More than enough, man. I mean she seemed to know how to adapt from moment to moment. She was charming and polite when she came in, but she showed some edge when I pushed her a bit.”

“Right,” Nick said, staring fixedly at a particular orange fleck of the tile floor. “So, Marcus, what does Dr. Clayton look like? I mean I’ve already met a couple of doctors here, but…”

“Well,” Marcus said, sounding surprised. “She’s, I believe around thirty-five, approximately 5’ 6”, brunette and…”

“And big brown eyes? And an ample…” Nick stopped short to swallow, “bosom?”

“Officially? Yes. But unofficially: Yowza.” Marcus replied, blinking a bit, but with a steady, straight face.

Nick groaned and dropped his head into his hands.

“You want to explain why that’s relevant, or should I go ask her?” Marcus teased, a knowing smile on his face.

“Shit,” Nick groaned, looking up and scratching his head nervously. “Yeah, let’s just say we’ve met. And we kind of got to a bad start.”

“Oh yeah?” Marcus inquired, happy as a schoolgirl. “She get a bit of that Nick Woods charm, did she? Damn, that poor girl.”

Nick shoved Marcus into the wall. Marcus just laughed.

“Come on, Marcus, it’s not funny. This woman apparently works for me now,” Nick said, his voice returning to its previous seriousness.

Suddenly, Truck stepped through the weapons room doorway and looked down the hall at them “Everything okay out here, guys? I heard something slam into the wall.”

Nick gave Marcus a warning look.

Marcus returned it with a surrendering look and looked back, saying, “Yeah, everything’s good, Truck.”

Nick moved back toward the weapons room, and Marcus followed.

“Okay, now something else we have to talk about, gentlemen,” Nick said. “I don’t want either of you razzing Red anymore about this chair thing for a while, okay.”

“Aw,” Truck started to argue.

“Last I remember,” Nick said looking at Truck, “You about got your ass shot off when you went galloping through that same hut, my friend. Luckily for you, I was there to check your corners.”

Marcus attempted to hide his chuckle as Nick turned to him. “And you,” Nick said, “well I seem to remember you learning a vehicular safety lesson regarding large, unsecured packs in a truck bed when they come crashing downward at, say, a seventy degree angle.”

“Heh, heh,” Truck laughed, “That was funny as hell.” He jumped to his feet and started miming the incident. “Oh! Ahhh!” he yelped like a frightened girl, re-enacting the scene as Marcus had fallen ass over teakettle in the back of the truck.

Marcus backhanded Truck in the stomach unexpectedly. Pretty hard.

“My point being, gentlemen,” Nick said sharply to regain their attention. “We all have our moments, and while the chair thing is, honestly pretty damn funny,” Nick smiled in spite of himself, but shook it off quickly, “we still have a mission to do, and I want us all focused and feeling confident. And that goes especially for our point man. So have fun and joke around all you want, but let’s just try to avoid pointing out one another’s stupidity for a while. Understood?”

Marcus and Truck both nodded. Then after a moment of silence with all three of them looking at either their feet or the floor, Truck looked up and said with a grin, “At least we’ll still have the Goat Man.”

Nick laughed, remembering the enthusiastic goat herder they’d seen on their way into Pakistan. Nick didn’t want to admit it, but sometimes he would find himself humming the tune of the Goat Man’s song softly to himself. Meant for the goats or not, thought Nick, that damned tune was catchy.

“Alright, you two,” Nick said, command back in his voice, “get your weapons cleaned. And whoever finishes last cleans Red’s gun and takes his stuff back to his room.”

“Hey, that ain’t fair,” cried Marcus “I was out here getting interrogated by you. Truck’s probably already finished cleaning his gun.”

“Leadership sucks, Marcus,” Nick said. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you that?”

Chapter 61

With the fear of the captured intel on their minds, as well as the hit on their most recent supply convoy, Rasool Deraz and Mushahid Zubaida proceeded with phase one of their pushed-forward operation to topple the Afghan government.

First, one of their lieutenants bribed a disgruntled Afghan army major to support the Taliban cause. The army major was stationed at a fire support base and was the second-highest ranking man in their communications element.

The man proved difficult to bribe, but $5,000 is a substantial amount of money in a country where the average family subsists on $426 per year. Besides, the Taliban lieutenant informed the major that soon the Afghan government would be no more and that if he defected now, Deraz would overlook the fact he’d fought against the Taliban all these years.

“And where will I go after I do this?” the major had asked.

“We will transport you and your family to Pakistan, or some other province in Afghanistan, where we’ll hide you in a safe house until we topple the government.”

The lieutenant handed the man $2,500 up front, and that sealed the deal. Holding that much money would convince nearly any Afghan; the country, after all, was a place where loyalty often shifted.

With the army major’s allegiance in place, the Taliban scheduled their attack for that night. At the Afghan fire support base, the major entered the communications room at 2 a.m. The sergeant and private manning the radios jumped to their feet when he entered.

“Gentlemen, I’m relieving you of your post. Our commander has informed me he’s expecting an attack on one of our patrols tonight and has asked me to personally handle the supporting fires.”

“Yes, sir,” said the sergeant.

“You two get plenty of rest,” the major said. “You’ll probably have to pull someone else’s radio watch tomorrow.”

The men saluted and gratefully left for some extra sleep. The major took a seat and watched the clock nervously until 2:30 came around. The Taliban attacked right on schedule at 3 a.m. Reports came in at a furious pace from a unit of thirty Afghan soldiers who had set up a defensive position in a temporary operating base, which was a simple mud hut surrounded by a simple wall. The hut was large and featured thick, mud walls, which provided excellent protection.

The Taliban ravaged the compound with multiple RPG strikes and more than fifty fighters assaulting the building with massive fire, including heavy machine guns.

The major initially passed along the calls of distress, immediately requesting American air support to assist the beleaguered troops. Since the attack occurred under the cover of darkness, both sides struggled to identify their targets.

And just as the Afghan troops feared being overrun, the American air support arrived on station. Two Apaches showed up and saw the battle in their infrared sensors. And it was here that the major earned his $5,000.

Instead of relaying that the Afghan troops were under assault inside the compound, he instead informed the Apaches that the friendlies were trying to assault the target.

The Apaches could see the troops attacking, as well as the impressive defensive fires from the compound. They confirmed the target again with the major, requested permission to fire from higher ups, then loosed two hellfire missiles into the compound. After the explosions, they hosed down survivors with their 30 mm cannons, using their thermal sights to detect those who were still alive.

And while the Apaches picked off remaining targets inside the compound, the major turned off the radio and slipped off the base.

Chapter 62

The staggering effectiveness of phase one of Deraz’s plan to topple the Afghan government soon became clear to S3. The following day, Nick and Marcus were summoned to link up for a confidential conference call with higher headquarters.

“Do you want the bad news or the even worse news?” asked Mr. Smith mere moments after they linked up by satellite.

Nick looked at Marcus and shrugged. They were sitting at a folding table with an encrypted conference phone in between.

“You know I hate games,” Nick said. “Just tell us.”

“I hate to agree with Nick,” Marcus said, “but we’d rather just hear the news. We’re sure it was bad. You don’t have two Apaches loosed on you without bad results.”

“It’s all anyone is talking about,” Nick said. “Tell me that’s just because we’re stuck on a shitty base in Afghanistan? That back in America, this isn’t all over the news.”

“Very sorry,” Mr. Smith said. “Sometimes I forget that you all are over there, living on some desolate base.”

There was a pause, then he continued.

“The bad news,” Mr. Smith said, “is that the friendly fire incident is all over the media. And the Afghan president has already responded to public pressure, ordering all American troops to cease all combat operations. And that even includes air support of any kind.”

“Unbelievable,” Nick said. “Is this some kind of show? Just a way to score political points with his supporters here in Afghanistan?”

“We wish,” Mr. Smith said, “but it’s no game. In fact, it’s much worse. The even worse news I mentioned earlier is the Afghan president has personally called our President and asked him to remove all American troops within the next three weeks.”

“So, cease all combat operations,” Marcus asked, “and pack up and leave in the next three weeks?”

“Yes, that’s correct,” Mr. Smith said. “And the timing couldn’t be worse. We’re compiling a better picture of what was on Ahmud al-Habshi’s computer, and now it’s clear that the final assault on the capital will take place soon. The Taliban has been avoiding many of their typical, minor skirmishes and engagements as they consolidate their forces and prepare for their final battle.”

“So,” Nick said, “the Afghan president feels safe because attacks from the Taliban are down. And he’s pissed at the Americans, so he’s ordering our combat troops out. And meanwhile, he has no idea that he’s about to get crushed and chased out of town.”

“That’s correct,” Mr. Smith said. “In his defense, not only does he think attacks are down, but he also believes removing all American troops will hurt the recruiting efforts of the Taliban. Hard to get Afghans to kill fellow Afghans.”

“If he wants to cut down on the recruiting efforts of the Taliban, he could cut down on the corruption,” Nick said. “Hard to support a president as corrupt as him, and the people know what all he’s doing.”

“On the bright side,” Mr. Smith said, “he’s not ordering S3 out. That’s one of the nice things your cover provides. Some real flexibility for our government. So the race is on to figure out when this attack is going down and what we can do to stop it.”

“You mean what four squads of six men can do to stop it?” Marcus asked.

“With no air support?” Nick added.

“Precisely,” Mr. Smith said. “But you forgot to mention your snipers, and we’ll keep working to fix things politically.”

“No pressure,” Nick said, shaking his head with disbelief. “Anyway, we’ll do our best to find a way to either delay the attack or stop it. Just get with your State Department buddies and resolve these silly orders from the Afghan president. Some air cover and American troops backing us up would be nice.”

“We’re already on that,” Mr. Smith said. “The State Department is pulling together a billion-dollar stimulus package for their government, contingent on him dropping the orders.”

“I’m sure it’ll be deposited in the national ban managed by his brother?” Nick suggested.

“Correct.”

“The same one that’s had millions of dollars go missing,” Marcus scoffed.

“It’s how things work around here,” Mr. Smith said.

“Just work it fast,” Nick said. “We’ll need those reinforcements sooner than we care to admit. Marcus and I will head down to meet with our analysts and see if we can pull together the picture of this upcoming attack.”

“Good luck,” Mr. Smith said, before hanging up.

Chapter 63

Rasool Deraz and Mushahid Zubaida were delighted at the success of the operation causing the friendly-fire incident. They had left the safety of Pakistan and traveled back into Afghanistan to oversee the final battle. Now they hid in a humble-looking compound just miles from the capital. It was a safe house in one of their friendly villages.

The damage by the Apache attack helicopters was greater than expected, and the reaction by the Afghan president had exceeded what they had hoped.

“We must strike while the American forces are forbidden from acting,” Rasool said, as the two sat looking over a map of Afghanistan. The map was spread out on a small table, a lantern and candle burning to illuminate it.

“Agreed,” Mushahid said. “Plus, we must act now because they will continue discovering key intelligence from Ahmud’s computer. We can’t allow them to have any more successful strikes against us while we are mobilizing our final assault.”

Rasool nodded, some pain filling his eyes. “That ambush hurt us.”

Rasool had lost one of his best lieutenants. A protege that he’d grown close to over the past ten years. He pushed the memory of the man down and said with determination, “Let’s begin phase two. May Allah be with us.”

Phase two involved a trap to draw part of the Afghan forces away from the capital. The Afghan government protected their most important city with three army battalions, not counting the lightly-armed police forces that mostly manned checkpoints. But when serious threats emerged, it was the three army battalions that responded.

Rasool and Mushahid had analyzed the capital’s defenses and determined that their plan to sack the capital could never work with all three Afghan army battalions inside the city. It was simply too many troops and too much firepower for the Taliban to deal with. The two of them had calculated that they would need to draw at least two of the army battalions outside the city. This was hardly an easy task, as the Afghan government tried its best to avoid deploying them outside city limits for obvious reasons.

Thus, phase two of their operation to take the capital city was tricking the administration to overreacting and making the fatal mistake of committing its primary security forces outside Kabul. To draw out the Afghan National Army, the Taliban picked one of the most defendable, steepest hilltops in Afghanistan. It lay just a few miles outside the capital city of Kabul itself and had seen hundreds of battles fought on its primary slope in the past couple of decades. The rugged, nearly vertical hill was one of the most strategic pieces of high ground near the capital, and remnants of previous battles rusted and rotted along its ground.

On the bright side, the preparatory part of phase two proved far easier than expected. Typically, the Afghan government had kept a small force on the hill to prevent it being seized. Consequently, Rasool and Mushahid had planned for an attack to take the hill, followed by an all-out effort to hastily prepare fighting positions and bring up the unprecedented amount of ammunition that would be needed to hold off the army’s reinforcements.

The limited time they would have had in such a situation to prepare defenses had always concerned the two Taliban leaders, but with no government forces on the hill, Mushahid had been blessed with plenty of time to oversee his men’s meticulous and deliberate creation of an elaborate defense. Besides setting up the defense of the hill, Mushahid would stay and lead the operations from the hill himself.

There were two primary reasons for this. First, his presence would inspire his men to fight harder. Secondly, the first moves of phase three -- the infiltration of fighters into the capital -- hardly needed any oversight. In fact, it had already begun.

Chapter 64

As Mushahid and his men dug in on the hill outside the capital, Nick and Marcus made what preparations they could to help defend Kabul. It was tough to do much since they had no idea what Rasool Deraz had planned, but neither Nick nor Marcus believed in sitting on their duffs. Inaction was a sin as far as they were concerned.

The first thing they did was request four Afghan police officers be transferred to their unit. Mr. Smith worked with the American Embassy to find four of the most trustworthy men that could be found. It required pulling some serious strings to get the best, but given how much money the Embassy doled out, no one could pull strings better than them. Well, except for the American military, but after the recent Apache friendly fire incident, the U.S. generals and senior officers found their relationships had grown weaker.

Nick and Marcus wanted the Afghan police officers for two reasons. One, to have local language skills on each squad -- Lana was the only member on S3 who spoke the local language. Two, they wanted men with badges and police authority as they hunted about the capital for clues.

The local cops also were wired into the Police Department, which meant they were getting the latest intel filtered up through officer arrests and interrogations. In addition, they knew who to call if any favors were needed and had a strong understanding of the key geography and neighborhoods in Kabul.

In addition to adding the four police officers, S3 leased six light police trucks and six hardened Humvees from the Afghan government. They promptly put fifty caliber heavy machine guns on the Humvees, which they felt would be best to stop vehicle-borne IEDs. (In truth, a Mark 19 40 mm grenade launcher might work better, but neither Nick nor Marcus wanted the squads shooting a grenade launcher inside the capital city.)

S3’s logistics man, Dean, took care of acquiring the six light police trucks and six hardened Humvees while also outfitting them up and confirming they ran like new. At the same time, S3’s chief finance officer back in D.C. dealt with the details of all the leases with the Afghan government. Nick knew it was a paperwork nightmare since S3 needed additional funds to pull off the unexpected leases, but the chief finance officer kept Mr. Smith in the loop.

Nick had no idea whether it was CIA funds or additional State Department funds that were put into S3 to cover the leases, and he had stopped asking questions about that months ago. He had given up trying to understand it when at one point Mr. Smith had informed him that S3 was getting its funding from billing the CIA, the State Department, the Department of Defense, and the Afghan government.

To Nick, the funding got murky in a hurry, and he had tried to keep up with it for a while, but he’d finally given up. He frankly didn’t care anymore about who paid who and who scratched who's back. He was focused purely on the mission of stopping the Taliban and putting Deraz into the ground. Errr, bringing him to justice, he reminded himself.

Chapter 65

Phase two of the Taliban plan to seize the capital kicked off when Mushahid’s forty fighters on the hill opened fire on the main highway below with two 12.7 mm heavy machine guns. Two Afghan police trucks were passing below on the road more than 1,300 yards away when Mushahid signaled his men to fire.

The guns roared, their massive sounds echoing off the hills. The 12.7’s were comparable to the Browning .50 caliber machine gun used by the Americans since World War II. The 12.7’s poured hulking, 700-grain bullets into the trucks. The bullets shredded the vehicles and nearly tore them in half once the gunners found their range.

Frantic police officers leaped from burning vehicles and hurled themselves toward a nearby ditch. The machine gunners didn’t even bother engaging the men, who were now firing back up the hill with their AKs. Mushahid had ordered his machine gunners not to engage single targets. Their ammunition was too valuable, and the distance too great for the men below to even reach them with their AKs. Plus, survivors were needed to call out for help from their command in Kabul.

The urgent call for assistance was made, but like most things with the Afghan government, the response was slow. At the outset, there was a great discussion about whether to even respond. The hill and location were known well, and several officers believed only a few Taliban had climbed it and fired down onto the road.

“The enemy won’t even be there by the time we get our troops on location,” one officer had said.

“It will take two or three hours to climb to the top. Maybe more,” said another.

But another ambush from the hill finally forced their hand and ended all discussion.

Four Afghan army supply trucks were coming down the road toward Kabul. Their drivers were exhausted after a two-day drive out to resupply a far-flung Afghan base, and all the men could think about was getting back to base and cleaning up.

One of the survivors from the two destroyed police trucks tried to stop them. The officers had walked up the road -- one toward Kabul, the other in the opposite direction -- to halt traffic and warn them not to drive further.

Many civilian vehicles had ignored the officers’ admonitions, deciding to risk it. And since the Taliban usually avoided attacking civilians, these vehicles had passed safely. In fact, it had been so many hours since the heavy machine guns on the hill had fired that even the police officers thought the Taliban might have grown bored and departed.

But without question, if any target might tempt the gunners on the hill, it was the four practically defenseless supply trucks. The convoy was already in a difficult situation. Originally, it had an armored Humvee with an M240 7.62 mm machine gun protecting it. However, the Humvee had broken down about three miles back, and the convoy commander had made the decision to leave it with its occupants on hand to protect it. Leaving it unattended would have resulted in everything being stripped from it within a couple of hours -- either by the Taliban or impoverished Afghans looking for weapons, gear, and metal that could be sold for scrap.

So now the four defenseless supply trucks sat a mere ten miles from their home base with a haggard-looking police officer telling them they needed to avoid going any further forward. The convoy commander huddled with his senior men and quickly decided to ignore the officer.

Police officers were rarely under fire, and the soldiers in the convoy felt the man was exaggerating the threat. The Afghan soldiers had been under fire from the hills dozens and dozens of times. Most of the time, the fire was inaccurate, and even when it wasn’t, the rounds from AKs and medium machine guns rarely caused much harm to their heavy trucks.

“The alternate route, if we turn around, will take six or seven hours,” said the senior sergeant, weariness and frustration clear in his expression.

“No,” said the convoy commander to his men, “we’ll hit it with speed and be showered and cleaned up just a couple of hours from now.”

Chapter 66

The trucks miscalculated. Mushahid ordered his two machine gunners to hold fire until the first truck was deep into the kill zone, and then both gunners opened up.

The four trucks were roaring down the road, doing nearly forty miles per hour, but it didn’t matter. The two machine guns concentrated their fire on the first truck, and after a few missed bursts, corrected their aim to hit the speeding truck. The heavy weapons pulverized their target. Bullets knifed through the engine blocks, axle, and wheels. Tires exploded on impact. The first truck shuddered and rocked as the tremendous impacts slammed into it.

Truck number two heard the heavy thunder from the two machine guns, but its drivers knew it was already too far into the kill zone to try to stop and escape back from whence they came. The two Afghan soldiers on the bench seat realized death was almost certain, but the only hand they had to play was to follow through and hope that luck -- or divine intervention, depending on what you believed -- would save their lives.

The driver floored the truck and its heavy diesel belched out a blast of smoke as it accelerated down the road. The front truck, its driver having taken a round through the shoulder, veered off the road, careened into a ditch, and flipped twice once its bumper hit solid ground.

The second truck driver worried about the occupants in the front truck, but also felt grateful that the road was now clear. He willed the truck onward as the first burst began impacting around him. The Taliban gunners had their range down and were in the zone, so rounds started striking home almost immediately.

The driver felt the impacts through the truck and heard the heavy snapping of rounds that passed by as near misses. The truck’s engine took three hits and it screamed as metal chewed into metal, and the cylinders began tearing themselves apart. The engine exploded and ground to a halt.

“Don’t hit the brakes,” screamed the passenger, grabbing the driver’s arm and trying to make himself heard over the din of all the incoming fire. “Let it coast through!”

That was the driver’s plan, but the Taliban gunners had no way to know they had felled the still rolling beast. They picked up their fire and one round tore through the side window, passed through the driver, and exploded through the passenger with barely a pause. Twelve thousand foot-pounds of energy from the 700-grain bullet eviscerated them both instantly.

Truck two also left the road, slamming into a boulder at fifty miles per hour and flipping end-over-end -- a nearly unimaginable feat for such a large truck.

The passenger in the third truck screamed into the radio for the fourth truck to go back, emphasizing the danger of driving ahead. Truck three bounced and screeched atop the blacktop as its driver attempted to stop the twenty-thousand-pound vehicle before it was too late. The M939, universally known as a “5 ton” to every ground pounder in the American military, wasn’t designed for hard stops. Nor does it do well in reverse.

But the experienced Afghan driver managed to stop it and get it going backward before the Taliban gunners aimed in on it. He screamed in terror as bullets ripped into the street and air as they adjusted their aim. He had the advantage of being two hundred yards further back, the trucks having practiced great dispersion.

But with each burst, even at well over fifteen hundred yards, the heavy machine guns managed to send one or two rounds home. The bolt-like slugs clanged and thudded into the truck while the driver tried not to panic and drive the truck off the road. Driving this fast in reverse with such crappy mirrors took every bit of skill he had, but their luck held as bullets hit high and low into non-essential parts, corners, and glass.

Their truck exited the beaten zone worse for wear, but with its occupants still in one piece.

Chapter 67

When the second ambush took place on the supply convoy, the Afghan army knew it had to act. Perhaps the Taliban would run before the troops arrived, but the army leadership could no longer ignore the problem. Four men had been killed in two different ambushes, several more had been wounded, and the main road into the capital city had been closed, preventing Afghan forces from using it.

The government was losing face with every minute the highway remained blocked. Thus, they finally deployed one of their battalions from the 201st Corps. Unfortunately for the Taliban, they were a battalion from the 3rd Brigade of the 201st Corps. And that fact might not mean anything to hardly anyone outside of Afghanistan, but the 3rd Brigade was one of the Afghan government’s premier units.

They were the first full battalion to graduate from their training and begin operating without the need of American advisors. They were also the battalion regularly posted at the presidential palace. In short, they were the best trained and equipped soldiers the Afghan government had, not counting its special forces.

They carried the latest weapons -- modern M4s from the Americans. They carried loads of pride. And they carried a thirst for action because none had seen any real combat for months.

The presidential duty had grown old, and an infantry battalion can only stand post at police checkpoints and respond to IED attacks so many times until they need to be left off their leash. The battalion had felt helpless for too long, and they were eager to release some vengeance.

The battalion estimated from reports coming in that at most a squad or perhaps a platoon of Taliban were on the hill firing onto the road. Thus, the battalion commander only deployed a single company of just over one hundred men to deal with the threat.

Every soldier in the company from its highest officer to its lowest private assumed the Taliban would either run once they arrived, or already be gone. This was the pattern the Taliban had used from its earliest days since being driven from power. Their fighters were elusive and not known for hanging around, fighting pitched battles.

The company loaded up into MRAPs -- nothing but the best for the soldiers of the 201st, after all -- and rolled toward the hills that towered over Kabul. The massive trucks fought the same traffic that every vehicle fights along the crazed streets of the capital but picked up speed as they departed city limits. The men laughed and joked in the trucks. None expected a serious fight.

Unfortunately for them, they were making a mistake that many an army has made, dating all the way back to Rome and Sparta.

Chapter 68

Mushahid gazed down on the road with a pair of binoculars, eyeing the advancing troops. He guessed there were probably a hundred of them, and they were definitely Afghan soldiers. He had no idea what unit they were from and didn’t care.

The soldiers looked supremely confident, a few laughing and others smiling. These men were certainly not raw recruits pushed into the fight.

They walked up the road from the direction of Kabul, a column on each side of the mostly empty road. Civilian vehicles still passed, but the people could sense a battle was approaching. Most turned around to find another road the capital.

The two columns stopped to talk with the police officer who had been stopping traffic, and he walked with them closer to the killzone. Through the binoculars, Mushahid watched the man frantically point and gesture up the hill, where he and his men waited. The soldiers strained to see up the hill, but Mushahid knew they couldn’t be seen from 1,300 yards away. Plus, they were low to the ground, waiting in dug-in positions.

Mushahid had to hand it to them, though, he had expected the Afghan army to pull up in trucks, which he would have had his heavy machine gunners light up. Infantry alone were not tempting enough targets for such heavy weapons, and he wanted the guns to have ammo for the next set of responding forces. They might bring up armored vehicles with weapon systems atop them to establish a base of fire, and Mushahid intended to destroy those vehicles.

He glanced about his men’s positions, which he had spent hours selecting. The holes were hidden well and hard for him to see, and he had the advantage of knowing where to look. He almost felt a moment of sympathy for the men now ascending the hill. Never had so much talent and experience from the Taliban been brought into a single battle. These were some of the Taliban’s best fighters.

Mushahid had six snipers armed with Dragunov scoped rifles. They carried several hundred rounds and had trained in Pakistan under the tutelage of a former Russian sniper from Chechnya.

One sniper in any engagement was deadly, but six combined together was a scary thought.

In addition to the six snipers, his men had ten light and medium machine guns. RPKs and RPDs, with belt after belt of ammunition that had been trucked in. Each man was supposed to have three thousand rounds with him. Simply an immense and unprecedented amount of ammunition for the Taliban to have on hand.

And between the snipers and machine gunners were a couple dozen exceptional fighters with AKs and RPGs. These weren’t old men who had physical issues, such as bad sight. And they weren’t young boys, who had recently departed the madrassas (or Islamic religious schools) in Pakistan, but lacked combat experience.

This was no typical band of Taliban. They were hand-picked men, who expected to fight to the death if necessary. Each knew of the pivotal role they now played in what would be the second step toward Kabul falling and the illegitimate Afghan government fleeing.

Mushahid looked at the stacks of boxed-up ammo and thought about all the effort that had gone into this fight. A lot of men had helped tote all the ammunition up this monstrous hill, and he felt certain the Afghan government would soon regret having abandoned their post on the hill.

The fact was he had no idea how many men it would take to reclaim the hill, but he felt confident that once they dealt with these troops below, they would find out.

Chapter 69

The Afghan soldiers gasped and huffed as they inched up the steep, slick hill. Dirt and loose rocks slid down the hill as they fought to stay upright and make progress along the nearly vertical cliff face.

The hill was part of the infamous Hindu Kush mountain range, which extends from Afghanistan to Pakistan and all the way up to the edge of China. Near Kabul, the mountains soar between 15,000 to nearly 20,000 feet high.

This hill was merely a steep part of some of the fiercer, oxygen-required heights behind it. An unpleasant welcome, if you will, to the often snow-covered peaks ahead. At just at 1,800 yards high -- or 5,400 feet -- this hill allowed the heavy machine guns to reach the road in the valley below with ease.

Also unique about this hill was its fairly consistent incline. There were few dips or crevices that might provide cover and protection. Rather, it was mostly a clean -- albeit slippery -- surface of unsecured gravel and sand.

From a tactical perspective, it was essentially a long firing range. Or a shooting gallery if you were on the wrong end, down at the bottom looking up.

Still near the bottom, the troops had barely covered two hundred yards in their climb, and already many wondered if they could even make it all the way up the damned hill. One mile of elevation, with this stiff of an incline, was no joke for even the most hardened soldier when they were carrying a full combat load.

And for this unit, barracks life had softened them some. Their crisp, starched uniforms, which typically impressed so many visitors at the presidential palace, now stuck to them and revealed sweat pockets under their armor and gear.

On the bright side, with each additional step the men presumed the hill had been abandoned. Surely the Taliban would have fired by now. So it was just put your head down, put one foot in front of the other, and make it to the top somehow. Confirm it was empty, then slip and slide back down. Back to base in three or four hours, tops.

Mushahid scanned the line of troops with his binoculars. They were entering the range of his snipers. Keeping his voice low, he bowed and prayed, “May Allah be with us.” Then, just slightly louder, he said to the men around him, “Snipers, begin engaging targets.”

At the maximum range of a sniper, you don’t hear the rifle actually fire. Rather, you either hear the bullet snap by (loud as hell) if it’s a miss, or smack into someone if it’s a hit. They usually scream almost instantly, and then the sound of a shot follows.

This same process occurred to the company of soldiers of the 3rd Brigade. The first indication of being in someone’s scope for the men staggering up the hill was the sharp slap of a bullet slamming into a man’s chest.

The men reacted instantly. They dove to the ground, some losing their footing and sliding as much as ten feet before coming to a stop. A man was screaming in pain, and more bullets snapped by and pierced into other targets.

“Snipers!” screamed an officer. “Suppress them!”

The riflemen fired up the hill, shooting at the larger rocks and pieces of cover they hoped might be hiding the snipers. Unfortunately for them, their M4’s 5.56 mm bullets had a max effective range of six hundred yards at best. On the other hand, the Dragunovs above them on the hill lobbed a 7.62 mm bullet with a max effective range of eight hundred yards on point targets, and 1,300 yards on area targets, which a long column of men strung out on a slope would certainly qualify as.

The head of the column had closed to within eight hundred yards of the practically invisible snipers, and the concealed sharpshooters were putting their expert lessons from Pakistan to good use. They were taking their time, conserving ammo, and hitting targets that were fully exposed, choosing not to fire at partially obscured targets that would likely result in misses.

Further down the hill, the column had bunched up in places as men waited for those ahead to get beyond difficult obstacles. This was a huge tactical error, and Mushahid’s machine gunners took advantage of it when they opened fire moments after the snipers commenced firing.

The gunners were firing 7.62 mm rounds from their medium machine guns, and just because the M4s couldn’t reach them, didn’t mean they couldn’t reach the bunched up men below. The machine gunners dropped small bursts of well-aimed fire into clumps of men, adding to the panic and havoc below. The machine gunners, similar to the snipers, were conserving their ammunition for the real battle to come.

Chapter 70

The company of troops on the hill were pinned down. Badly. Very accurate fire from the snipers and machine gunners rained down on them from above, and the men lay in fear. Few bothered firing. Too many had died doing so.

Besides, the extreme distance, the height up the hill, and the lack of targets made it pretty much pointless. But the company wasn’t defenseless. It had seven M240 medium machine guns -- the same state-of-the-art machine guns used by the U.S. Army and Marine Corps.

These weapons fired 7.62 mm rounds, the same caliber as the enemy was using to great effect against them. All that was needed was getting them into use.

The company commander knew what needed to be done. Get the machine guns firing. And once the enemy was suppressed, the company could get moving again. They’d fight their way up the hill, route out the snipers, and throw grenades into the machine-gun nests. It would be a great victory for his company, but none of this would happen unless he got those machine guns into the action.

The company commander picked up his radio and yelled over the sound of the incoming bullets from up the hill, “Platoon commanders, get your machine gunners up and firing.”

No answer came back on the net, and no movement took place on the line. A bullet whizzed by, and the company commander ducked lower. He screamed louder into his radio, more fear in his voice than intended.

Pressing his receiver into his ear as hard as he could, he heard one lieutenant reply despite the snapping bullets overhead. Thankfully, the lieutenant did more than just reply, he started shouting and gesturing to his men. And that action created a ripple effect among the men. Action resulted in more action, and men hollered and gestured up and down the line.

Other lieutenants got into the game, and soon every medium machine gun in the company was blasting up the hill, spewing hundreds of bullets in a deadly stream. The men cheered their comrades and cursed their enemies. A few regained their feet and renewed their efforts to reach the peak.

But the snipers and machine gunners on the hill under Mushahid were not amateurs. They had survived countless battles and seen momentum in battles shift too many times to count, same as it was starting to do below. The Taliban fighters redoubled their efforts, ignored the bullets snapping by, and poured more fire into the troops below.

The thought of saving ammo was gone. It was either stop the Afghan soldiers or die under the weight of their momentum. And like most battles, it was effectively decided in seconds.

On the hillside, suddenly courageous officers and charging soldiers fell to expert sniper fire. And the Afghan army M240s sputtered and ceased firing under merciless machine gun fire from above. A few brave Afghan soldiers removed the shot-up machine gunners and assumed their place, but they, too, were silenced.

The Taliban on the hill had the angle; they had prepared fighting holes, and they weren’t out of breath or confused about where to fire. The battle turned back to a full bloodbath, and with most of their officers and senior NCOs lying in pools of blood, the Afghans broke. They fled down the hill, even leaving some of their wounded and dead.

Mushahid ordered his men to cease fire. Shooting the men retreating down the hill was pointless. Those men were broken and wouldn’t be fighting again today. And his men needed to conserve their ammo and prepare for the next attack by redistributing ammo.

Chapter 71

The ambulances arrived first. Mushahid Zubaida watched the scene from atop the hill through his binoculars.

It was painful to watch fellow Muslims in such pain, even for a hardened veteran such as himself. Below, on the slope and street, men rushed to wounded and motionless men. Those found to still be alive were hauled to the street and loaded up in decade-old ambulances, which had rushed out to the battlefront from Kabul.

The infantry company had pulled itself together and made every effort to save those who could be saved. Even civilian vehicles had been enlisted to help rush wounded soldiers to hospitals and better care.

Mushahid gripped the binoculars harder than he should. He yanked them down in disgust. How had so many good Afghans been tricked and bribed by the Americans into fighting against their own countrymen?

It was beyond his ability to understand. Perhaps it was money and the security such a steady paycheck would provide.

Regardless of what it was, it made him sick nonetheless. Good men. Fellow Afghans. Brothers in faith. And yet Mushahid and his men had been forced to cut them down like sheep.

Typical warfighting sense would say to fire on the men below, making their exit difficult. But Mushahid couldn’t do it. He would only kill his fellow countrymen when it was absolutely necessary. It was a perspective espoused by Rasool.

It took a long time for the rest of the Afghan troops to arrive by Western standards, but within two hours of the rifle company from the 201st Corps being decimated, the three remaining companies from the battalion walked up the road.

They, too, had parked their vehicles out of sight to prevent providing such tempting targets. The Americans, having monitored the fight over the radio, had begged the Afghan government to allow it use air power to blast the Taliban off the hill. But the suggestion had been quickly shot down. No way would the government allow air operations just days after demanding them to cease.

The battalion commander had requested the government allow the Americans to use drones on the hill. Most Afghans wouldn’t know it wasn’t artillery when they heard the explosions, the battalion commander had argued. This request received more discussion than the request from the Americans, but it, too, was eventually turned down.

The Afghan government would not show weakness or lose face. The American Apaches had mistakenly slaughtered too many Afghan soldiers for the government to forgive so quickly.

“These are some of our best trained men,” the Prime Minister had said to the head general of the Afghan Armed Forces. “They are supplied with American weapons -- the very best armament available. If these men cannot take this hill, just ten miles from our country’s capital, then we soon won’t have a country to defend.”

Thus, hours later, it came down to the men walking down the road. Their uniforms were crisp and they had the look of garrison soldiers, but they had a raw fury pent up inside them. Too many fellow soldiers had died on this hill, and their own leaders were playing political games that would cost many of them their lives.

This they all knew. But that came with the territory of being a grunt, no matter what army you served in. Grunts got shit on and used, from one end of the globe to the other. And while the men on the road might bitch and curse about the situation, in the end, they were soldiers. And soldiers follow orders. They’d take the damn hill or die trying.

Chapter 72

Inside Kabul, no one could hear the fighting above the road on the hill. The sound of machine guns and explosions failed to carry back into the massive city. The distance was simply too far.

But word of the disastrous carnage soon spread as ambulances raced into town. A fear began to grip the city as news of the battle grew into larger and larger exaggerations with each telling. Before long, most of the city believed the Taliban had the city under siege. No supplies or reinforcements could move in. No one could run and safely flee.

It was an absurd fear, the kind that can only take root in a country entrenched in decades of war and conditioned to believing bad news.

No one thought to check the many other roads in and out of the city. Instead, people assumed the worst and rushed around to grab food and water. Kabul had seen much war in its day, and its residents knew what was needed to survive. Whether it was the Soviets invading or the fighting that followed in the civil war, the people of Kabul had learned due to necessity how to survive without power and water.

As the madness of fear spread, the Afghan president decided to hold a press conference to calm the people. Against the desires of his police and military advisors, he held the press conference in a highly visible manner on a public street corner.

In front of dozens of cameras allowed through a security barrier of troops, he assured his country that a battalion of elite troops was in the process of driving the Taliban off the hill above the road. He also refuted claims that the city was under siege, promising residents that they had no reason to panic. It was just all irresponsible rumors that had grown out of control. He ended by saying that despite the fighting on the city’s outskirts, the facts were that Taliban attacks against the government were actually down.

“Fear is the Taliban’s greatest weapon, and I ask the people of Afghanistan to ignore the rumors and sickening tactics used by our enemy,” the president said.

In the question and answer period that followed, he angrily knocked down several inquiries regarding the permission for the Americans to operate again. Or, to even resume air operations, since he had so swiftly rejected the use of ground forces.

“Our Afghan police and military forces are more than sufficient to defend our great country,” he said. What he didn’t say was that China and Iran had offered emergency aid packages that totaled to billions of dollars as a way to gain influence and access to the country’s rich resources of mines and minerals. The Afghan president had decided to switch teams and secure a better deal. Besides, the Americans were already on their way out prior to the nasty friendly fire incident.

He was just speeding events up as he saw necessary.

Just a few miles from the street corner where the Afghan president had given his press conference, S3 had temporarily set up shop in an abandoned warehouse inside Kabul.

Nick, Marcus, and Mr. Smith had agreed that while the servers from Ahmud al-Habshi gave up little actionable intel about the coming attack, it would have to go down in Kabul.

“As goes Kabul, so goes Afghanistan,” Mr. Smith said during one of their strategizing conference calls.

And indeed, he was right. In a country of thirty million, more than three million lived in Kabul. The next largest city was Kandahar, which had less than 500,000 in it. Most of Afghanistan was rural and tribal. The country’s capital city of Kabul decided everything. Who the country allied with. How much the people would be taxed. Which tribal leaders were to be tolerated and which were to be squashed. Whether heroin, the country’s preferred and most reliable cash crop, would be legalized.

This had necessitated the movement of S3’s combat units (the Primary Strike Team, the three support squads, and their sniper element) into the capital city. They had also brought some security and support staff, but these were only for the defensive protection of the warehouse.

This meant that Nick had only twenty-four shooters, the four enlisted Afghan policemen, and three two-man sniper teams to stop whatever the Taliban might be planning. And while no one had any idea of what that plan might be, staying at Bagram Airfield would have been strategic suicide. Not only was the base a solid hour away from Kabul, but getting into the capital after the turn of events would become almost impossible. In the event of an attack, all roads into Kabul would be closed down by Afghan checkpoints that would take forever to circumvent with approvals from on high to soldiers and police who were illiterate and often without even the benefit of having radios on hand.

So despite not knowing the Taliban’s next move, their present location would at least allow them to respond quickly. But the location was not their only advantage. With authorization from the president of Afghanistan, the entire S3 unit had been re-outfitted to both blend in and operate better within the city.

Staffers from Mr. Smith’s office had worked out an agreement with the Afghan president’s Chief of Staff to provide the entire S3 unit with Afghan police uniforms, including assault vests and helmets. His shooters would still be carrying their personal (American) weapons, but at least with the added element of authority provided by the police uniforms, they were less likely to draw attention. Plus it wasn’t all that uncommon to see the occasional M4 here or there among the better-equipped Afghan police forces.

Regardless of his tough talk and unwavering, brave face presented to the press, the Afghan president could feel a storm coming. But no matter how obvious or imminent the danger looming upon the horizon might be, the president was ultimately caught in a very precarious and delicate situation.

Publically, he could not afford to allow American troops into Kabul, or he’d risk not only losing face with the Afghan people, but it could greatly jeopardize the large financial deals they had with China and Iran. Privately, however, he gladly welcomed any additional support. And the contracted company of Shield, Safeguard, and Shelter proved to be just the ticket. The way he saw it, this seemingly government-unaffiliated operation would grant the city an additional thirty elite troops aiding in security, with hopefully none of the nasty side effects.

It wasn’t the perfect solution, but it was the best the president could do under the circumstances. Because at this point, there was no way to prevent whatever was coming. There was nothing to stop the dark and rising thunder clouds about to roll in. All he and his country could do was hold tight and pray that somehow they could make it through.

Chapter 73

While the Afghan president calmed his people and S3 settled into their warehouse inside Kabul, the three Afghan army rifle companies avenged the destruction of their sister company with a ferocity that would have impressed most American infantry battalions. They kicked off their assault with a twenty-minute barrage of artillery fire.

Enthusiastic gunners, who rarely got to fire their artillery pieces in real action, bombarded the hill with their heavy weapons. Nearly twenty minutes of ear-splitting, ground-rocking explosions pummeled the hill. The heavy guns ceased, and commanders screamed and cursed for two minutes until the battalion’s mortars finally opened up.

The mortar bombardment was supposed to commence immediately following the cessation of firing by the artillery, in order to prevent any movement or retreat of Taliban forces on the hill. And in the moment following the artillery ceasing fire, as the dust settled and an eerie silence returned, the two minutes had felt like a lifetime. But the mortars soon followed, pounding the hillside, explosions “whoomping” instead of shrieking in, as the artillery had.

The battalion mortars had far fewer shells to lob up onto the hillside since they had to transport their supplies to the fight itself. (Unlike the artillery unit, which fired from a static base and had days’ worth of ammunition.)

Nonetheless, the mortar gunners imagined with every shell that they dropped down the tube that their own shells were ripping apart the hated Taliban on the hill. And mere minutes after the mortars ceased firing, the warriors of the battalion kicked off their attack, screaming as they went up the hill.

The soldiers launched their attack with yells and cheers, some sprinting and charging for all their worth. It was a sight to behold, but the yells ended quickly. Grunting and struggling replaced the enthusiasm.

Two hours later, the exhausted Afghan troops reached the top. An impressive feat to have scaled the heights at such a clip, but nothing could assuage the disappointment each man felt to find not a single enemy fighter had remained on the hill.

The Taliban had slipped away and not endured a single round of artillery or mortar fire. Sweating and cursing, the angry troops rested briefly and prepared for their climb back down.

Mushahid Zubaida had changed his original plans with great reluctance. But he had concluded he must retreat off the hill and avoid the upcoming battle following wave after wave of damning intel reaching him. First, he had informants describe the Afghan president’s press conference on the street corner. This was reported by handheld radio from several spies inside Kabul.

More intelligence arrived by an informant in the artillery unit that described their preparations for a massive bombardment on the hill. A sympathetic officer with the unit had scribbled a note and handed it to a kitchen worker who was leaving the base for supplies. The man had taken it straight to another Taliban spy who had radioed it immediately to “whoever the friend of Allah is out on the hill beyond our gate.”

The final straw came from a young boy serving as a spotter down on the road below. He waited several miles from Mushahid’s position, watching the road and playing with a kite. Given that the Taliban had banned kite flying when they ruled the country, it seemed the perfect cover for passing Afghan soldiers who had waved at the brave lad.

The boy had waved back energetically, smiling in the cute and heart-warming way that only an innocent face could. But he had counted the trucks and estimated the number of men in each one as they passed, and once the trucks were out of sight, he had let the kite go and run away from the road. Out of sight behind some large boulders, he pulled up a radio partially buried under a rock.

Mushahid received the boy’s report on the number of troops and trucks approaching, merely thanking him. He called two of his experienced men to his position to discuss the matter. On the one hand, they had hauled so much ammunition to the hill and prepared some incredible fighting positions. On the other, each had been under artillery fire before and to hear of such an extensive bombardment planned for the hill? Well, that was something no one wanted to try to survive.

Even survivors lucky enough to not be wounded would be dealing with ringing eardrums, assuming they could prevent complete loss of hearing. And certainly half of their men would be killed or wounded before they could fire onto the enemies climbing up the slopes. Maybe more. And if the Afghans flew a drone or two by? Or allowed the Americans to resume air operations?

It was a frightening image to consider. Their mission had been to draw away an army battalion from inside the city. They had achieved this, and in the end, Mushahid reasoned they would serve the cause better by escaping off the hill with as much of their ammunition as possible.

Leaving so much heavy machine gun ammunition was a serious loss, but he couldn’t call for assistance to help them withdraw. The Afghan government and Americans monitored all their communications by radio and would quickly alter their strategy.

So, Mushahid decided to add some cunning to their plans. He lifted the radio and informed the young boy, “Tell our families and supporters that we are dug in well. We anxiously await the government’s attack and will embarrass the puppet soldiers of America.”

And with that, his men scrambled to pack up and climb over the backside of the hill and down the other side. Mushahid had no waiting transportation, and he couldn’t call for any, obviously, but the Taliban thrived at living off the land and remaining hidden. He’d either stow their heavy weapons with a friendly supporter that lived nearby or have a local drive into Kabul with a messenger from his unit to share their change of plans.

The people supported the Taliban, having grown to hate the Americans. And they weren’t much fonder of the corrupt Afghan government. Not to mention, they feared offending the Taliban, who could still be ruthless in an instant.

Mushahid would use these realities to get support from the people, and they’d use the local residents to get the men and their weapons into Kabul one way or another. Of that, he was confident.

Chapter 74

Marcus looked over the warehouse. It was only day two of S3’s stay in Kabul, and although their decrepit shelter was still gross and had enough rats running through it to feed them for days, the logistics team had made some nice improvements. And all of them at Marcus’ request.

Although big Bossman Woods wasn’t exactly sweating the rustic living conditions (“rust” being the key syllable here) of their new abode, Marcus had felt otherwise. There was an unspoken rule born into the male mind, about men only being Men if they, without hesitation or complaint, stayed the course on the road most shat upon. The military operated on the same rule, but it applied to both Men and Women. Plus, in the military this rule was very clearly stated, often loudly and mere inches away from your face.

But after years of difficult service in the United States Marine Corps, Marcus no longer felt an obligation to that particular rule. He didn’t have anything left to prove to anyone. And when he had the option of comfort, he would accept it gladly and without shame.

He also wasn’t going to require the brave and talented people around him to go without basic amenities either. So, despite knowing that he’d eventually somehow manage to “forget” the orders completely, Marcus still attempted to ask Nick about some minor upgrades to their temporary home.

“We’ll only be a few days,” Nick had said. “No point. Let’s stay focused on the mission.”

Marcus had at least two problems with Nick’s reasoning. First, he had learned some years ago that in the military or in a combat situation “a few days” could very easily turn into a few weeks or more. Secondly, this was Nick. While it was quite common for leadership to prioritize a mission above their troops, Nick Woods and his sniper focus took the idea to a whole new level. The man was nothing short of manic when he was mission planning, especially in this case as he didn’t have a clue what he was actually planning for.

Marcus had watched as Nick darted about at a furious pace. He was directing the four squads to patrol various parts of the city -- both to get a feel for their new surrounding and to hopefully spot some clue that might portend an upcoming attack. Besides the patrols by the squads, Nick had also hidden his three sniper teams in carefully selected observation posts. Finally, he grilled the four attached police officers, asking them to talk with their fellow officers and search for patterns that might be overlooked.

And as if that wasn’t enough, he was harassing the IT experts to double-down on their combing through of Ahmud al-Habshi’s computer and servers. But the IT people couldn’t read Pashto, and the language folks were mostly back in the States, so there was lots of forwarding, uploading, and scanning of documents. All of which took time and had produced almost zilch in regards to intelligence, minus the information that led to the ambush on the supply convoy.

So having expected nothing less, Marcus had immediately and “accidentally” deleted Nick’s response from his brain. A couple radio conversations later, and the S3 logistics team arrived from Bagram Airfield with supplies and ready to work.

Within an hour, the team had gotten the electricity up and working, and a neat grid of cots had started to form. The cots weren’t the most comfortable, but they sure beat having to sleep on the concrete floor another night. And certainly not even the Bossman and his rickety old spine would be able to complain about that.

Marcus was looking forward to some air conditioning, currently being worked on, and the promise of prepared meals during their stay. He was just smiling over all the progress when he heard an irritated, country-laced holler behind him.

“Marcus!”

Marcus’ smile drooped as he turned to look across the room. Nick sat in a metal folding chair behind his homemade, and literally jacked-up command center. He had the receiver of an encrypted satellite phone pressed to his ear in one hand while the other hand was impatiently beckoning Marcus.

While the warehouse contained three actual designated office spaces, at the present none of them were very functional. None of the small offices had any exterior ventilation source, and over time, the leaking roof, radiant heat, infestations (plural), and general decay had turned the environment of each into that of a very large petri dish. And as the place had been abandoned years ago, they’d found that at least one of the offices had now been turned into the loving home of Mr. and Mrs. Rat, their two dozen beautiful children, plus their three hundred adorable grandchildren.

But somewhere Nick had managed to unearth a square, rusted folding table missing only one of its four legs. Then using a thick discarded book, a second folding chair, and a crooked car jack (and thus the “jacked-up” description), he’d managed to get the surface mostly level. And at some point, he’d secured the artificial appendage together with a hastily wrapped cast of duct tape. On the table was a collection of various maps, satellite images, and other intel paraphernalia.

“Marcus, snap out of it and get over here!” the man barked.

Marcus walked across the warehouse, following a line of contraband cots, and secretly hoped he wasn’t about to get his ass unnecessarily bitten off because of them.

“What’s up, boss?” he asked.

Nick hung up the phone and sat back in the squeaky-folding chair, clenching his hair in his fists and groaning. A look of annoyed madness briefly crossed his face.

“I’m coming up empty,” Nick said, exasperated. He motioned to the map of Kabul and the scattered papers before him.

Marcus gave a mental sigh of relief. Nick remained so wholly focused on the Taliban that he hadn’t found time to get pissed off about Marcus’ plot with logistics.

“Well,” Marcus said, “I’ve been over the options about a hundred times myself, and I’ve only got the same answer that I gave you before. They’ll most likely try and hit the president’s building.”

Nick still looked frustrated.

“Remember, that’s why we picked this location, Nick,” Marcus said, trying to give the man some assurance. “And now that we’re set up and ready to go, positioned this close to our best probable target, I don’t know what else there is for us to do but wait.”

Nick shook his head in dissatisfaction. “That’s not good enough. Damn it. There has to be something we’re overlooking or that we could be doing.”

Marcus gave him a small smile. He knew that Nick wasn’t really this worked up because they weren’t as prepared as they could be. The man was simply a strike-first kind of guy. And the waiting, plus the unknown threat, was making him restless.

“Well, we could,” Marcus speculated, “wrap Red up in an American flag and let him wander down the street. See if he draws any fire, maybe?”

Marcus turned his head directing Nick’s gaze far across the open-bayed warehouse, where the little man stood shadow boxing when he was technically supposed to be resting.

“You know he’s crazy enough to do it,” Marcus said.

Nick watched Red for a moment, impressed as he’d always been, with the man’s speed, skill, and endurance.

“I don’t know,” Nick said, grinning a bit. “I’m kind of partial to the little asshole. But, just to be safe, let’s make that our backup plan.”

Chapter 75

The Afghan president stood behind an ornate podium, gazing out at the press before him with a warm greeting that was the complete opposite of what he truly felt. He had heeded the advice of his military advisors and decided to hold this press conference in the safety of the room where he typically addressed the country.

The reporters had bitched to no end about being arrayed around him on a street corner after his last press event. It’s true, he thought. He had made a hell of a target for a car bombing, but he was disgusted by the fact that they were more worried about their own deaths than doing their duty to save the country by calming the fears of the terrified people.

They’re self-interested, spoiled troublemakers, he thought. And not for the first time. Yet he smiled at them with as genuine a smile as he could summon. The smile was not for them, but for the people who might see it on their TVs or at cafes in the city.

But despite his lack of regard for the press, he was feeling much better about the security situation since the report from the military. The Taliban had made their play and been promptly stomped.

“I’m here to announce that Afghan government forces have routed Taliban insurgents occupying a hill outside Kabul. Our army coordinated artillery and mortar fire to obliterate the Taliban positions, which were quickly seized afterward.”

He smiled and nodded to some light applause.

“My message to the Afghan people is that the Taliban cannot stand up to our military. Our heavy weapons and the courageous actions of our troops will always carry the battlefield. Furthermore, today’s military action proved once and for all that our forces do not need American assistance.

“As I stated before the fight, I will not allow American forces to operate in our country again. While we are appreciative of their efforts through the years, we can now stand on our own two feet thanks to their help. Our forces are well-led, well-supplied, and well-armed. But more importantly, they are more diligent and careful.

“I don’t believe for one second that Afghan pilots would have lit up that compound as the American Apaches did. And can we blame them? This isn’t the Americans’ country. They’re mere soldiers, wanting to survive our war so they can return home safely to their families.

“Our soldiers are more prudent. They recognize the local soldiers on the ground. They know the families in each town. They operate with more discretion. I’m aware that some advisors advocate allowing American troops to operate again. I’m even aware that some of our residents feel the same way.

“But I have carefully reflected on my decision and concluded once more that our forces are prepared to handle all security operations in our country. As a matter of fact, I have ordered another army battalion to deploy from Kabul to take up the pursuit of these Taliban survivors. And with that, I’ll take a few questions.”

Chapter 76

Nick, Marcus, and the Primary Strike Team watched the president’s speech the very moment it was uploaded online by a local news organization. It didn’t merit coverage by CNN or any English-speaking stations, so Lana Haider translated, pausing the video every couple of moments as she relayed the remarks.

Once it ended, Nick glanced at Marcus and said, “Let’s go call Mr. Smith.”

Through the magic of electricity and a working air conditioner plus a few fans, they had managed to get one of the three offices cool and well-lit enough to inspect. And with the help of a selfless (while also maybe not completely informed) volunteer willing to check the room for any vermin, they now had a usable, though still nasty, office space. Red had only screamed a little, but he had sworn over and over again that he’d just been a little startled. He also repeatedly mumbled that he’d never seen a rat as big as a dog before.

Truck had laughed, snorting a bit, and asked, “Afraid of a big bad wolf, little Red?”

Red’s eyes had widened as he quickly turned to face the big man. A vein had bulged from his cocked neck, and Lana and Preacher had managed to grab him, while Truck rocked back and forth on his heels, tearing up at his own joke.

Soon after, Nick and Marcus walked into the one rat-free office inside the warehouse. While Nick worked the satellite phone to make a connection, Marcus leaned his M4 against the wall and started a set of push-ups.

Nick propped his boots on a metal desk that had to be fifty years old.

“I can’t believe you’re doing push-ups on this nasty floor,” Nick said while the phone attempted to connect.

The phone usually took between fifteen to forty-five seconds to connect.

“I’ve got my gloves on,” Marcus said, stilling going up and down with ease.

“Still,” Nick replied. “This place is moldy as hell.”

“Probably no worse than the damn trailer you lived in back in East Tennessee,” Marcus quipped.

“I never lived in any trailer,” Nick snapped back. “Now quit stereotyping the good people of Appalachia before headquarters realizes how much insubordination I allow.”

“Headquarters is already listening,” Mr. Smith replied, “but I’m glad Marcus brought it up because I have been dying to ask how you all manage without indoor plumbing and electricity. Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t want you to get lost, Nick. So let me rephrase that: I’ve been dying to ask how y’all manage, I mean.”

Marcus climbed to his feet and dusted off his gloves.

Nick shook his head. “Mocking a poor and humble people,” Nick tsked. “But I guess I can’t say the behavior is all that surprising coming from a holier-than-thou, college-educated, and somehow still insecure New Englander.”

“Aww.” Marcus cooed. “It’s really sweet how close the two of you are becoming.”

Then Mr. Smith and Nick both cleared their throats at the same time. But before Marcus could jab them again on how adorable their synchronicity was, Mr. Smith managed to speak up and move the conversation along.

“All in good jest,” Mr. Smith said. “Now back to the matter at hand, what’s the latest on your end?”

“Did you see the press conference?” Nick asked.

“I did, and I was lucky enough to have an interpreter in my office.”

“You’re slipping,” Nick said. “I figured you would’ve had someone steal you a copy of the speech before he ever said the words.”

“I did,” Mr. Smith said. “But I wanted to make sure he stuck to it.”

“Nice,” Marcus said.

“Thankfully, we have several great sources in his administration, which would be even better if they actually knew anything about the upcoming Taliban attack.”

“So you’ve gotten nothing new?” Nick asked.

“If I had anything, I would have called. I’m not even sure the Pakistani ISI know the details of when or where. Just that it was originally going to happen in July, and now it’s being pushed up because they fear we have too much of the plan’s details on their servers.”

“If Pakistani intelligence doesn’t know,” Marcus said, “then we’re not going to find out. They practically work hand-in-hand with the Taliban and Rasool Deraz.”

“I’ve been trying,” Mr. Smith said, “to lean on our assets in ISI and in the Pakistani government, but I’m not getting much. Partly because they don’t have much. And partly because it’s hard as hell to secure informants in either organization, so when we get someone inside, their handler within the CIA becomes incredibly protective of releasing something that might lead to our informant’s death.”

“What about the second battalion the president has deployed,” Marcus said. “Are they in contact with the enemy?”

“They have no idea where the Taliban is,” Mr. Smith said. “We’re monitoring all their radio traffic.”

“Maybe it’s just a PR stunt,” Nick suggested. “Maybe he’s not actually deploying another battalion.”

“Oh, if only that were true,” Mr. Smith said. “No, he’s in the process of deploying a second battalion to the front. In his defense, he doesn’t realize his generals are afraid to admit that they have no idea where the Taliban fled. In the after-report, they told him they had seized the hill and were in pursuit of the survivors. A mere single sentence in their report. But he grabbed onto that sentence and ran with it, completely oblivious to the fact that the exhausted Afghan troops were wearily resting on top of the hill once they finally reached it.”

“So, he’s taken this report and imagined his army ruthlessly hunting the Taliban down?” Marcus asked.

“Precisely,” Mr. Smith said.

“You can’t make this crap up,” Marcus said, shaking his head in disgust.

“I’m afraid it’s even worse. The Department of Defense tried to tell the Afghan president the truth. The DOD was worried about the Afghan Armed Forces moving that second battalion out of Kabul since we believe the Taliban is set to strike the capital, and soon.”

“I bet that went well,” Nick said.

“Like a ton of bricks,” Mr. Smith said. “The American general attached to his office even showed him drone footage of his troops resting on the hill. Plus, it showed definitive proof that no Taliban were in the area, and it even clearly showed that Afghan troops weren’t in pursuit.”

“He didn’t trust the video from the battle?” Marcus asked.

“No, he said his generals would never lie to him, and that he’d never trust an American over a fellow Afghan. He thinks the footage is doctored or completely made up. He thinks the U.S. is only saying this so our forces will be allowed to operate again. Even claims we’re trying to stir up fear and panic among the people so our forces can stay longer.”

Nick looked at Marcus. Neither knew what to say.

“Bottom line, communication is worse than ever between the U.S. and Afghanistan. They’re not going to listen to us anytime soon. It’s all about China and Iran now. We’re even hearing word that top Iranian military advisors will be arriving in Kabul in the coming days.”

“There may not be a city for them to land in,” Marcus said.

“Not according to the Afghan president,” Mr. Smith said. “He seems to no longer have any fear of major attacks. His most recent internal emails state that the fight on the hill was the Taliban’s big stand. Their ‘big thrust into Kabul,’ as he terms it. And this main force was destroyed and run off the hill. Decisively, according to him.”

“He thinks an ambush by a platoon-sized element was their main attack?” Marcus asked incredulously.

“He’s in denial and not thinking straight. Plus, he has terrible advisors. Most of whom want us gone so they can continue doing whatever they want without an ounce of oversight.”

Chapter 77

Nick briefed his Primary Strike Team with the latest news from Mr. Smith. The office was small, but all six of them managed to cram inside without too much discomfort.

“I can’t believe this dumbass president thinks that little ambush was the main attack,” Red said.

“Or that he’d send another battalion outside the capital to pursue them,” Lana added, flipping her braided hair over her shoulder. “I’d tell him how stupid that was, but I’m not sure he’s smart enough to take advice from a woman.”

“In fairness to Islam,” Preacher said, “if you were a brand-new Christian who had just started reading the Old Testament, you wouldn’t feel much different about women.”

“Let’s stay focused,” Nick said. “We know that the major attack from the Taliban is coming. Their final move after ten-plus years of positioning. And we know we have no American air power or land forces that can be used. And we know the Afghan president isn’t fearing any attack, having sent two of the best battalions of his army out to deal with a minor ambush. On the flip side, we know an attack is about to happen, and we need solutions. Like now.”

No one said anything for a moment.

“Any chance,” Truck asked, “we could ship in a couple M-1A1 tanks? Then it wouldn’t matter what they tried. They’re not blowing those damn things up without IEDs, and with paved streets in the capital, that’s not happening in Kabul.”

“Motherfucking Truck always asking for something big to drive,” Red said. “You only feel safe behind a couple feet of armor, right?”

“Guys,” Marcus snapped, stopping any slap-fight before it happened.

“I was serious,” Truck said, shrugging in his defense.

“It’s a great idea,” Nick said, “but there are no M1’s in Afghanistan right now, and I don’t see the Air Force flying us any in.”

“Not to mention,” Lana said, “the Afghan president wants all American troops and equipment out. He’s not going to let anyone bring any back in either.”

“I hate this waiting,” Nick said. “Surely there’s something we can do. I really want to hit them before they make their move and catch both us and the Afghan government by surprise.”

“Lana,” Marcus asked, “you picking anything up in their papers or on the internet forums?”

“I’ve read the local papers from front to back, looking for any clues or possible signals buried in stories or ads, and found nothing,” Lana replied. “And I just came back from the internet cafe for the second time today and things are remarkably quiet on the jihadi forums online.”

“That scares me even more,” Nick said. “They always get quiet right before they do something big. And with how much crap they’re usually spewing out, it can’t be an accident.”

“I’ve been following this internet forum traffic for years,” Lana said, “especially when I was with the CIA, and it’s really odd. All of the Taliban’s websites and forums are deathly silent. No threats of removing the Afghan president. No claims of a future uprising. Nothing.”

“Argh, and this attack’s coming down soon,” Nick said. “I can practically feel it.”

He clenched his fists and sighed, looking at each Primary Strike Team member for any other suggestions.

“So, no one has any bright ideas on what we can do other than wait?” Nick asked. “No proactive measures we can take or any way we can take the fight to them?”

No one said a word. Lana shrugged, Red and Truck looked down, and Marcus said, “I’ve already told you I’m out of ideas.”

Nick cursed. “Then we’ll go with S3’s number one backup plan when you don’t know what to do.”

“What’s that?” Lana asked.

“Ah, shit,” Truck said. “I think I know.”

“Hell, yeah,” Red said with a smile.

“Lana, go get the four policemen and ask them where the most dangerous part of Kabul is,” Nick said.

“I’m still confused,” she said, furrowing her dark eyebrows.

“It’s Neza-Chalco-Itza all over again,” Red said, acting like a giddy little boy.

“What’s Neza-Chalco-Itza?” she asked, struggling to pronounce it.

“It’s the largest slum in Mexico, where the Godesto Cartel was primarily operating from,” Preacher explained. “When we weren’t really sure what to do when S3 was in Mexico, we decided to go into their base city. A place where the police never went.”

“In fairness,” Nick said, “that didn’t turn out so well. We lost a lot of good people. Even Preacher took some lead.”

He looked at Preacher and said, “Sorry again about that. But this time, we’ll leave the light trucks here and take the MRAPs and heavy weapons. If the Taliban or any of their sympathizers want to play, we’ll play. And maybe we’ll stumble into their main attack or force them to launch early or show their hand.”

Chapter 78

Two hours later, the beginnings of a plan were shaping up for S3. The four officers had all agreed on what was the most dangerous place in Kabul. It was a part of the city occupied by the most fanatical and religious fundamentalists. And it had the highest number of mosques per square mile of any part of the capital.

And like Neza-Chalco-Itza, the Afghan police had stopped trying to patrol it after getting involved in numerous heavy firefights. The imams of the local mosques wouldn’t allow the police to search their premises for weapons, and despite the aerial footage of fighters hiding in their sanctuaries, the Afghan president had decided it was a fight not worth dealing with in the near term.

Nick had asked the four Afghan police officers attached to his unit to request permission from their superiors for S3 to patrol through the area. That had been promptly shot down by the mid-level police captains who declared it too dangerous.

And Nick couldn’t seem to convince the police captains that S3 didn’t give a shit how dangerous it was. Unable to pierce the language barrier, he had gone around them and had Mr. Smith talk to the highest ranking officers.

They, too, had denied the request. But not because of the dangers, but because of the limited number of Afghan speakers in S3. They -- rightly -- knew that with so few members in S3 being able to speak the language, a lot would die in such a patrol. And the leadership of the police wasn’t in a hurry to go pissing off the religious fanatics of Kabul and creating a potential uprising from the city’s most dangerous sector.

The final word to Mr. Smith from the Afghan government was that S3 couldn’t conduct any raids or attacks of any kind unless given express permission.

“In fact, I’m worried they’re going to soon require S3 to stop operating,” Mr. Smith had said. “The president truly believes he’s ended the threat with the attack on the hill, and when added to the reduced number of attacks by the Taliban across the country, he’s almost convinced he’s won the whole war.”

“It’s exactly like Tet, 1968,” Nick replied. “Our generals thought the lack of enemy activity by the Viet Cong proved we’d nearly won the thing and next thing you know, you have 80,000 enemy attacking more than one hundred cities.”

“It appears to be the same situation here,” Mr. Smith agreed. “The Taliban is certainly staging for their big attack, but the servers weren’t the honeypot we hoped they’d be, and our intelligence and satellites are failing to see any patterns or buildup. Bottom line, all that S3 can do is wait for the trap to spring and until then, you’re only authorized to defend yourself if you come under fire.”

And with those words, Nick found their plan and his way around all the bullshit. Not that he informed Mr. Smith of that. Better to apologize after the fact than ask permission and be told “no.”

He ended the call then smiled up at Marcus with the biggest smile he could muster.

“Uh oh, I know that look,” Marcus said.

“You heard what he said. We can defend ourselves if fired upon. We’ll just go for a little drive tomorrow, get a little turned around, and end up where we’re not supposed to be. And if they fire on us, then it’s on. Ironically, it’s the same damned idea you had when you suggested Red as bullet bait.”

“Smith is going to be so pissed,” Marcus laughed.

“What else is new? Our job is to succeed, and sometimes you have to ruffle some feathers to make that happen.”

Marcus dropped the smile, slipping into a thoughtful expression.

“Okay, so if we’re doing this, then we should go ahead and get Dr. Julia down here. I’ll go make the call.”

Marcus had already started toward the door when Nick stopped him.

“And you’re absolutely sure that she can handle this? She can do her job while up to her neck in the action?” Nick asked.

The comment resulted from a thought Nick had been chewing on.

In the hours after his initial discussion with Marcus about Dr. Julia Clayton outside the weapons room, Nick had returned to his room with the intention of embracing the change (the one that’d been forced down his throat by Mr. Smith) and moving forward. It took an hour and a half for him to finally submit to the concept and work out how he wanted to proceed. He had then called Marcus to meet with him and go over things.

There might have been some disagreement between the two about how much the good doctor might be capable of taking on. But eventually, Nick settled and promised to take all of Marcus’ generous suggestions under advisement. The biggest point of contention had been on whether or not Dr. Clayton would be serviceable in a combat situation.

The truth was that neither Nick nor Marcus was very familiar with the lingo or details of the medical world, let alone the specifications of the Army Medical Department. But the CIA had cleared her for the job and she’d successfully convinced Marcus of her ability. And now that Dr. Clayton was officially on S3’s payroll, none of the lingo, the details, or even the specifics really mattered anymore. They would just have to carry on with what they had and hope it worked out.

But once they had pulled together some kind of job description, Nick had sent Marcus to officially welcome Dr. Clayton on behalf of S3. He had also specifically requested that Marcus brief her on the company and its structure. Nick had hoped Dr. Clayton’s realization of his leadership role in S3 would inspire her to change her mind on joining the team. But no such luck there.

And now back in the small, moldy, warehouse office, Marcus stepped closer to Nick. He looked Nick directly in the eyes and gave a speech almost identical to the one he’d given before.

“As I’ve already told you, I have a gut feeling about her,” Marcus said. “Now, do I know, for sure, that she’s got this? No. But you and I both know how stuff like this works. The only thing to do is give her a shot and see how it goes. If things get hairy, then we pull her back and adjust from there.”

Nick knew Marcus was right, and honestly, he had no good reason to doubt the man. Marcus had practically hand-picked every recruit of S3 since the beginning. Of course, Nick had reviewed and approved them all, but Marcus had done most of the work. He seemed to have a special gift for seeing a person’s true potential.

Nick mustered a small smile and patted Marcus on the shoulder. “You’re right,” he said. “Go make the call. Send a squad to escort her here. Make sure she knows she can bring whoever and whatever equipment she wants, but we’ve got to get this done quick. We still don’t know when or how the Taliban plans to strike.”

“Got it,” Marcus said as he turned to leave the room.

“And, Marcus?”

The tall drill instructor stopped, just having opened the office door and turned back.

“Thanks for pushing me on this. It’s the right move,” Nick admitted.

A crooked smile creeped up on the big man’s face.

“When you gonna learn, boss, that I got all the right moves.” And then, in his best Michael Jackson impression, Marcus squealed, “Hee, Hee!” and moon-walked out the door.

Chapter 79

Dr. Julia Clayton arrived at the warehouse in Kabul after 8 p.m. She was thankful to have met many of the S3 members earlier, as that made it less nerve-racking.

It had been a bittersweet feeling leaving Bagram Airfield. It had been her home for a long time, and the base hospital had been her purpose and motivation for getting up every morning. She had put, not just a lot of her life, but all of her life on hold for that purpose. She had outworked and outlasted almost every doctor that had stepped foot in that hospital, and now she was leaving.

And although the exhaustion, the emotional strain, and the constant personal sacrifice had made the decision to move on easier, her record of service was still hard to give up. Of course, she’d be back there at some point in the near future, cleaning out her quarters, saying goodbye to familiar faces, and tying up loose ends. That would be the real goodbye, but Julia couldn’t help but feel like this was the moment where she truly had to let go.

Stepping away from Bagram to go on this mission had felt like the first big and scary step forward that she’d taken in a long time.

And now she had a new job, with new co-workers and new challenges to face. So while she was nervous about the hours ahead, the simple factor of a changing scenery promised a new and fresh start.

Julia stepped down from the hulking Cougar MRAP, both hands carrying supplies and gear. Exiting behind her followed a couple of her best PAs (Physicians Assistants). Though neither of them would probably be able to stay on with S3 permanently, she was glad the base commander had agreed to allow her to bring them at least temporarily. Both Naomi and Ryan had served in combat, so in the light of things to come, their experience would probably prove both valuable and comforting.

The very second Julia stepped into the warehouse she was greeted with excitement and smiles. While the squad that had escorted her continued to move in more medical equipment from the vehicles, several S3 members came to relieve her and her PAs.

The large, beefy man they called Truck had marched up, and with one hand easily grabbed a fifty-pound case of vials she’d been lugging with both hands. The case was locked and built to military grade specifications (meaning extra, extra heavy-duty). He had then set the case down and bent over to pick up a large, cumbersome footlocker that Julia could have sworn would have taken two or three people to carry in. But Truck hauled the massive box underneath one arm, carrying it like it was a football. Then he topped himself by bending carefully down to retrieve the case he’d taken from her.

Red came galloping behind him, grabbed both the bag on her back and the oversized duffle slung over her shoulder. He seemed to stagger a bit, but righted himself quickly, and shot Julia a huge smile. And most likely hoping to win back a little of the collective pride that Truck had sucked from every other male in the room, Red then stepped past Julia and all but demanded to take Naomi’s equally large duffle bag as well.

Julia started across the warehouse to where the team was neatly stacking her gear. She returned a wave to Preacher who stood off to the right, clearing cots to help move the gear in. Suddenly, Julia caught a blur of movement as Lana darted behind and up around her, matching Julia’s stride while walking backwards. “Oh, now it’s on,” Lana said, holding her fist out. Julia bumped the woman’s fist with her own and smiled as Lana quick-stepped into a spin and dashed off to help the others.

Julia glanced to the left, looking over the space, and saw Nick Woods far off along the wall beside a very odd-looking table. He was dressed in his Afghan police uniform, and had both hands on his hips, his right one resting atop his holstered Glock. The man watched her blankly as she moved across the room and offered her a single polite nod of recognition. Julia wasn’t fazed at all by the man’s behavior. If he thought he was the first or even the worst stubborn veteran she’d met, then he was beyond mistaken.

If building a peaceful, working relationship with Mr. Woods was easier for him with distance, then Julia was more than happy to oblige. She understood that for men like Mr. Woods, trust was probably not something given lightly. And for that reason, Julia hated that she’d let him get under her skin when they first met. She certainly understood how her reaction might have set her a step back with him.

Scarred souls are terribly skittish in nature, and tend to wear the most armor. But Julia believed, that with time, they could work it out. Nick Woods was honestly the least of her worries, so she raised her hand in a stationary hello, letting a small smile show on her face as she nodded back respectfully. And then pushed on ahead to help her PA Ryan sort through the growing stacks of gear.

But before she made it all the way there, she felt Marcus’ shoulder brush up against hers as he walked alongside her. The gentle giant of a man pulled her into a tight side hug. “Welcome to paradise, my lady,” he said playfully. “Now can I get you anything? Mai Tai, Margarita, a Bay Breeze, perhaps?”

Julia smiled. “Just give me the rum, matey. And keep it coming,” she said baring her teeth and squinting an eye.

“Aye, aye,” Marcus replied with a chuckle. He quickly squeezed her again and released her to move onward to her station.

“Oh, I really do hope he brings back some booze,” she said to herself, looking gloomily at the piles of cases and supplies. “‘Cause I’ve got an assload of unpacking to do.”

Nick hadn’t actually decided on how he’d greet Dr. Clayton when she arrived. If just one of the warehouse offices hadn’t been so damned disgusting, then he would have been happy to hole up in there and avoid her arrival altogether. But as he was a little concerned for the health of his lungs while hunkered in what was essentially a closed and spore-riddled closet, he decided against that plan. Eventually, he had settled on the plan of aloof and subtle acknowledgement of her existence.

The only direct contact Nick had experienced with Dr. Clayton since their disastrous introduction was when he’d called the whole of S3 to attend a special briefing before their move to the warehouse in Kabul. She’d slipped in right before the meeting began and stood along the back wall. Nick noticed several members of S3 give the doctor a wave or head nod in silent greeting. She had smiled at all of them and even offered a nod of hello toward Nick when she’d seen him looking at her.

Nick had been actively staring at her, but mostly because he hadn’t initially recognized her since she had her hair down and traded the scrubs for civilian clothing.

When Nick had called for the all-hands mandatory meeting, he hadn’t actually realized that such a meeting would require the attendance of the official S3 physician. Thankfully, Marcus was, as usual, on his A-game. He somehow managed to read Nick’s mind -- because he certainly wasn’t able to understand the whispered, stuttering gibberish that came out of Nick’s mouth -- and stood to open the meeting, introducing the team to the newly hired Dr. Julia Clayton.

Nick was glad he’d thought to suggest it, even though it was quite possible that Marcus had planned to do it himself anyway. But Nick was proud of himself regardless, and that little effort to play nice helped him quickly move past his surprise at her being there. He then gave the team their orders.

At first, Nick had at first assumed that Dr. Clayton had hung back to shake hands and greet the rest of the team as they left the meeting room. But, as he still hadn’t planned on her being there, it wasn’t until the room had cleared, leaving her, Marcus, and Nick behind, that he’d realized that he hadn’t actually covered her orders. Nick braced himself for several things as she moved to meet them: harsh threats, a smart-ass comment maybe, possibly a physical impact of some sort.

But the woman simply offered a polite smile and extended her hand to Nick. Nick hesitated long enough to remind himself to “never let ‘em see you sweat” and shook the lady’s hand.

She had then looked at Marcus, who responded with a bright smile. Marcus, the rat-bastard, had then turned that damned grin on Nick, a blatant (and smug) refusal to help him negotiate this conversation.

“Uhh,” Nick said. “I guess you’re wondering about your orders, then.”

“Well, yes,” she replied. “But I also just wanted to sincerely thank you for the job, Mr. Woods.”

Nick was honestly a little stunned, not just because of what she’d said, but because she really appeared to have meant it. Shake it off, Nick told himself.

So Nick did his best to press on and save the analysis for later if he felt like worrying about it. After that, the three of them briefly sat to quickly run through the initial plan of her involvement and the possible contingencies that might come up. She had accepted the orders without complaint and simply responded with a couple surprisingly insightful questions.

They’d then stood, everyone shaking hands, and she’d thanked them both. But she’d suddenly stopped inside of the door and turned to look at Nick.

“How’s your shoulder, Mr. Woods?”

Nick just looked at her, feeling lost for what should have been an easy answer. And after a painful four seconds, Nick’s brain finally caught up, and he managed to croak out the reply, “Doin’ better.”

“Glad to hear it,” she responded, smiling lightly before making her exit.

Unfortunately, even with the additional and overall positive interaction, Dr. Clayton had not managed to improve Nick’s personal opinion of her at all. And while Nick could not put his finger on the specific problem, he was quite frankly tired of thinking about it. Sometimes you just don’t like people, he had assured himself, doesn’t mean they’re bad people. It just means what it means: you simply don’t like them.

However, Dr. Clayton had done enough to momentarily persuade Nick that professionally she might have potential. So as long as the doctor remained cooperative, Nick was willing to give her a shot. Besides, he honestly didn’t have many doubts about her abilities per se. He mostly worried about the probability of her inspiring a mutiny against him. Or something less dramatic, but still to the effect of being a ripe, old pain in his ass.

And so, Nick watched as Dr. Clayton arrived. He watched as his fighters fussed and celebrated her coming. A bit excessive, Nick thought. Well, at least it was over with, and he could get back to doing what he excelled at.

Nick leaned back and propped his knee against the wall. Crossing his arms, he observed the various squads as they prepared for tomorrow’s dangerous mission.

The Primary Strike Team joked and laughed as they prepared their gear. They displayed the levity and lightness of experienced troops that you might find in the SEALs, Green Berets, and MARSOC. Something about shooters at that level kept them from having to act and maintain the posture of hard-asses, more commonly found in regular infantry units.

The other three support squads had a more serious and determined look. Each of the six-man squads was off in their own small areas they had claimed in the warehouse. These men packed gear and checked weapons same as the Primary Strike Team, but they had a different look. They appeared more serious and focused, wearing tougher demeanors. Nick knew every member on each squad would go out of their way tomorrow to attempt to impress Nick or Marcus and earn a spot on the Primary Strike Team.

And off in a far corner, all by themselves, was the sniper squad. The three teams of two wiped down scoped, long rifles and inspected ammo bullet-by-bullet as if each round was a precious diamond. Nick knew they were looking for the smallest possible deformities, despite the fact they were already using expensive, hand-loaded match ammunition.

Snipers will be snipers, he thought with a smile, remembering his day of being one himself. He walked to his office and grabbed his M4. He decided to walk the perimeter and make sure the S3 security element was wide awake and doing its job. The unit only had a small perimeter and chain-link fence protecting them from whatever might come, so this wasn’t a time for anyone to be dropping their guard.

Chapter 80

The team members going out on the patrol awoke the next morning at 5:30 a.m., feasted on MREs (slight exaggeration), and conducted final gear prep. They’d be moving out at 9 a.m. to arrive in the neighborhood by 9:30-ish. At that point, no one was really sure what would happen.

Perhaps they would drive around the streets in the MRAPS and only get some ugly stares. If that happened, Nick didn’t know what they would do except return to base after an hour or so.

But every bit of his instinct assumed they would take fire, and then they’d just be reacting to whatever came at them. Perhaps they’d dish it out at range, using their heavy weapons from the MRAPs to silence those foolish enough to engage them. Or maybe they’d clear some buildings if the occasion presented itself.

It would be a great way to seize a damning amount of ammunition and weapons to prove to the Afghan president that real trouble was headed his way. But regardless of how the mission went down, Nick wanted to have most of the day (with its crucial sunlight) to fight their way through it -- or out of it, if it were serious enough.

S3 was prepared to fight in the dark, packing all their night vision gear and batteries just in case, but Nick and Marcus didn’t want to be in the middle of Kabul fighting at night. Too many ways to die or kill innocent bystanders in such a crowded city.

But before they could leave on their mission, Nick got a phone call at 8:20 a.m. from the last person he wanted to hear from. As soon as Lana carried the encrypted phone in his office and informed him Mr. Smith was on the line, Nick wondered how he would prevent his boss from knowing they were about to head into serious harm’s way.

“Send it,” Nick said, speaking into the phone with some real reluctance.

“Not sure what you have on your plate today,” Mr. Smith said, pausing, waiting for Nick to volunteer some information.

“We’re just planning on running a couple insignificant patrols near the president’s building,” Nick said with a grin. “Same as we’ve been doing.”

“Might want to change your plans. We’ve learned the president is planning a major celebration today, right in front of the presidential palace.”

“I assume you’re not kidding.”

“Nope. Two o’clock. Will probably be thousands attending, as they’re starting already to spread the word. It’ll be on the loudspeakers soon and spreading from the mosques. The president is even planning a speech. Says he wants to celebrate the rout of the Taliban.”

Nick cursed loudly and said, “This is it. Got to go.”

Chapter 81

Rasool Deraz stepped out of an inner sanctum of one of Kabul’s holiest mosques. Mushahid Zubaida had waited for more than an hour while Rasool prayed inside the room.

Rasool greeted him with the warmest smile, and Mushahid noticed the man’s eyes glistening. He shuffled up to Mushahid and hugged him hard, his frail arms exerting much effort.

Rasool released him and pulled back, a tear rolling down his wrinkled cheek. He reached up and lightly patted Mushahid on his face.

“I have foreseen a great victory for our people,” Rasool said. “Allah has shown me that today is the day.”

Mushahid took a deep breath and bowed at the news. How could he convince the man to wait two more days? Especially when he got these kinds of feelings from above?

“But, sir,” Mushahid said, “we would have a greater chance of success if we wait two more days, as we had been planning all along.”

“No, it is time. Allah has shown me.”

Rasool was still smiling, and Mushahid knew he would have to tread carefully. No mere mortal could suggest that perhaps Allah was wrong. And when a religious believer, who had such deep faith as Rasool, felt they had been foretold something, then plans or objections such as tactical considerations no longer mattered.

“If Allah wills it, then we will gain victory today,” Mushahid said, humbly bowing. “But if we wait two more days, then we’ll have three hundred more fighters, and the mere soldier in me would feel far more confident.”

He smiled with the words, making them as delicate as possible.

“You worry too much,” Rasool said. He wrapped his arm around Mushahid and leaned on him as the two walked toward the front of the mosque, where he had left his cane and their shoes.

“How many fighters have entered the city?” Rasool asked.

“We now have nearly eight hundred.”

“That is more than enough.”

“The tribal elders have been quite generous,” Mushahid said. “They have not only sent some of their best fighters, but their women have also delivered more than enough food for the men to eat.”

The two leaders had used messengers to request each village and town to amass men in the capital. They had stayed off the radios to prevent intercepts and avoided stating any attack dates or plans. Secrecy trumped all else.

“There is more than enough food to wait two more days,” Mushahid argued. “By waiting, we can gain the fighters from the farthest provinces. Their longer journeys will only delay us a couple of days, but will further ensure our chances of success. And it will also allow them to take part in the victory and feel more committed to our government once the president and his people flee.”

“It will be your government,” Rasool said.

Mushahid stopped. “What?”

“Yes, you will reward the tribal leaders’ loyalty graciously after this magnificent battle.”

Rasool noticed the stunned look on Mushahid’s face.

“Ah, now you know the other revelation Allah showed me inside that room. It is your time, Mushahid. This will be my final battle. I will deliver you victory if it is Allah’s will, and then announce that my time to step down has come.”

Mushahid couldn’t even swallow. He stood there, frozen and stunned.

“Of course, it will take a vote from the tribal elders, but I will push hard for your selection. Your appointment is virtually assured.”

Mushahid still had no idea what to say.

“It is time I retire to the mountains,” Rasool said, smiling, his eyes glistening again. “I wish to sit by the stream I played in as a child. I wish to live the simple life again, raising goats and chickens. Telling stories to my grandchildren. Hassan will be seven soon.”

The smiling man gazed wistfully into the distance.

One of their personal guards entered the mosque, allowed his eyes to adjust, and saw the two men across the room. He hastily removed his shoes, placed his weapon against a wall, and hurried to them.

Rasool broke from his thoughts and said, “Yes, Assadullah?”

The man bowed. “I’m sorry to interrupt, sir, but word is spreading that the Afghan president is holding a massive celebration. This afternoon. In just a few hours, in fact.”

The man lifted his head, but Rasool wasn’t even looking at him. Instead, Rasool was looking off to the upper corner of the mosque, grinning and crying. He turned to Mushahid and affirmed, “It is a sign. Yes, it is a sign. Allah wills it. Proceed, Mushahid, while I go back to pray for your victory.”

Rasool nodded at Assadullah. “Help me back to the inner sanctum and wait by my side while I pray for our final victory.”

The man bowed, and Mushahid did likewise.

“Go with faith, Mushahid. It is our time.”

Mushahid tried to bury his true thoughts about the attack as he headed for the door. He would not undermine Rasool with any looks of doubt, nor would he share his true thoughts about the attack with the men.

Chapter 82

Nick held the heavy encrypted phone in his hand, looking down at it and all the buttons on it. He glanced up at the troops, watching them through the small window on the door. The squad members were either checking gear for the hundredth time or throwing down some chow.

He gripped the phone, processing what Mr. Smith had said about the planned celebration by the president. He chewed on the news like a physicist studying a complex equation.

Was it just a celebration? That if S3 reacted to and changed their plans, they would simply waste a day observing a mass of loyal supporters foolishly celebrating a victory that wasn’t a victory? If they sat on the perimeter of the celebration, waiting to pounce, and then nothing happened, would it be a pivotal wasted day? A day in which they could have surprised and hit the Taliban in their staging area had they ignored the celebration and entered the dangerous neighborhood that he couldn’t even pronounce?

Every fiber in his being told him that this was it. This monumentally stupid celebration by the president would be when the Taliban made their move. If they were even close to pulling off their attack, certainly they would move it forward for such an incredible opportunity.

A celebration? In front of the presidential palace, which had to be one of their primary targets?

He made up his mind. This was it, and there was no point second-guessing himself and checking his assumptions. He needed to move. No, they needed to move. He thrust the phone on the desk, grabbed his M4, and ripped open the door.

He slung the M4 tactically across his chest and ran across the warehouse floor to the center of their staging area. S3 members reacted to his sprint, looking up and getting the attention of those who hadn’t noticed.

Nick leaped up, grabbed the side of an MRAP, and vaulted to its roof.

“Pull it in!” he yelled across the crowded floor of the warehouse. Vehicles, cots, crates, and ammunition pallets covered the floor. Thankfully, the massive warehouse had six, high bay doors that allowed them to easily pull in and drive out their MRAPs and police trucks.

S3 members scrambled across the gear and crowded floor to circle the MRAP.

“There’s been a change of plans,” Nick shouted. “The highly esteemed and incredibly wise president of Afghanistan,” he said sarcastically, “has decided in his infinite wisdom to hold a celebration over his magnificent defeat of the Taliban. And he’ll be holding it right in front of the Arg. Today.”

“Good lord,” someone said.

“Clearly, we’re canceling our mission into the shithole we planned to hit today. The name of which I still can’t pronounce.”

“Al-shit-bar,” Truck offered with a chuckle.

“Close enough,” Nick replied. “Now, the celebration is at two this afternoon, so we need to move fast.”

“Damn,” came another comment.

“He’s bringing the enemy right on his doorstep,” Lana added with a curse. “They’ll be able to hide right in with the crowds.”

“He doesn’t believe there is an enemy,” Red said. “They were quote ‘decisively crushed.’”

“It is what it is,” Nick said. “Marcus, I want you to lead a quick recon of the objective. Take 1st Squad, grab your interpreters, and get us plenty of photos. We need to plan out our defense.”

Nick searched the crowd for his snipers.

“Rider, grab your interpreter and police trucks and scope out some good sniper hides on the objective.”

“Roger that, sir.”

“Lana, you come with me. We’re headed to the presidential palace so we can coordinate with them and alert them of our presence. Our police uniforms will help, but we don’t want any accidents.”

Lana nodded, then Nick added, “And, squad leaders, you must keep your police attachments with you. We can’t have our own members harassed or detained by their already too-stretched police force.”

“In case there’s not time to say it later,” Lana said, “be aware that all police officers may not be friendly. And I’m not just talking Taliban members who infiltrated the police department and have been laying low. I’m talking about Taliban members who may be wearing stolen uniforms today.”

There were some murmurs about that.

“Let’s move fast, everyone,” Nick said, cutting off the bitching. “We’ll need a full defensive battle plan well before 1 p.m. so we can have everyone in place before the crowds prevent us from moving about on the site, which I suspect will be packed.”

Chapter 83

The crowds of people exploded beyond the confines of the courtyard and streets surrounding the presidential palace. The sheer mass of people as they pressed their way forward was impossible to imagine for a westerner.

People shoved and squeezed forward, and there was a palpable energy that was off the charts. Nick had no idea why everyone kept pushing forward as if they had a need to make it to the front. It wasn’t like the president was handing out money.

The crowd had so overwhelmed everyone’s expectations that Nick had been forced to move each of S3’s squads away from the danger of being surrounded and crushed. They had initially stationed themselves on the outskirts of the assembly area with a squad at each of the four corners.

But as the thousands and thousands of people filled the area, pouring in from side streets and main streets, it was clear that S3 would be in serious shit if the attack went down as expected. There were all kinds of significant dangers. One being that vendors had arrived early and set up probably fifty or more vending stands. Trucks with food and people stuffed in the back had bulled their way in, as well. These vendors and trucks could be crammed with weapons inside their crates and under tarps.

The Afghan police weren’t checking the vendors or trucks, despite a suggestion from Nick and Mr. Smith to both the leadership of the police force and a senior advisor to the president. Instead, the police officers were just as caught up in the feeling of euphoria and celebration.

And still more people pushed and jostled forward. The crowd of ten thousand-plus people finally proved too dangerous for the liking of Nick and Marcus. They ordered all of S3 to withdraw back to their warehouse. Even that took nearly half an hour as they crept and crawled in vehicles through the masses, yelling and shouting at people to move out of the way.

“Guess we’ll just have to respond once the shoot'n starts,” Red said, after they finally arrived at the warehouse.

About the only good news was they had aerial footage up and running within an hour. Nick had called his logistics man, as they fought their way out of the presidential square to get with Bagram Airfield and beg, borrow, or steal some small drones. The logistics man was in good with an Army master sergeant he had served with, and since the drones weren’t being used anyway, he allowed his buddy to borrow them.

“But, if,” the master sergeant said, “a major attack happens and the Afghan government finally allows American forces to operate, then I’ll need them back so fast that your head will spin. No delays. No excuses.”

“Fair enough,” the S3 logistics man had said. He hoped Nick didn’t force him to burn a good friend and relationship if things turned to hell because he knew Nick would almost never relinquish the drones once an attack started.

Chapter 84

Practically every member of S3’s four squads, as well as the sniper squad, waited with nerves on edge back at the warehouse, huddling around three small monitors. Those in the front sat, while those immediately behind them kneeled. Finally, those in the back stood, wedging themselves between others.

Each studied the three monitors with an intensity and focus you might see in a heart surgeon as she makes the crucial cut.

The footage was from the three borrowed drones, and it was remarkably good. Unfortunately, it was on screens too small for so many people to be watching. The Army master sergeant had even allowed S3 to borrow the three drone operators. Partly, he felt there was less chance of a crash occurring this way. And partly because it would help ensure that he retained control of them should the Taliban make their move.

Nick and Marcus sat on two footlockers right between the operators.

“Zoom in on that truck,” Marcus said.

The camera tilted and zoomed, but nothing could be seen under a heavy tarp.

It was probably the twentieth or thirtieth time they had suggested a flight change or camera zoom, and still nothing had been seen. The S3 members behind them would often break the silence and point to something, but nothing had come of any of their efforts so far.

“Where are they?” Truck yelled.

He wasn’t the only one frustrated. Nick could feel in his gut that the enemy was somewhere in the crammed-in masses, but their discipline was impressive.

“Damn it,” Marcus cursed. “I know they’re in there.”

The words “in there” struck a weird nerve in Nick. He felt that sick-to-his-stomach feeling he’d once felt when a sniper had him in his sights in the woods of Camp Lejeune.

Of course they weren’t in there because that’s where they’d be expected.

“Zoom out,” he ordered to the drone operators. “All of you.”

And with that, the drone operators quickly found the Taliban. A massive column of men was moving down the street toward the presidential palace, still probably a mile or two away. They rode in Toyota trucks beneath black Taliban flags, driving slowly as if it were some parade.

“Holy shit,” Preacher said, and he didn’t typically cuss.

“And this is what happens when you won’t allow us to operate drones or air power,” Red said. He stopped suddenly and jumped to his feet. “What the hell? Why aren’t they firing?”

Afghan police units were parting and scattering as the convoy moved forward. Not a single round was fired at those in the convoy.

“They are probably broadcasting on a megaphone from the lead truck, saying that anyone that decides not to confront them will be spared,” Lana proposed. “It’s common practice. And since the Taliban only attacks so openly when they have vastly superior numbers, probably no police officer wants to risk being on the losing side when the battle’s over.”

“Those motherfuckers,” Red said. “They’re frozen up. Deer-in-the-headlights kind of shit.”

“Well, we’re not,” Nick said. “Mount up, everyone. And Dr. Clayton, I hope you’re ready to travel because you’re coming with us.”

Chapter 85

As the squads ran around grabbing gear and mounting up, Nick dialed Mr. Smith.

“It’s going down,” Nick said, the moment the call connected.

“What’s happening?”

“One large column of Taliban moving toward the presidential palace. We’re moving to intercept them.”

“What are your --”

Nick turned the phone off and stuffed it in his pack.

Marcus stood there, now donned in his full Afghan police gear, including bullet-proof vest and helmet.

“What’s the plan?” he asked.

“Hell if I know. We’ll just drive out there, shoot some of these fools, and see how it plays out.”

“Sounds like my kind of plan,” Marcus replied, smiling.

Nick yanked his assault vest and web gear on, then slung his M4 across his chest and cinched his helmet down.

The two walked toward the line of vehicles.

“Order of movement,” Nick yelled, “is Primary Strike Team in the front MRAP followed by 1st Squad, 2nd Squad, Sniper Squad, and 3rd Squad in the rear. Marcus, you ride with 3rd Squad. Dr. Clayton, assign your team members so that you’re spread out one per MRAP in the middle vehicles. Snipers, pack your long guns, but you’ll be operating as a regular squad, so take your M4s as your primary weapons. Once we make contact, I’ll issue orders on what our plans are.”

“Ooh-rah!” screamed Red, already climbing in the first vehicle.

“Yut!” yelled someone else.

That would be about as much of a pep talk as S3 would get. These were professional fighters, and this wasn’t their first dance. And once you’ve done it a few times, you don’t need inspirational speeches or silly maxims about standing together.

Each squad climbed and squeezed in its own v-shaped hull MRAP. They were using the popular Cougar 6x6 model, which had four wheels in the back and two in the front. Besides the v-shaped hull providing excellent protection from IEDs, the armored sides of the Cougar MRAP shielded them against all machine-gun fire. As long as they didn’t run into any RPGs, they’d be fairly safe in the movement to the battlefield.

In the first vehicle, Truck drove, and Nick clambered into the passenger seat. Nick checked in with each squad leader and confirmed they had all their men present and accounted for. Then, the convoy had roared out of their fenced-in warehouse base and tore off toward the Taliban convoy.

They would intercept the column within just a few minutes. Nick finished reviewing a map he had pulled out and studied the roads they’d be operating on one final time. With that done, he folded the map and shoved it under his armored vest. He picked up the encrypted phone and dialed Mr. Smith.

“What’s the Afghan government doing?” Nick asked.

“Don’t hang up on me again!” Mr. Smith shouted.

“Stop your bitching. I’ve got thirty seconds.”

Mr. Smith angrily exhaled.

“Right now they’re in complete turmoil. The celebration broke up when word of the approaching column reached them. The people dashed out of the square. And the security detail for the president is moving him down to his bunker until security forces deal with the Taliban.”

“They call up the army yet? Looks like the police are running without firing a shot.”

“They’ve called up their third battalion that’s guarding the capital, but there’s a problem. First, it’s the least prepared or experienced. And they weren’t on any kind of alert, so it’ll take at least an hour or two before they’re ready to respond. The president, unfortunately, deployed the best two battalions, who were best positioned to counter.”

“Chasing ghosts,” Nick said with disgust, recalling the “fight” for the hill outside Kabul.

“Precisely. So you’re on your own for at least a couple of hours.”

The Taliban were just a couple blocks ahead, by Nick’s estimation, and he had little time remaining.

“Alert your contacts in the Afghan government that we’re moving to engage the Taliban and we’re in MRAPs and Afghan police uniforms.”

“Will do.”

Nick hung up as their MRAP turned a corner. Afghan civilians rushed toward them. Some ran, others pulled small children.

“They look pretty scared,” Truck said.

“This is their worst fear,” Nick replied.

Nick pressed his radio transmit button.

“Red,” he said, “stay alert on that gun. We’re getting close.”

“Roger that,” Red said.

They had Red in the turret above them on a .50 caliber heavy machine gun. The designers of the MRAPs had put a lot of thought into the turrets and designed them so that their gunners were mostly protected by bulletproof armor and glass in the turret. The turret was controlled by a small joystick, but if they took hits and lost the electronics, it could be hand-cranked, as well.

And if worse came to worst, and they lost the turret and gun, Truck could use the front bumper of the MRAP to take down a few of the Taliban. Nick had no problem at all sending as many as he could to see Allah.

Nick glanced in the side mirror and saw the four other MRAPs following in their wake, their gunners alert on their .50s, as well.

Well, he thought with a shrug, I’ve gone to war with less.

S3 was well protected and heavily armed. And it was soon going to be a very bad day for a bunch of Taliban. With luck, Afghan reinforcements would arrive, and they’d have several more great stories afterward to tell over a few beers.

But if things went south, then Nick figured this beat dying in a bed at a nursing home.

Chapter 86

One block deeper and the civilians were sprinting and screaming, looking over their shoulders. Terror gripped them.

“Taliban’s got to be close,” Nick said.

He yanked his map out and confirmed their location. “Yep,” he said. “Take a right up here, and we should be just about there.”

S3 rounded the corner, and there the Taliban was, merely a couple hundred yards away. Same column, no change in formation or demeanor.

“Clearly no one has fired at them in the time it took us to get here,” Nick said. He pressed the transmit button. “Hold your fire for a second, Red.”

Nick pointed to the right of the fairly narrow street and said, “Pull the MRAP to the right side of the road. Let’s get the next MRAP up to our left.”

As Truck moved the vehicle over, Nick ordered the next MRAP with 2nd Squad in it to pull alongside them. Their two massive hulls blocked the entire street, and the Taliban halted, not even two hundred yards between them.

It was a standoff, but S3 sat behind armor and bullet-proof glass. The Taliban rode in open-bed Toyotas, which would have been vulnerable to even pistol fire.

But they had Allah on their side, so maybe armor wasn’t necessary, Nick thought. The Taliban shouted at the MRAPs through a large megaphone. Fighters climbed out of trucks and moved forward by the front truck.

“Precious aren’t they?” Nick said with a smirk.

Truck laughed. “I’m not going to lie. It’s a little funny that they think we’re going to run.”

Nick scanned the buildings around them for fighters on the rooftops, who might be toting RPGs. He didn’t see any. There wouldn’t have been time yet, anyway.

“These fools still think we’re Afghan police,” Truck said with amused delight.

It was a little entertaining, Nick admitted, and some of these men needed and deserved to die. But others were probably misled and misinformed young men who would die before the prime of their lives because of other people’s brainwashing. And that’s what Nick hated most.

Truck seemed less contemplative of the moral ambiguity as he prattled on. “Is this the point,” Truck asked, “where the Afghan police would just hand them the keys to their vehicles?”

“Probably,” Nick said, checking their surroundings one final time.

Nick leaned around and looked behind him into the troop compartment. “What’s he saying, Lana?”

One of their braver fighters had pressed forward another ten yards and was shouting into a megaphone.

She pushed open the heavy rear door and listened a few moments.

“He’s saying,” she said, “that if we turn and throw down our weapons, our lives will be spared, as well as our families. But if we don’t, they will kill us, find out our identity, and slaughter our families, as well.”

This helped Nick focus on the task at hand and end any dwelling on ill-informed young men. These were some seriously bad people.

Nick turned back to the front and depressed his radio, which transmitted to every member of S3.

“Listen up, guys. Vehicles 1 and 2 have encountered the enemy. On my command, their heavy machine gunners will engage. Once the enemy is engaged, squad members of vehicles 1 and 2 will disembark and push alongside our vehicles to engage the enemy. All other vehicles and squad members will hold position and await orders. How copy, over?”

Each squad leader, who doubled as a vehicle commander, confirmed the instructions.

The Taliban to their front looked increasingly impatient. As if they couldn’t understand why the police were delaying their surrender. Fighters in the street yelled and gestured. Nick didn’t speak their language, but it was clear it was starting to hit them that this wasn’t going to go down like it had with other police. And that these police were in armored vehicles, not out in the open.

“Here we go,” Nick said, and a smile crept across his face.

He pressed his transmit button. “Gunners, engage.”

The two .50 calibers exploded and shook the MRAPS as they tore into the column and troops ahead. The stream of massive rounds cut through trucks and blew people in half. Technically, .50s were designed for use against vehicles, buildings, and airplanes back in World War II, since their bullets were too large and expensive for use on personnel. But Nick had learned long ago that they worked wonderfully against enemy troops in the open.

Especially when they were lined up like this. Each 700-grain bullet was capable of speeding through multiple human targets, or even trucks unless they hit an engine block.

At this moment, anywhere on the street in front of the two S3 MRAPs was a kill zone.

The back doors of the two vehicles kicked open, and the riflemen for each squad leapt out, rushing forward. They ducked, dropped, or hid behind whatever cover they could find. Those with no cover assumed the prone position to get as low as possible. Soon their M4s joined the one-sided slaughter.

Each squad member had an Aimpoint sight, and they didn’t miss at 200 yards. Blood painted the street, and shrieks and screams reached the S3 lines despite the massive roar of their firing.

Some return fire erupted, but each time it did, it was quickly silenced by a sharp-sighted squad member or the hammering .50s.

“Sitrep,” Marcus said over the radio from the rear of the column, using the military shorthand for “situation report.”

“Pretty one-sided so far,” Nick said. He pulled a map from his cargo pocket. Surely the Taliban would push to the side streets to try to flank the two MRAPs they saw. He doubted they knew about the other MRAPs behind them that were obscured from their vision. Nonetheless, the Taliban still held a huge advantage in numbers. Several hundred to less than fifty in S3.

Unfortunately for Nick, he was off the mark on his estimation by about five hundred.

Chapter 87

Rasool Deraz was in the middle of prayer, rocking backward and forward on his prayer rug. He had moved to a hidden location, keeping only a few bodyguards with him.

Having fewer men for protection freed up more fighters for the operation while also keeping a lower profile for him. This should keep him safe until Mushahid and his fighters had secured the presidential palace.

Rasool pushed his thoughts of the mission from his mind and resumed his praying. His positive feelings for the operation grew stronger and with each passing minute, he prayed harder.

He had not been watching the time, but surely the column must be close to the presidential palace by now, and he had heard not a single round fired! He rocked faster and prayed still harder. It appeared Allah had delivered their enemy in the most miraculous of ways.

The sound of two heavy machine guns stopped his rocking in its tracks. He knew the sound well. Fifty caliber machine guns. “Fifties,” the Americans called them. Or, “Ma Deuce,” short for an M2 machine gun.

He had studied the weapon extensively and seen them in action. They were murderous weapons. The only thing he feared more were the cursed Apache attack helicopters.

More gunfire joined the .50s. This was lighter in octave and emanated from the American-made M4s. Or perhaps M-16s. But the speed of their lightweight bullets and rifles were unique and quite different from the communist-bloc AKs.

Rasool tried to return to prayer, but the intensity of the firing picked up and prevented him from focusing on the task.

A fear creeped into his chest. This did not sound good. He gave up on praying and stood. He exited the private prayer room and picked up a radio from his satchel that he had stowed by the door.

“Mushahid, what is happening?”

Over the sound of heavy firing and snapping bullets, Rasool heard Mushahid say, “We’ve run into heavy resistance. Several armored personnel carriers.”

“Have preparations for air operations commenced at Bagram?”

“No, sir,” Mushahid replied. “Our spies say no preparations for either air or land battle have begun by the American forces. But our forces are ready in case they try.”

“Then let’s deal with these armored vehicles,” Rasool said.

Rasool lay the radio down and considered going to pray more for their success, but realized it wasn’t necessary in this case.

Chapter 88

The gunfire from the .50s and M4s had cleared most of the Taliban from the street ahead. Probably sixty or seventy bodies lay crumpled in the street. Several trucks burned and would explode soon.

The Taliban who had survived the onslaught had fled indoors among the buildings that lined the street or ducked into one of the alleyways.

Nick knew they’d flank his column and possibly surround it soon. Then, S3 would be in serious trouble. It would just be a matter of Taliban fighters firing down some RPGs from the rooftops and blowing the MRAPs to pieces.

Nick didn’t feel like playing fish in a barrel, so he wanted the column to move. And fast. But where?

He yanked the map out and studied his location on its grid-like squares, as well as the burning hulks of the Toyota trucks in front of him. The solution was so obvious that he cursed himself for not seeing it sooner.

The Taliban column had been moving toward the presidential palace. That was their primary target. S3 had intercepted them and given them an unpleasant surprise. And the Taliban would no doubt respond, encircle, and destroy S3 if they stayed put.

But their primary target was the presidential palace. Not S3. And since the MRAPs were in an indefensible position on the narrow streets, the choice on what Nick’s unit should do was clear. They’d turn the column around, rush to the presidential palace, and set up a defensive position with the five MRAPs since the place was no longer encircled by thousands of cheering residents.

Nick figured they’d probably set up a half circle, or an 180 as it was called, around the Arg’s primary approach.

And, Nick thought with grim determination, perhaps the third Afghan army battalion would arrive soon. Hopefully, before S3 ran out of ammunition or all died.

“Everyone, load up,” Nick said into his mic. “We’ll back the vehicles up before they surround us. And, Marcus, lead us to the presidential palace. We’ll set up a defensive position there.”

Chapter 89

Just minutes later, the five MRAPs of S3 roared into the presidential palace courtyard. Two police officers stood by their light patrol truck, and they looked happy to see reinforcements arrive. They had AKs out, but no armor or helmets.

These men were outfitted for regular police duties, not all-out battle.

“Stop here, Truck.”

The MRAP rolled to a stop. Nick said over his shoulder, “Lana,” and stepped out.

Lana exited the MRAP’s rear door and jogged up to him. Together, they approached the two police officers. The relieved policemen met them halfway.

“Ask them,” Nick said, “where the rest of the police force is. And where their MRAPs and armored personal carriers are.”

Lana translated it, and the men gestured and yammered in the language Nick was quickly growing to despise.

Lana said, “They say the president didn’t want all the armored vehicles around during the celebration. That the vehicles would remind people of the war and the threat, and since there was no threat, there was no need for armored vehicles.”

Nick cursed and kicked the ground, he was so angry. The president’s arrogance was probably going to get a lot of people killed today, including some of his own.

“Ask them where the rest of the police are!” he roared.

Lana said a few words and they motioned and spewed out a string of words.

“They ran,” Lana said, feeling a bit sorry for the men, “when the people fled.”

Nick looked about and noticed some police hats and a few police shirts stuffed by potted trees and anti-vehicle barriers. Clearly, some had decided it would be safer if they weren’t in uniform.

A sort of impending doom started to creep up on Nick. Afghans were notoriously fickle in their allegiances. Their loyalty almost always shifted to the winning side as a matter of self-preservation. It was a concept that seemed impossible to grasp as a westerner, but this was a country of tribes. One day you fought the tribe across the river. The next day, you fought alongside them as if they hadn’t killed your brother the day before.

The only exception to this rule was westerners. Then, you’d ignore your local enemies, and everyone would fight them. Unless they paid you great sums of money, and then you’d fight on their side -- sort of -- while oftentimes alerting your comrades to their movements and plans.

And the moment the tides turned, you’d switch sides to your true allegiance and state the obvious, “That you had needed the money for your family, but never really fought on the Americans’ side.”

“Tell them,” Nick said, “that reinforcements are on the way. And that they should find a position behind some of these concrete vehicle barriers. Say a thousand troops are coming. Whatever it takes to get these guys some damn confidence back.”

Lana blathered and gestured loudly, as the Afghan people always did.

They argued some, and Nick couldn’t take it anymore. He stepped in, put his hand on the largest one’s shoulder, and spun him around. Nick pointed at a concrete barrier that made a great position.

“Tell him,” he said to Lana, “that he is to take up a position right there. And that if he moves away from the post before I relieve him, I will shoot him on the spot.”

Lana passed along the message, and the man looked from Lana to Nick. Nick stepped closer, and his eyes bore into the man. The man nodded, and the two men ran to the position.

“That’s more like it,” Nick said.

“They probably wish they had run sooner,” Lana said.

“Only if we lose. If we win, those guys will be getting promoted.”

Chapter 90

The lack of other police or soldiers was a serious problem. The presidential palace, called the Arg, sat on a massive 83-acre piece of ground. Nick recalled that “Arg” meant “citadel” in Dari and Pashto, and that in his research on it, he had discovered it was originally built in 1880 by King Abdur Rahman Khan.

King Khan had built it as a castle, and it still had its high walls. But the need for walls and a moat were moot these days, and it operated in its current state on a defense in depth concept. Typically, there were vehicle checkpoints, soldiers on patrol, and anti-vehicle barriers blocking the streets.

But the checkpoints had been taken down, and the barriers had been cleared for the massive celebration. And when the word spread of the approaching Taliban, the troops had fled. Or gone to get more gear. Or whatever bullshit excuse they’d said as they left their positions. The bottom line was that they weren’t there.

This was the problem with poorly trained troops who were underpaid and underappreciated. It’s why they usually covered their faces in most dangerous and unstable countries, as they had in Mexico. The police officers were ashamed and scared, which is what happens when a government lacks popular support and troops haven’t been trained well.

The MRAPs had circled into a formation while Nick and Lana talked with the police. Marcus jogged up to Nick from the rear vehicle.

“This doesn’t look good,” Marcus said.

“Yeah, the vehicle barriers are gone for the celebration,” Nick said. “But we can stop their trucks with our .50s. We’ll just need to be alert for VBIEDs.”

Vehicle-borne IEDs were the scariest weapon possessed by the Taliban. They often hid between 200 to 500 pounds of explosives in trucks or cars, and they had the potential to wipe out dozens of people in one blow.

“How many policemen and troops you figure are behind those walls in the Arg?” Marcus asked.

“Maybe fifty or a hundred. But if the Taliban breach the walls with explosives or a VBIED, I’d bet everything I own that whoever’s left will turn and run out the back.”

“Agreed. So, what’s our plan?”

“Let’s position our MRAPs into the best 180 perimeter that we can, nice and spread out. Then let's redistribute ammo from those who haven’t fired any to the squad members in vehicles one and two. They fired a decent amount back there on that street.”

“Sounds good,” Marcus said.

“Once the ammo is redistributed, we’ll spread our squad members out and take it from there.”

“And if the Taliban hit the presidential palace from a different direction?”

“I’ve studied the maps pretty hard and think this is the most logical approach, but if they do, we’ll peel a couple vehicles and squads off and move around to engage them.”

A bullet snapped by, missing by only inches. Nick and Marcus dropped to their knees, looking outboard.

“Sniper,” Marcus said, stating the obvious.

“Looks like our friends have arrived,” Nick replied. “That’s probably an advance scout, but the rest will be here soon. Let’s get everyone in position and that ammo redistributed pronto.”

Chapter 91

The assault on the presidential palace slowly escalated from that first single round. A gunman would pop up in a window -- or from a roof -- and loose a burst at S3. Sometimes, an S3 riflemen would knock him down with their M4. Sometimes, the Taliban fighter would duck before anyone got him lined up straight.

But they usually bagged him on his next attempt, if he didn’t change firing positions. And several Taliban had already fallen in just such a manner.

Nick could sense the Taliban increasing their numbers, building up beyond his ability to see them as fighters flocked to the sound of firing like dogs drawn to the scent of bacon.

S3 only had a sight distance of fifty to a hundred yards, with the group spread out in a half circle in front of the primary entrance to the presidential palace. A boulevard, with a small green park, lay just before them, while four- and five-story apartment buildings were to their left and right.

Nick’s MRAP sat parked in the center of the perimeter. The other four MRAPs were spaced to each side roughly twenty yards apart. They were pointed nose outward for two reasons. One, the perimeter was small and limited in size. It would have been a struggle to park them horizontally even if they had wanted to. Two, parking them sideways would prevent them exiting quickly by pulling straight out, assuming the enemy made a move to breach the presidential palace through one of the other walls.

So far, the .50s on the MRAPs had remained silent, per Nick’s orders. Since they only had eight hundred rounds, Nick had instructed them to attempt to hold their fire unless the unit came under intense suppression. Truthfully, they had less than eight hundred rounds per gun after they had redistributed the ammo that vehicles 1 and 2 fired earlier at the Taliban column.

Nick wanted S3 to save its heavy machine gun ammunition for VBIEDs. Nothing stopped a truck barreling toward you like a .50 pouring lead into it.

Two Taliban fighters opened up on them from the right, and as S3 fighters pivoted to the threat, four or five more Taliban opened up on their left. Here it comes, Nick thought.

The pressure was building, and the Taliban definitely aimed to make this their primary breach point. At least until S3 stopped them cold. Then they’d probably pivot to another side of the presidential palace.

Nick was inside the armored and bullet proof cab of his MRAP, which he felt supremely shitty about since most of his men were in the open. But he needed to call Mr. Smith for an update, and it was hard to hear outside with all the firing going on.

“Nick? You there?” he heard Mr. Smith say.

“I’m here,” Nick replied, focusing back on the phone call and not the immediate situation. He quickly filled Mr. Smith in on their engagement of the Taliban column, and their movement to the defensive position in front of the presidential palace.

“Tell me some good news,” Nick added.

“Shit has hit the fan in Washington,” Mr. Smith said. “There are emergency meetings happening at the Department of Defense, the State Department, the National Security Agency, the CIA, you name it. The president’s schedule is being rearranged to pull together an emergency meeting with him, as well.”

“I don’t suppose anyone has suggested ignoring the new rules and getting our military power up in the air and our boots out into the streets?”

“It’s being suggested, but instantly shot down by those in charge. We don’t want to quote ‘breach Afghan sovereignty,’ they say, unless explicitly authorized by the Afghan president.”

In his rear view mirror, Nick glanced through the iron gates of the presidential palace and noticed some nervous-looking police officers, who were in vests and helmets, unlike the two out front. But these police officers didn’t look too keen on stepping outside the gate to help S3 fight off the attack.

“You might want to pass along that there’s not a whole lot of Afghan sovereignty going on right now,” Nick said with disgust.

“If the situation deteriorates, it might happen,” Mr. Smith said. “But that’s a decision that will need to be approved at the highest U.S. levels.”

“Meaning the president?” Nick asked.

“Yes, so we’re talking two or three days before that might happen.”

“Are you kidding me?” Nick shouted. “We might not even have two or three hours.”

“I know. I’m doing everything that I can.”

“How close is the Afghan army to getting its third battalion here?”

Mr. Smith paused. One of those really long pauses that inspires paranoia rather than confidence. Finally, he spoke. “Look, Nick. Our satellite intercepts and footage have caught three Toyota trucks entering the base of the third Afghan battalion.”

“Taliban?”

“Yes. And they weren’t shot at or stopped on their way in. They were clearly invited, and we strongly suspect the battalion leadership has been bribed or threatened to not respond.”

Nick recalled the concept -- or lack thereof -- of Afghan loyalty.

“So the momentum has turned, and everyone is now looking out for their own skin?”

“Basically. And some reports are coming in that there might even be some collaboration between the Taliban and the Afghan army.”

“Meaning working together? That kind of collaboration?” Nick asked.

“Yes.”

Now it was Nick’s turn to pause. He thought of his logistics and security folks at the warehouse, as well as his other support personnel at Bagram Airfield. If shit went completely downhill, they might have to rescue his folks from the warehouse and fight their way back to Bagram, which might prove the only safe sanctuary in Afghanistan.

“Nick?” Mr. Smith said.

“I’m here,” Nick muttered.

“Nick, we’re in unchartered waters here. This could be the fall of Saigon happening all over again. Although some of the Afghan units will remain loyal, others will disband, take their weapons, and return to their families and tribes. You need to be prepared for that happening.”

Nick tried to conceptualize S3 pulling off such a retreat with limited transportation, in addition to transporting serious casualties in danger of bleeding out. He recalled footage of the absolute chaos in Vietnam, as the capital fell. Thousands of people reaching through and pushing on the embassy gates, begging to be flown out. American personnel trying to hold them back, while also worried they might be left behind.

Nick could visualize the scene going down in his mind, only now the backdrop was Bagram. Anger welled up inside of him, and he ripped the image from his head. Not on his watch, damn it.

“That’s not going to happen,” he said with finality. He clicked the phone off and stepped out of the MRAP with his M4.

Chapter 92

Nick dropped out of the MRAP and jogged from position to position along the perimeter, checking on his men and informing them they needed to hold here for a while.

He knew he could have done this by radio, but there was nothing like having a leader come by to individually check on you. And sometimes as a leader, you’d pick up on some piece of intel that a shooter would share with you face-to-face, which might not have been shared by radio. Usually, the shooter would have no idea how much of an impact it would create when combined with something from the other side of the perimeter.

After Nick had “walked the line,” which in this case meant ducking and sprinting along it, he arrived back at his middle MRAP and realized he needed to study the situation further. He was confident the intermittent fire that continued to build was only a feeling-out process by the Taliban.

They had something up their sleeve, but until they revealed it, there wasn’t a lot Nick or S3 could do about it.

Nick decided to take the spare moment he had to do what he loved doing best. Shooting. Now granted, this was some short-range shooting, especially for a sniper, but he hadn’t fired his M4 today. Plus, he didn’t want any of these bastards sending any of his team to the morgue, so a little thinning of the herd was most certainly called for.

Nick propped open the heavily armored door of his MRAP and stepped up between it. It was too high to stand between from the ground, but standing on a large step provided a halfway-decent position.

He leaned his weapon through the opening created by the windshield and the door, searching for a target. This wasn’t very comfortable, but he’d endured worse positions to fire from. Rounds zipped and popped into their perimeter and he searched the building to his right for a target.

A bullet smacked the truck and he flinched, far more than he meant to. Half of his right leg was exposed below the armored door. But at least it was only a leg. Besides, on the bright side, if he took a round in the knee or lower leg he’d never have to worry about another forty-mile field trip anywhere by foot.

It’s all about perspective, he thought.

A muzzle flash caught his eye. It came from a darkened room in the four-story building to his right. Nick swung his M4 toward it, placing his Aimpoint sight where he’d seen it. Even with the magnification of the sight, he couldn’t see the shooter. But he knew the man was there, back in the shadows, so he fired three rounds at where he thought he was.

Nick had no idea if he hit his target. And that’s how real combat went. Confirmed kills were nearly impossible to verify and almost never happened. Usually it was a lot of people shooting from your side at a lot of people who were firing at you from their side, and eventually, their side scurried off, taking whoever might have been wounded or killed with them.

Most of the time the enemy ran right about the time your close air support arrived on station, but that wouldn’t be happening today, thanks to the Afghan president’s orders. Nick decided he’d knock the shit out of that dumbass if he ever got to meet him.

More muzzle flashes caught his eye to his left, coming from a shot-out window. He rotated toward it and fired four times on both sides of the window about knee high. Hopefully, the bastard was ducking behind the wall and caught them in the chest. Assuming the bullets penetrated the wall, which he’d never know.

He fired five rounds under the window about two feet above where he guessed the floor was, in case the guy had ducked below the window sill.

“Here they come,” he heard one of his members yell on the radio. “Contact right!”

Chapter 93

Nick knew he needed a full mag for whatever threat approached, so he reloaded his weapon with a fresh magazine and crammed his nearly empty one in his dump pouch. Weapon ready to go, he looked right and saw three Toyota trucks flying toward them.

“VBIEDs, nine o’clock!” he screamed into the radio. “Everyone engage! Open up with those fifties!”

The entire S3 perimeter that could see the trucks erupted, and this was no longer controlled sustained fire. This was what the Marine Corps called FPF, or Final Protective Fire. All weapons at near-cyclic rate. Automatic. Burst. Whatever the fastest rate of fire your weapon could achieve, you let it run.

The first truck exploded in a massive detonation, expelling flames, dust, and smoke into the air in an impressive fireball. A shockwave rocked S3’s perimeter, even from a hundred yards away.

But they had stopped the truck thanks to the fact that the sight distance down the roads on both flanks in front of the presidential palace far exceeded their short sight line to the apartments to their front.

This distance down the roads gave them more space to engage VBIEDs and hopefully survive their deadly explosions. But the second truck darted through the smoke and dust, accelerating toward them with immense speed.

Again the .50s and most of the M4s on the line tore into the truck. It exploded, as well, shaking the ground and rattling every man on S3’s line. But at probably seventy yards away, Nick felt confident his team had again escaped serious harm.

It was the third one that Nick worried about the most. They would have very little time to see it and engage it since the second truck’s blast and smoke had been still closer than the first.

“Fire into the smoke on the road!” Nick yelled, since everyone was waiting for a target to emerge. They had forgotten that their bullets could still reach what they couldn’t see.

The perimeter resumed firing, focusing on the road and sweeping across the dust-filled cloud of gray and black.

An explosion roared behind the cloud, and Nick felt relief sweep through his body. And as he reloaded again, he realized the fire on S3 from the buildings to their front and sides had picked up tremendously while their attention had been diverted.

Nick pivoted his rifle to their front and engaged a muzzle flash with three rounds. Nearby, a machine gun of some type -- RPD or RPK? -- roared unabated from a window three rooms down. He, and at least two other people, poured bullets into it, cutting down whoever that had been.

But the bullets flying at them increased heavily. At least seventy Taliban fighters were pouring fire at them.

“Man down!” someone screamed into their radio.

Nick knew it wouldn’t be their first.

Nick pressed his radio transmit button. “Get him to our middle MRAP. Medics are our location, over.”

Nick resumed his attention to the front. Before he could line up a target, an RPG zipped into the line. Nick ducked the blast, as did everyone else. It slammed to the right of him. He heard screams coming from someone. Maybe two someones.

“Squad leaders,” Nick said into the mic, “check your men. Give me a status report.”

Nick fired at an idiot who silhouetted himself on an apartment building across from him, and the man jerked back in pain and fell. Rounds pinged off the MRAP’s door and window, and Nick ducked down beneath its armor.

He saw a target in a doorway that had opened and raised up to engage it. But before he could acquire the man in the scope, a torrent of rounds pounded the MRAP’s door. The bullets were so thick that he slinked back into the cab and shut the door.

His thirty-five men were being overpowered by the Taliban, and it didn’t require much imagination to see every one of them dying on this small perimeter.

Nick depressed the mic button, “All squads, use your fifties to engage targets. Gunners, limit to two- or three-round bursts to conserve your ammunition, over.”

The .50s opened up, firing against the Taliban and dominating the firefight. They were so much louder and more powerful than all the other weapons engaged in the clash. Plus, the .50s added five more outgoing weapons to S3’s side, and it was a game of numbers right now.

As more bullets slammed into the MRAP’s bullet-proof windshield, Nick also remembered that the .50s were behind armor, as well, so it would be harder to suppress their gunners. Perhaps they could help turn the tide of the battle.

Nick checked his gear and counted his remaining magazines still loaded. He had gone through almost half of them, and he wasn’t firing nearly as much as the rest of his squads.

He grabbed his encrypted phone and dialed Mr. Smith.

“Any change?”

“Nick, there’s been no change. It hasn’t even been that long since we last talked.”

Nick recalled the three VBIEDs and bullets hitting his MRAP, mere inches from his head.

“It’s been a lifetime since we last talked. We’re taking casualties, running through our ammunition, and you need to know there’s a chance we won’t be able to hold.”

Nick cut the phone off before Mr. Smith could answer him, and he radioed his logistics man back at Bagram Airfield. He quickly informed him that they were running low on ammunition and that they needed to load up several dozen boxes of ammo into some trucks.

“Grab some of the security guys and start off for the warehouse.”

“Roger that,” the man said.

Nick radioed the warehouse and got his primary security man on the line. He briefed him on the situation, informed him they were heavily outnumbered, and he’d need to prepare to bring most of his security guys to link up with them.

“Leave only three or four men there to guard our gear at the warehouse. We literally need every person we can spare.”

Nick opened the MRAP’s door again and stepped back to his firing position. The fire was as intense as it had been before. Nick saw movement in a window and saw the front of an RPG catch the glint of the afternoon sunlight. Nick engaged him, and Rocket Man fell back into the room.

The only advantage S3 had were scoped weapons and far-more accurate shooters since American troops spent literally weeks and weeks honing their accuracy and shooting skills.

Nick depressed his mic button and transmitted to his S3 troops in the perimeter. “Just as a heads up, guys, I’ve got more ammunition headed to the warehouse for us to resupply with later. But we need to be careful with what we have on us right now. Sustained fire only, unless we see another VBIED.”

Nick cleared his throat and continued. “I’ve also alerted our security element at the warehouse to form up and move out to link up with us. So, we’ll have twelve or fifteen more men with us soon, and they’ll be bringing more ammunition, as well.”

Nick heard someone say, “Fuck yeah.”

And another say, “Thank God.” He couldn’t make out their voices, and neither were authorized transmissions. But both summed up the situation nicely.

“We got tanks moving in on the left,” someone said.

Nick glanced down the road to his nine o’clock and saw three hulking tanks rumbling toward them. They were M60A1s, American tanks used by the Marines all the way up until the ’90s when the newer M1 Abrams took over. Nick remembered hearing that the U.S. had transferred five or so of them to the Afghan government.

“About time we caught a break,” he said into the radio. Marcus was on the left side of the perimeter, having remained with the rear squad and MRAP that he had traveled in on.

“Marcus, step out, wave them down, and point out where the enemy fire is coming from. All other members prepare to pick up your rate of fire when I give you the signal to cover for Marcus. And I’ll want those .50s rocking when he does.”

Chapter 94

The tanks lumbered toward the S3 position. When they were fifty yards away, Marcus said over the radio, “I’m ready. Cover me, everyone.”

Nick brought his weapon up and fired twenty rounds of single fire at the apartment building to his right. Others did the same, and the increased fire from S3 overwhelmed the Taliban who slinked down or back from their positions. The .50s alone were like five massive fire hoses spraying the buildings.

With the enemy suppressed, Nick pulled his eyes from the scope and watched Marcus as he jogged out in the middle of the street. He was jumping up and down, waving his arms with the M4 dangling across his chest in its sling.

M60A1 tanks were notorious for having small vision slits that were difficult to see out. And since no crew members rode outside the tank, he had to get their attention through the vision slits to be seen.

The turret turned toward him, and Nick felt grateful they had seen him so he wouldn’t have to stand out in the open street any longer. He was also glad they had worn their Afghan police uniforms, so there’d be no confusion that resulted in any friendly fire incidents.

Marcus was waving the tanks forward with his left hand and pointing to the buildings the enemy hid in across from them with his right. Now the tanks would know precisely where the Taliban positions were, and a few shots from the tanks 105 mm main guns would go miles toward convincing the Taliban to fall back.

It didn’t matter how many troops you had. When tanks started targeting your position, it was impossible not to want to run for cover and retire from the battlefield for the day. No different than when air cover arrived.

Nick spun back around and fired more shots at the building to his left. He didn’t see any targets -- S3 had dominated the firefight the past fifteen to twenty seconds -- so he fired a couple rounds into a window, spun further right, fired two more rounds into another window, and rotated to still another.

He heard someone scream, “No!” and turned back to his left.

The front tank had continued rolling forward, but its turret was aimed directly at Marcus. What the fuck? Nick thought.

And then the colossal, main gun bellowed. Marcus vanished in an explosion of blazing fire and smoke.

Nick screamed in terror! “NOOOOO!!!!!!”

It had to have been a mistake. Surely they just hadn’t noticed his helmet and uniform. Nick composed himself as best he could and said into his radio, “3rd Squad! Pull your MRAP into the road so they can see we’re friendlies!”

Nick jumped from his firing position on the MRAP and ran behind it. He realized he’d need help carrying Marcus, so he ran back up the driver’s side and dove next to Preacher. The Army Special Forces member was in the prone and completely focused on whatever he was shooting at.

Nick slapped Preacher’s helmet twice.

“Preacher, come with me! We have to get Marcus!”

Preacher stopped firing and jumped to his feet, but it was clear from his face that he hadn’t heard what Nick had said about Marcus. Rather, he had only seen Nick’s gesture of “follow me.”

The two sprinted back to the rear of the MRAP and ran down the line toward the left side of the perimeter. They stayed behind all the shooters so no one had to stop firing (or accidentally shot them).

The MRAP on the left flank had followed Nick’s orders and charged forward to reveal itself and warn off the tanks. Nick and Preacher cleared the end of perimeter and were about to run into the street when the second tank’s main gun spewed another round.

The MRAP in the street exploded, erupting and nearly bursting in half. Nick and Preacher screamed in horror and raced back to the perimeter.

“SHIT!!!!” Nick shrieked.

“Those aren’t friendlies!” Preacher yelled.

Nick couldn't believe it, but two shots ruled out the possibility of it being an accident. These were either Taliban-driven tanks or Afghan soldiers who had defected to the enemy.

S3 had only one advantage. With luck, the gunners would be unfamiliar with the beasts and would take a while to reload the main guns. Even the Afghan soldiers hadn’t received much training on the tanks, and being competent tankers who reloaded fast was something that took weeks and weeks of drilling. And drilling wasn’t something Afghan soldiers excelled at.

“2nd Squad,” Nick screamed into his radio. “Grab two fire extinguishers and get to the left flank immediately!”

They came running up several moments later. Nick pointed to three of them. “You three, provide a base of fire and cover us. Aim for the vision ports. The rest of you, come with me.”

The three designated cover men scurried forward and selected firing positions. As they opened up on the tanks, Nick hoped they could at least crack and damage the bullet-proof glass vision ports, temporarily blinding the tankers.

Nick, Preacher, and the other three members of 2nd Squad sprinted into the street. The MRAP burned and smoked. They ran into the cloud, coughing and straining to see through it. The two men with the fire extinguishers doused the flames with foam chemicals, and the flames retreated quickly.

Nick grabbed the 2nd Squad leader by his harness and screamed in his ear, hoping to be heard over the firing, “Find anyone in that vehicle and get them back in our perimeter and back to your vehicle.”

“Yes, sir,” the man shouted.

Nick looked for and found Preacher. He grabbed Preacher’s sleeve and yanked him to the spot where Marcus had gone down.

They emerged from the smoke and saw the dust and smog from the shot at Marcus had mostly dissipated. They could now see his body, which lay in a curled fetal position. Nick reached him first, landing much too hard on his own knee as he knelt by Marcus’s chest.

“Marcus!” he yelled.

Marcus only groaned. They rolled him on his back, and Nick noticed that Marcus’ legs were shredded. One boot and entire lower leg were gone. The other looked mangled far beyond repair, bone sticking out and skin hanging in strips.

Nick glanced behind him and confirmed the MRAP was between them and the two tanks, providing cover from that threat. They would have probably reloaded by now, even if their gunners were untrained and mostly incompetent. He seriously hoped the Taliban hadn’t forced actual Afghan government troops to drive the tanks because they would be much better skilled.

“We’ve got some cover because of the MRAP,” Nick said to Preacher. “Now, we’ve got to get tourniquets on both legs, or he’s going to bleed out before we can even get him to the medics.”

They yanked tourniquets out, lifted what remained of his legs, and cinched the life-saving straps so tight that Marcus screamed in pain.

Nick watched Preacher finish applying his tourniquet and again felt grateful the men of S3 were blooded veterans who didn’t freeze up or panic. They grabbed Marcus, lifted him, and wrapped his arms across their shoulders. They carried him between their bodies as they sprinted back across the street.

A tank fired again, and they felt the explosion beyond them in the street. The bastards had fired at them carrying Marcus, only missing by feet. At least they hadn’t blown up another MRAP in their perimeter, Nick thought.

They lugged Marcus behind the three 2nd Squad members still firing and hauled him back to the middle MRAP as fast as they could. Dr. Clayton and her two PAs jumped out of the back of it and charged toward them.

“He’s taken two serious leg wounds,” Nick yelled. “What’s the situation on the other casualties?”

“Three seriously wounded, and that’s not counting many smaller injuries,” Dr. Clayton said. “I’m running out of supplies.”

“We’re getting out of here. Get him stable.”

They loaded him into the already blood-soaked rear of the MRAP. Marcus was fading. Nick slapped him in the face several times. Each time harder, each time getting no response. By the fourth time, the slaps were hurting Nick’s hand, he was slapping him so hard.

“You’ve got to hang with us, Marcus!” Nick hollered. “We’re taking you to the hospital!”

Nick turned from him as the medics took over, wiping his eyes. He took a deep breath and flushed the scene from his mind. He had work to do, and a damn hell of a lot of it if any of them were going to get out of here alive.

Chapter 95

Nick ran back to the front of his MRAP in the center of the 180 and climbed in it.

“Squad leaders,” he shouted into the radio, “we need to load up and get the hell out of here! Squad members, get back to your MRAPs.”

As they acknowledged the order, Nick stepped out of the MRAP and slung a smoke grenade toward the tanks.

“Give me more smoke on the left side,” he radioed. “And to the front, toward the apartment buildings.”

Several more smoke canisters popped on the left and spewed thick smoke across the street. Two yellows and one green. And to their front, a red and white smoke bellowed up.

The rate of fire from the Taliban escalated as the return fire from S3 diminished, and as the Taliban sensed their departure. Nick knew they were taking more casualties by the minute.

“Open up with those .50s more!” Nick screamed into the radio.

The .50s picked up their rate of fire.

“1st Squad loaded up and accounted for,” their squad leader said.

Confirmations filled the radio while others hurriedly asked questions on the net.

“Is Scott in the second MRAP?”

“Where’s Murdock?”

And on and on, but soon all men were accounted for. Nick radioed with strong command in his voice, “Peel off, head right, and take the first left you can to get us out of the line of fire. Absolutely full speed.”

The MRAPs bolted from their position, tank rounds exploding behind them.

“We’re hit!” screamed the squad leader in the last MRAP directly behind Nick.

“Keep moving if you can,” Nick yelled back into the radio, nodding to Truck who looked to him for direction. “We can’t stop here.”

“We have heavy casualties, but MRAP still operational,” came the reply.

“Keep moving!” Nick reiterated, more panic in his voice than he intended.

There was no way they could stop to assist more wounded without losing a lot more men. A LOT.

The four overcrowded, remaining MRAPs fled the scene and made a quick left to depart the kill zone as quickly as possible. The last thing Nick saw in his side mirror was the tanks turning their turrets toward the walls of the presidential palace.

S3 had never been the primary target in the first place. It was all about the Arg and the Afghan government. Nick and his shooters had simply been in the way.

As they turned the corner, they left behind a burning MRAP, part of Marcus’ legs, and the fate of a newborn democracy.

Chapter 96

Nick worked the phones and radios as the MRAPs hurtled toward the warehouse. The rear MRAP that had taken the tank round had been hit in its troop compartment, which was terrible for the troops, but allowed it to function at full capacity, thus enabling the column to retreat murderously fast back toward the warehouse.

The streets were empty. No Taliban. No civilians. No Afghan forces -- army or police.

It was as if the entire capital was aware that a power shift was under way.

Nick called Cormac, his security man at the warehouse, and instructed him to forget trying to link up in front of the presidential palace, but instead to prepare to help the unit offload and transport the wounded back to Bagram Airfield.

“I want the seriously injured in light police trucks, not MRAPs, so that they can get there as quickly as possible,” Nick said. “Find the best drivers you’ve got. Marcus and others have serious, life-threatening wounds. Every minute counts, so you better have those trucks doing about 60 miles per hour.”

“Roger that,” Cormac said.

Nick hung up and called Dean, his logistics man at Bagram. He informed him of the change in plans and the seriously wounded men who’d be coming in shortly.

“Dean, get ahold of the base commander and have him get their emergency room on full alert with full staff on hand. And tell the base commander to alert the guards at the gate. We can’t have any delays getting these guys in. They’ll be coming in light-green Afghan police trucks. And so help me, if these trucks get searched for IEDs by the MPs, I’ll have someone’s head. The trucks have been in our custody the entire time and are clean.”

“Roger that, boss. Let me start making those calls.”

“And Dean?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Once you’ve got the base commander alerted, you round up four or five men and be waiting at the gate. If some dipshit officer doesn’t get the word from the general not to stop the trucks, or still insists on a search of the trucks, you guys draw down and get those trucks through without delay. Marcus’ life literally depends on it. And this is a direct order from me, so I’ll take the fall and burn if it comes to that.”

“Roger that, Nick. On my life, there won’t be any delay.”

“Thanks, Dean.”

Nick looked back in the MRAP and saw Dr. Clayton working on Marcus. She had applied QuikClot bandages to each leg and had already started an IV of some form of fluid or blood expander. Preacher held the bag high, so it would drain down well. The medical regimen was above Nick’s head.

“Dr. Clayton,” Nick said, “be ready when we get up to the warehouse. There will be more seriously wounded in that last MRAP from the tank shot.”

She didn’t look up, but said, “Call the boys at the warehouse and have them gather a stack of clean T-shirts ready to be used as quick pressure dressings.”

“Will do,” Nick replied. “And, Red, work your way up here if you can.”

Chapter 97

Nick ended the call to the warehouse and turned back to see if Red had somehow climbed his way to the front, over all the troops in the back, in addition to Marcus laid out in the middle with Dr. Clayton and Preacher hovering over him. In hindsight, Nick should have brought an extra MRAP or two, as each one was now incredibly overcrowded after losing the fifth vehicle to the tank shot.

And since the last overcrowded MRAP in the convoy had taken a shot, as well, Nick’s lack of planning had probably cost some soldiers their eyesight or limbs. Or possibly their lives.

There’s not time for that right now, he told himself. He focused on Red, who had a concerned look on his face.

“You okay, boss?”

“I was just about to ask you the same question,” Nick said.

“Been a hell of a day, but I’m still keeping it pulled together,” Red replied, not a hint of humor in his disturbed demeanor.

Nick motioned Red closer, their helmets now nearly touching. The strain of the massive diesel engine as they raced down the streets helped cover Nick’s voice.

“Listen, Red,” he said as softly as he could. “I need you to step up as my number two man.”

The reality of the statement seemed to stun Red. Nick saw him start to object.

“No,” Nick said, glancing back at Marcus in the floor. “I need you, Red. He’s out of it, and when we get to the warehouse, I can’t get tied up with all the casualties.”

Nick looked down and swallowed. Fuck. Why did he send Marcus out in front of that tank? He returned his focus to Red, who was finally beginning to comprehend what he was being asked to do.

“I’m serious, Red. If I’m not careful, when we get back, I’ll be overwhelmed with getting Marcus back to Bagram. And who knows how bad those poor guys are in that last MRAP,” Nick said, shaking his head. He winced as he imagined the gory wounds that were certainly in that rear MRAP.

He looked back at the little guy who had been with him since Mexico. “Red, I can’t get tied up with the wounded. And I can’t see so much life and limbs lost. It’ll affect my decision-making. And it pains me to say it, but the entire state of this country might rest on the decisions I make in the next twenty minutes. Do you understand?”

Red dipped his head in acknowledgement, and Nick could see him preparing himself to deal with the madness and wounded in the last MRAP.

“I’ve got it, boss,” he said. “As soon as we arrive, get the hell away from the vehicles, as far as you can, and start working the phones. I won’t let you down.”

Nick nodded and lightly slapped Red’s helmet twice. He then depressed his radio button and announced over the net that Red was now the number two man in S3.

Chapter 98

The convoy roared into the warehouse compound after they were waved through the gates. Nick jumped from the truck once it stopped and glanced behind him to see the tremendous amount of damage to the rear MRAP.

Could anyone have survived? Fuck, those were his men. He took a step in that direction and slammed right into Red, who had emerged first from the back of their MRAP.

“Get the fuck out of here!” Red yelled, grabbing his web gear and shaking him. “Go. Get over there and work the phones.”

Nick shook his head in assent and turned to walk in the warehouse. Nearly two dozen security men sprinted by him toward the MRAPs to assist the wounded, who were being lifted or aided out of vehicles. Nick saw the green police trucks lined up, ready to roll out.

I’ve done what I can, he thought. I need to get my ass back in gear and into the fight. Get in character, Nick.

He picked up his pace and rushed into the warehouse.

Behind him, he heard Red yelling.

“Julia, who’s critical and who’s staying? And, you four, set up a blocking position on the street. Hurry up! We could’ve had spotters watching our trail.”

Nick glanced back and saw everyone working together. Wounded were pulled from the rear MRAP; some got patched up, and others rushed to the waiting trucks, where other S3 members bandaged wounds and helped them remove their gear.

Nick heard Red’s voice, “Let’s get that ammo out of that vehicle before it cooks off,” he ordered.

The little man had transformed into a general. Nick turned a final time, now assured that everything was being handled as well or better than he could have done. He jogged into the one cleared office, needing to get all the sounds happening around him out of his head so he could think clearly again from 10,000 feet, and not in the weeds.

He galloped into the nasty, dreary office and slammed the door shut. He yanked his helmet off and threw it in the corner. It bounced on the dirty, concrete floor. He pulled the sling of his M4 over his head and plunked his weapon on the desk, noticing blood all over his sleeves and assault vest. Marcus’ blood.

He plopped into the chair exhausted, his hands shaking slightly as he picked up the encrypted phone.

“What’s the latest?” he asked, forcing his voice to steady.

“Pure pandemonium. We’ve got a drone up, watching the presidential palace. The tanks are blasting through the gates, and it’ll be only minutes until they get through.”

Nick updated him on the fact that not only had they withdrawn, they had also suffered serious casualties. He didn’t mention that one of them was Marcus.

“I don’t have a full tally on the wounded, but we’ve lost at least a squad of men,” Nick said. “Maybe two. We’re sending the most critical casualties to Bagram. And we’ve alerted the base to be ready there.”

“Good,” Mr. Smith said. “We’ve got some footage that’s just come in and showed what a hell of a fight you put up. Get your men all accounted for, the wounded taken care of, and your gear collected. We’ll get you moved back to Bagram and flown out of there.”

“Wait. What?” Nick asked, surprised.

“Nick, it’s over. Like I said, it’s pure pandemonium. This is way above our pay grade now. The Afghan president fled with his entourage out the rear of the presidential compound. They’re in a large, hastily assembled convoy racing through the countryside toward the west. By this time, he’s already outside of Kabul, and our satellites have intercepted calls that he’s made requesting asylum with Iran.”

Sweat ran into Nick’s eyes, stinging. He wiped his sleeve across his face, remembering too late that his sleeves were soaked in blood.

He fought down the agitation and said, “This can’t be possible.”

It was too much to comprehend.

“It’s over, Nick. We lost. Rasool hasn’t taken over the entire capital, but he and the Taliban have won and are consolidating their control.”

“What about the two Afghan army battalions on the outskirts of town?” Nick asked. “They'll be able to handle this. Especially if we open up with our drones and air assets.”

“The Afghan president tried to bring in those two battalions, but they hit heavy opposition and were blocked. Stopped cold. Rasool had prepared for them.”

Chapter 99

Nick leaned forward in his chair, stunned and silent. His mind racing with last-minute contingencies.

“Why don’t we get our air assets up?” he asked. “Hit those tanks, get our troops moving out of Bagram, and get the Afghan president re-established. That wouldn’t be hard to do at all.”

“Nick,” Mr. Smith said, frustration rising in his voice, “I have to reiterate again that this is above our pay grades.”

“It’s clearly above someone's head.”

“Damn it,” Mr. Smith said, from wherever his office was in Washington or Langley, “don’t you think the Department of Defense already made that suggestion? We’re not all incompetent.”

“Why aren’t we doing it then?”

“Two things intervened,” Mr. Smith said, his voice coming back under control. “First, radio intercepts show the Taliban have moved a large stockpile of rockets and mortars that they’ll use to shut down Bagram if we try it. When the order came out that American troops couldn’t fly or operate, the Taliban instantly moved these munitions into position. And they’re dug in. So if we even try it, we’re talking serious casualties on our end. But besides that, the State Department convinced the President that we shouldn’t provoke the Taliban.”

“Provoke the Taliban?!” Nick screamed, his anger boiling in his blood. “They should see what the Taliban just did to my men! Not to mention all the men and women we’ve lost the past fifteen years while at war with these motherfuckers! So, news alert, big guy: they’re already pissed off!”

Mr. Smith let him curse and scream a bit more before saying, “Nick, it’s over.”

Mr. Smith continued, his voice controlled and unfazed by Nick’s outburst, “The State Department made the case to our President that a new power is in control of Afghanistan, and they reminded him that we have nearly five thousand support troops and advisors over there who will be in serious danger.”

“They wouldn’t be in any danger if we’re allowed to fight,” Nick argued.

“Nick, you know that whoever controls Kabul, controls Afghanistan,” Mr. Smith said. “The Taliban already controlled much of the countryside. The capital was the final straw. It’s over.”

“We have the troops already here to deal with this situation. It doesn’t have to be over. Let me coordinate with the commanding general at Bagram, and we can deal with this.”

“You’re preaching to the choir,” Mr. Smith said, his voice tired. “But the President wanted to minimize our presence even before all this went down. And he’s still pissed about the order that we couldn’t operate air or ground troops after the Apache friendly fire incident. And he’s super pissed the Afghan president sought asylum in Iran instead of with us. We’ve got a lot of money and secrets over there that we don’t want the Iranians getting ahold of, but we clearly do not have a government in place that we can trust or support any more. The billions in aid packages. The asylum request. The President is done with our Afghan expedition. It’s over, Nick.”

“But this doesn’t have to be over,” Nick said again, his anger returning. “Hell, we send in some Rangers and Marines, allow our forces to operate once more, and re-establish the Afghan government. Or even a new one.”

“The Department of Defense made that very suggestion, Nick, but the president was having none of it. He said we’ve been there fifteen years, and this was never his war to begin with. The public wants us out. Believe me, if you could only see CNN or MSNBC right now. Even FOX has turned against us. Trust me, Nick. It’s over.”

Nick was at a loss of words. Twenty minutes ago, he had been fighting for a new country that though weak, still had a chance. Nick and his men had been sweating and bleeding and dying for a cause against truly evil men. And now he was being told it was all for naught. That it was over.

Nick had men bleeding out this very minute, maybe even Marcus, and he was being told their lives had been sacrificed for nothing. For less than nothing, really. The Taliban would rule again, and the Afghan president would flee to Iran and share a treasure trove of information, which would cost America even more lives in the years to come.

Nick regretted having ordered his men to the presidential palace.

He bowed his head and closed his eyes. It was still too much for him to accept. He lifted his head, squeezed his eyes tight until they hurt, and felt something run out of them. Sweat? Tears? Marcus’ blood?

He was about to explode. He needed to break something. Or someone. Or himself.

Calm down, Nick, he told himself, beginning some breathing exercises that he’d been taught by the VA to control his rage and paranoia.

Mr. Smith either sensed or heard what was happening, and said nothing.

Nick managed to pull himself together. He reset himself mentally.

“It’s not over,” Nick said, conviction starting to take hold. “I’m telling you, this is winnable.”

“The decision’s been made, Nick,” Mr. Smith said, his voice sounding sympathetic. “The State Department will wait a few hours until Rasool Deraz has fully established control of the capital and will begin seeking a temporary ceasefire with the Taliban. Primarily, they will -- wait, let me read this -- quote ‘insist on the safe evacuation of all service members, and full accountability of any missing or wounded.’”

“The President’s not on the ground here,” Nick said. “He doesn’t know what I know. They probably don’t have three hundred fighters in the capital. If that.”

“Nick,” Mr. Smith said, his voice having changed from persuasive and friendly to stern and commanding. “This. Is. Over. That is the word coming down from the President. The President -- our commander in chief -- agrees with the State Department that we should negotiate terms and withdraw. He’s made his decision. You, as well as all military units, are ordered to only fire in self-defense and to cease any and all operations underway. You are to collect your men, wounded, and equipment and make your way to Bagram, where they are expecting you.”

“This isn’t over,” Nick said.

“Nick, I am ordering you to collect your men, wounded, and equipment and make your way to Bagram,” Mr. Smith repeated. “That is precisely what was handed to me directly from the President’s chief of staff, and the Department of Defense is aware of your unit’s orders, too. If you don’t comply, you could be engaged as a renegade unit. So, I suggest you make your way to Bagram Airfield, as directed.”

Nick thought of the raid into Pakistan, as well as the pain and effort that it had cost Marcus, Red, Truck, and himself. He recalled the moment the tank had fired, seeing Marcus’ mangled legs flash through his head. He’d never walk again for sure.

A rage and anger welled up inside of him. It was too deep, too personal for him to rein in.

No, this wasn’t over by a long shot.

“Nick? You there?” Mr. Smith asked.

“Fuck your orders. And fuck the President’s orders,” Nick said. “This isn’t over.”

Chapter 100

Nick hung the phone up and stared at it. He realized it might ring at any second, so he fully powered it off, located the battery, and removed it. He thought about throwing the thing against the wall, he was so angry, but that’d be pretty stupid if he needed to use it again. Which he probably would.

He couldn’t even imagine relaying the conversation he’d just had with his men and women. America would negotiate with the Taliban for the safe passage of American troops out of Afghanistan?

That was beyond nuts. The American military hadn’t lost a battle yet to these bastards. That’s why the Taliban stuck to using IEDs as their primary weapon. Cowardly weapons planted by villagers who were usually paid to place them. The Taliban was too chicken-shit to even plant them themselves.

The Taliban hadn’t -- and literally couldn’t -- stand up to the firepower of the U.S. military.

One thing Mr. Smith had said stuck out in Nick’s mind.

“The State Department will wait a few hours until Rasool Deraz has fully established control of the capital and will begin seeking a temporary ceasefire with the Taliban.”

Nick replayed the statement in his mind several times, as the anger burned in him with a fire that nothing on earth could stop.

He looked at the blood on his gear, and on the grip and stock of his M4. He replayed the words again and again. There was something in those words, something that hid a deeper point. But what was it?

“The State Department will wait a few hours until Rasool Deraz has fully established control of the capital and will begin seeking a temporary ceasefire with the Taliban.”

He pushed the anger down, demanding his brain find whatever clue was buried in those words.

“The State Department will wait a few hours until Rasool Deraz has fully established control of the capital and will begin seeking a temporary ceasefire with the Taliban.”

And that’s when it hit him. This all came back to Deraz.

Of course. Deraz was the head of the Taliban. Deraz was the man who was held in such high esteem by the typically unruly and hard-to-control Taliban fighters. Deraz was the man who the Afghan people trusted to be fair, even if he did hold views more fundamental and extreme than their own.

Nick thought of Mr. Smith’s statement again.

“The State Department will wait a few hours until Rasool Deraz has fully established control of the capital and will begin seeking a temporary ceasefire with the Taliban.”

Of course, he thought! This was the final effort of a decade’s long strategy by Deraz. This was the final battle, and by all means any real leader would be nearby, overseeing the last epic battle that his entire legacy and life’s work rested on.

Without Rasool, the Taliban would either appoint some other religious crazy who hadn’t paid his dues on the battlefield, and thus would lack the respect and support of the people. Or, they’d descend into internal fighting while several mid-level fighters jockeyed for power.

The Afghan people didn’t respect religious leaders who didn’t work on farms or spend their time fighting. No typical Afghan could imagine a life spent completely in mosques or madrassas. No, the Afghan people would never stand for a religious zealot taking over their country. Especially after all the freedom they had felt under American governance.

No way would they go back to being forced to grow beards, or having their women whipped by sticks in the street for violating some minor offense. Or angry, religious men preventing their children from flying kites.

An idea began to creep up into Nick’s mind. S3 just needed to find Deraz, bag and tag him, then somehow let the Afghan people know that the man was dead.

Taking down Deraz was exactly what he’d been hired to do anyway.

Chapter 101

Nick opened the office door and stepped out into the warehouse.

He surveyed the scene. The convoy of wounded had left, with most of the security men having gone with them to help protect the convoy. Nick couldn’t remember if he had instructed anyone to do it that way, but he was glad to see that either Red or Cormac, in charge of security, had read his mind.

Red was too far away for Nick to hear what the little guy was saying, but he was clearly pointing and instructing those who remained behind. They had broken ammunition out of ammo cans and were reloading magazines.

Nick marched across the warehouse toward the remaining squad members. He was almost uncontrollably resolute and pissed, and too far gone to try to hide it.

Gear was strewn across the floor, much of it bloody. Helmets, assault vests, and even a gore-covered boot lay scattered across the warehouse floor. His men had probably thrown and slung the gear out of the MRAPs as they had hastily worked to get the wounded loaded in the police trucks and rushed to emergency care.

He was halfway to the loading docks and could hear Red’s voice now.

“Once you get your magazines fully reloaded, let’s get your water refilled, and get to cleaning your weapons. We’ll eat and clean up some more after that if there’s time.”

Red spotted him approaching and stopped in mid-sentence. Nick walked around the cluster of fighters sitting on packs or standing about. They were sweaty and grimy -- about what you’d expect after spending loads of energy in a firefight, your adrenaline running one thousand miles per hour.

He stopped next to Red who nodded but had a worried look on his face. Nick dropped his helmet on the ground, flipped it up with his foot so it was bottom up, and placed his rifle on it. He unsnapped his assault vest and yanked it over his head. He let that fall, as well.

His men were still loading magazines, but no one talked now. They watched him, anxious for information on the situation. On what their next hour -- or even ten minutes -- might hold in store for them. Nick recognized the taste of grime and grit in his mouth, and he spit on the floor. He ground the spit out and leaned over to swallow down some water.

He felt all the eyes on him. Nick didn’t like being the center of attention, but it went with the job. He stood back up and said, “Listen up.”

As soon as he said it, he realized it was a damn stupid thing to say, as everyone was already locked on his every move.

“Just got off the phone with Mr. Smith. Shit’s pretty fucked up right now.”

He quickly ran through the situation and described that the war was over. And that soon, the State Department would negotiate with the Taliban for everyone’s safe return home.

“That’s fucking bullshit!” Truck roared, jumping to his feet and hurtling his helmet thirty yards across the building and into the wall. It was an impressive physical feat, fueled with a heavy dose of adrenaline, Nick figured. He doubted Truck could replicate it under normal conditions. But then again, it was Truck.

Nick gazed at his troops and saw hot anger in their eyes. They looked as betrayed and sick as he felt.

He glanced at Red and saw Red was about to lose it, but the mantle of leadership seemed to be holding the typically volatile man in check.

“Our orders are to cease all operations and make our way back to Bagram Airfield.”

“Such bullshit,” Lana said, interrupting Nick. He couldn’t imagine how angry Lana must feel, having dedicated her entire life to stomping out radical Islam.

Nick continued.

“We are only authorized to fire in self-defense as we make our way back. Those, my friends, are our orders.”

There were more curses and plenty of arguing and bitching among the troops. Nick let them vent a bit. Hopefully, if they let a little of the hot air out with words, they’d be less likely to start breaking equipment or their fists on hard objects. Truck was dangerous enough by himself, but Nick really didn’t want to see the room break into a rampage.

Once the anger had resided some, Nick resumed.

“Well, honestly, I feel the same damn way. But we have our orders and we should follow them.”

Even angrier curses and insults came at him, some sounding mutinous.

“Fuck that,’ he caught Truck barking.

“Shut up, you fuckers!” Red suddenly burst out, louder than Nick could have imagined his small, smoke-shriveled lungs could manage. “Get your ears out of your asses, the man just said ‘should follow.’”

The room came to an abrupt silence. And Nick looked over to see Red looking at him with a pleadingly expectant look.

And despite the rage rebounding inside of him, Nick managed to give the keen, little man a whisper of a smile.

“Well,” he said, “it just so happens I do have a crazy plan that could take Deraz down and save this country. But you need to know there’s a very real chance that we risk prison once we return, assuming we live to tell about it.”

Nick allowed that to sink in a bit.

“We have been clearly ordered to stand down, and I have relayed those orders to each of you. I need to make it absolutely clear that those are lawful orders, and we break them at our own risk. We will likely wind up in prison after this.”

He paused and added, “There’s also a chance that we will be engaged by our own military if we act. Mr. Smith literally informed me of such a possibility, saying we would, at that time, be seen as a renegade element of the U.S. military.”

Nick gave everyone a full thirty seconds for his cautions to sink in.

Nick finally said, “But having said all of this, maybe they’ll see what I plan to do as a mere detour on our way to Bagram. Or maybe they could be persuaded to see it as we were attacked and defending ourselves. Or maybe they’ll even forget they gave such stupid orders if we succeed. History often gets rewritten several times before it's cemented on paper.”

Nick smiled. “Victory has a way of making people changing their minds.”

A few smiles from the troops.

“But let's not forget, there’s also the chance that they meant every word, and we’ll be hammered. End up in jail for several years. You just never know with politicians.”

Nick scanned the crowd. Most, if not all, seemed to be on board with the renegade plan.

Truck was shaking his head in anticipation, a grin of pure delight on his face.

Lana was loading magazines, her face angry and determined. Lana hated Muslim fanatics probably worse than anyone on the team, having intimately experienced it as a child in Saudi Arabia. She might have broken orders even if Nick had not suggested it.

Hell, she might have been crazy enough to have stayed behind to fight them alone. That’s how driven she was to do her part to extinguish the blight of the fanatics in her religion.

Preacher appeared to be mentally preparing himself. Having been shot in Mexico, Nick knew Preacher understood better than most what they were putting on the line. Once you’ve been shot, it changes you. Makes you a little more aware that you’re not invincible.

Nick didn’t need to look at Red. He knew that man’s decision.

He scanned his ragtag band of madmen, plus one badass woman, one last time and smiled. Looks like we’ll be going hunting again, Nick thought.

Chapter 102

Nick and Red spent just a few minutes planning while troops broke out more ammo and loaded it into MRAPs. One of the squad members used a bucket and splashed out as much blood as was possible in the MRAPs that were soaked in it.

They’d be taking three MRAPs and only nineteen shooters. The snipers would again be operating as riflemen, using M4s, and everyone would stay in police uniforms to prevent any friendly fire. Not that there were any cops probably still doing their job.

A few lightly wounded S3 members and a couple others who had concerns about disobeying orders stayed behind to keep the warehouse secure. Nick, in no way, held these men in any lower regard. Maybe he even envied them for their sound sanity.

Nick was a zealot of his own making. He promised himself he’d never force anyone to join his self-destructive cause, and he wouldn’t hold it against those who decided to stay.

And with that, he oversaw the loading of the three MRAPs. The convoy departed the compound and took a right, heading back toward the presidential palace. They advanced cautiously, about five miles per hour.

“You tell me where to go,” Truck said to Nick.

Their plans were vague, and their MRAP led the convoy again.

“We’re looking for some morons with weapons who don’t run at the sight of us,” Nick said. “That’ll confirm in my mind that they’re Taliban and not residents just out on the street.”

“Well, there are certainly no residents on the street,” Truck said, looking around.

They had driven three blocks and not seen a single person. Buildings were locked up, and smoke floated into the sky from the direction of the Arg.

It took another five minutes of cruising until they heard firing. It was scattered, and not heavy. It sounded as if the battle was over.

“Think we’re too late?” Truck asked.

“Always a possibility, but if that’s the case, we can turn, pick everyone up at the warehouse, and get the hell back to Bagram.”

“That’d be hell on you having to have the State Department bail our asses out after all, wouldn’t it?”

Nick glanced at Truck. “I thought I already showed you I’m not too old to whoop your ass.”

Truck laughed.

“Roger that, sir.”

They turned another corner where suddenly a Toyota 4x4 blocked the street. A black Taliban flag flew from its truck bed.

The truck had a machine gun on a pintle mount and four fighters standing around the vehicle. The older, bearded men looked absolutely terrifying, especially if you were an unarmed (or lightly armed) civilian.

But if you were riding in an armored, 50,000-pound MRAP, they didn’t seem quite so frightening. They were fifty yards away, and they had that cocky look victors wore.

Truck laughed. “These guys are about to learn the hard way it’s not over yet.”

“Yep,” Nick said. “Red?”

Red, up on the .50, ripped a burst at the truck. The fragile vehicle disintegrated from the bullets shredding through it with barely a pause.

“Hit it,” Nick said.

Truck floored the MRAP, and the diesel bellowed. The MRAP picked up speed, and the uninjured fighters scattered. The beastly nightmare of a vehicle plowed through the Toyota without registering an impact, shoving it back forty feet before its tires caught pavement and flipped it over and over.

The MRAP shuddered as Truck hammered down on the brakes. Before it had fully stopped, Nick opened the door and stepped down from it. The remaining Primary Strike Team members emptied from the back.

They came out, weapons up, searching for targets. The surviving fighters had dispersed, running inside the buildings around them.

“Be careful,” Nick said.

He didn’t want them entering any rooms unless they had to. Behind them, the two other MRAPs pulled up to help cover them with their heavy weapons. Their shooters deployed out the back, as well, setting up 360-degree security.

“This needs to be quick,” Nick said, stating the obvious.

The last thing he wanted to do was deal with a couple hundred Taliban responding to the gunfire.

Chapter 103

“Contact front!” yelled Preacher.

Nick turned to see two Taliban trucks rounding the corner. Like the Toyota they’d kick-tossed earlier, the two approaching trucks had pintle-mounted machine guns.

But unlike the first truck -- which had looked like a like a “Greetings from the Taliban” postcard with their proud flag flying and a group of the most quintessential-looking Taliban fighters posing valiantly-- these trucks were piled high with heavily enraged and armed Taliban men.

Red’s .50 roared to life from the front MRAP, and a string full of S3 shooters from the two rear vehicles pushed forward and lit in on the approaching fighters with their M4s. Before Nick could kneel and raise his rifle, he discovered it was already over for their opponents.

But the next set of Taliban wouldn’t brazenly parade out into the open like the first two.

“Contact rear!” he heard someone yell.

Bullets snapped by Nick’s head from down the street, causing Nick to duck behind the MRAP. He knelt, staying low.

Shit, he thought, this is going to be a replay of earlier. We’ll defend ourselves, more Taliban will respond, and they’ll encircle us and rain down RPGs.

Or those damn tanks will arrive.

Shit. Why had he ever thought this plan would work?

Well, it would work, dumbass, he answered himself in a scolding manner, if you would focus on the task at hand instead of worrying about the damned tanks.

As soon as Nick popped back up, hoping to scan the battlefield and prepare the next strategic move, more bullets fell upon the MRAP and forced Nick to duck back down. Fuck.

The barrage of fire increased on his location, and Nick pushed lower down until he laid completely prone on the concrete.

Come on, Nick. Don’t lose focus. You’ve got to grab what you came for and get your team out of here.

But being on the ground severely limited Nick’s ability to see the area like he needed. He became frustrated, as he was effectively pinned down, unable to gain a decent vantage point. He was just about to give up and make the call to haul ass back to the warehouse when he saw a spreading pool of blood on the concrete. His eyes traced the blood trail back and found that it was coming from the other side of the flipped Toyota. Bingo.

“Lana!” Nick yelled over the firing.

She immediately responded, zigging and zagging toward him as he motioned for her to follow. They darted and dashed their way forward to the mangled Toyota. Nick figured the engine could light the gas at any moment, but it was too late to worry about that as they crouched behind it for cover from the incoming bullets.

Nick spotted the source of the blood. A Taliban fighter lay pinned beneath the truck. His right arm was crushed beneath the weight of it, and his right ankle was nearly cut off, the foot inside the space where the window had been and the top of the cab slicing right through the lower leg bone.

As if that wasn’t enough, his left shoulder had been clipped by a bullet, and it drained blood slowly into a good-sized pool around his body.

“He still alive?” Lana asked.

“Not sure,” Nick said.

The body was pale and covered in a cold sweat. Nick used his boot to nudge the body.

The man whimpered and tried to move, then was painfully reminded of his pinned position.

“Ask him where Deraz is,” Nick said.

Lana translated, but the man refused to look her in the eyes.

She finished, and he ignored her. “Ask him again,” Nick said.

She did, and again, no response.

Maybe it was the man’s male pride that had him refusing to speak to an armed, uncovered woman -- a serious affront to a male fundamentalist. Or, he was going for bravery, which in his present situation meant stupidity.

More bullets cut down the street, and Nick ducked lower. As he checked his surroundings, a thought occurred to him.

Deraz was notorious for being secretive in hiding his location. It’s why he had never been captured or hit by a drone’s Hellfire missile. It was also why Nick and his boys had gone trekking into Pakistan for intel.

Maybe the guy legitimately didn’t know where Deraz waited. That would actually make perfect sense, as well, for why the man ignored the question. Plus, there were very few faithful followers, willing to dime out their beloved leader. But that didn’t mean they’d go down for the sake of Deraz’s guard dog.

“Ask him where Mushahid Zubaida is,” Nick said.

Lana Haider threw the words out in the unique and harsh Afghan language though sadly Nick had no idea if she was speaking Pashto or Dari.

This time, the man snapped his eyes to her as she spoke Mushahid’s name.

“He knows,” Nick said.

“Looks that way,” Lana confirmed.

The man then averted his gaze from her and Nick, an insult in Afghan culture.

“Ask him again.”

Lana did, but he ignored her and Nick.

“Again,” Nick said.

She did, but he continued to ignore them both.

Nick didn’t need this. Or have time for it. Bullets relentlessly ricocheted off the truck and snapped up and down the street from both his men and the Taliban fighters firing.

Nick moved his M4’s barrel toward the man and allowed the point of the barrel to press down just a bit into the man’s wounded left shoulder near the bullet-entry point.

The fighter screamed and bucked as much as he could, yanking and flinging his one free arm. Nick put his knee down on the flailing appendage, and the man cursed and yelled in desperation. Nick couldn’t understand him, but the meaning was clear.

Nick pulled the barrel from the man’s shoulder and glanced at Lana.

“I’m assuming that wasn’t directions to Mushahid’s location?”

“He called you a goat whore,” she said, “and you don’t want to know what he said about me.”

“It’s okay, Lana. Show him what you think of him and his smart mouth,” Nick said with a wink.

And with the go-ahead, Lana mercilessly backhanded the smart mouth across the face, causing blood and spittle to fling more than a yard forward. The man's head whipped viciously to the side, and he rebounded from the blow looking a little dizzy.

Shit, Nick, thought, raising his eyebrows. Can’t let her have at him again, or we’ll have to pack him up and take him to go. Nick had forgotten the woman had a heavy background in martial arts.

When the man recovered from the dazed look, a stunned expression came over his face. A dirty woman striking a man? Oh, the ironic and completely deserved horror, Nick thought. The betrayed, whimpering look on Smart Mouth’s face was simply too priceless. In fact, Nick felt that he would be remembering that look for a long time.

Then Nick got back to business and drove the barrel of the M4 about an inch into the wound.

The man screamed and kicked with his only free limb -- his leg -- which Lana quickly sat on. His screams were maniacal. Nick figured it must have hurt like a bitch, but there was an entire country’s fate on the line. And that meant a lot of good Afghan men and women would die if these guys took over the country. He pulled the weapon out of the wound and leaned back, withdrawing his twelve-inch long Ka-Bar knife.

“Tell him if he doesn’t tell us where Mushahid is, I’ll use the knife this next time,” Nick said, bluffing.

Lana spat the words out at him, her voice hard and threatening. Nick moved the knife toward the wound, and the man watched it with complete horror. He was utterly trapped. The truck on his right leg and arm, Lana on his left leg, and Nick kneeling down on his left arm.

The knife wasn’t even within six inches before he started yammering to Lana, and it was clear this time, he wasn’t cursing.

“We’ve got it,” Lana said. “What do we do with him?”

Nick cursed. “Glad he fell for it. I’m getting too damned soft.”

He spoke into his radio, ordering some men to move up to their position. Together, the men lifted the truck enough so the man could be pulled out from under it. Then, they quickly patched him up.

Nick helped as they did this, informing everyone, “We’re not taking him prisoner. Just take his weapon, and let’s allow his buddies to get him some better treatment. Looks like he’ll make it if they get here fast.”

The man had come out of shock as he’d had the truck lifted off him and been patched up. All he’d really needed was reassurance that he could survive and someone to stop the bleeding.

And with the man taken care of, Nick ordered the shooters to cover each other and load up into their MRAPs. It was time to pay Mushahid -- and hopefully -- Deraz a visit.

Chapter 104

“Where to?” Truck asked, when Nick climbed back into the MRAP.

“Just get us the hell out of here,” Nick said. “Head back to the warehouse.”

The .50s were roaring on each of the three MRAPs, as the incoming fire horrendously increased. Nick hoped they didn’t have a gunner get hit up in one of the turrets. There were shields and plates that protected most of their bodies, and their helmets covered much of their heads, but it wasn’t uncommon to have a gunner take a hit.

The MRAPs howled as they sprinted down the road straight toward the enemy. Even though this took them straight into more danger, turning the vehicles around was nearly an impossibility. The MRAPs would have been a sitting duck, begging some RPG gunner to shoot as it sat horizontally, barely moving, trying to pull off an eight-point on a street already far too narrow.

They only needed to go roughly a block until they could take a right and start working their way back to safety.

Good thing the tires could run flat and be re-inflated, Nick thought, because the fire pouring in on them only increased as the enemy saw them getting away. And then they finally reached the intersection for the right-hand turn. They proceeded around the corner and away from the presidential palace. The fire immediately began to slacken with each hundred yards they gained.

“So the Taliban is clearly saturated around the presidential palace,” Nick said, mostly to himself.

Truck grunted but remained focused on his driving.

Nick depressed his mic button.

“All squad leaders, give me an ACE report.”

ACE stood for ammunition, casualties, and equipment, and Nick had appointed temporary squads and squad leaders prior to their departure. While they checked their men and pulled together how much ammunition each man had expended, Nick leaned around to face the rear of his squad.

“Lana, where we headed?”

Lana worked her way forward, and Nick pulled a map of the city out of his pocket.

“The wounded Taliban fighter,” Lana said, “stated that Mushahid was at an old mosque which is roughly translated in English as ‘The Forgotten One.’ I actually know of this one. It’s pretty important in Afghan lore.”

“Where’s it at?” Nick asked.

“It’s a smaller mosque in one of Kabul’s older neighborhoods,” replied Lana. “It’s a very humble place and considered one of the city’s first mosques ever built.”

“So, it’s symbolic that they would be there?”

“Absolutely,” she said. “Deraz is all about the symbolism. I’m pissed I never considered he might be there. It makes perfect sense.”

“Don’t beat yourself up,” Nick said. “None of the intelligence analysts in about a dozen different agencies suspected it either. Just show me where it is on this map and let’s get this shit done before we run out of time.”

While Lana oriented the map, found their location, and searched for the mosque on the map, Nick received reports from his temporary squad leaders. So far, no serious injuries. Two men slightly wounded but bandaged up.

And the squad leaders had already redistributed ammunition among their squad members. They had better than eighty percent of the ammunition they had left the warehouse. Plenty enough to conduct a raid and nab Mushahid. And if they were truly lucky, Deraz, as well. But if the Old Lion, as he was called, wasn’t there, Nick was betting that Zubaida would know his whereabouts.

Chapter 105

The MRAPs headed east, and Nick studied the map, looking for the best approach routes to the mosque. The city streets remained abandoned, and the vehicles hadn’t been shot at in several minutes.

The Taliban seemed to have concentrated on the Arg.

Nick wondered how the two Afghan army battalions were doing on the outskirts of the city. Were they still fighting? Or had they withdrawn? On the one hand, he wanted to call Mr. Smith and find out the latest on the entire situation from 10,000 feet. But on the other, Nick and his shooters were down in the weeds and already committed to this last-ditch effort.

“Wonder how many felonies we’ve committed by now?” Nick asked.

“Fuck those pussies,” Truck grunted.

Nick wondered if any drones were watching the MRAPs. One side of him thought not. They were probably focused on the presidential palace and the escaping convoy that contained the president and his entourage of advisers.

He focused again on their current situation. “The Forgotten One” had several routes to get to it, but it sat alone on a hill with only a single road up to it. Nick would have bet his right arm the place had served as a base or fort when it was originally built.

He scrutinized the map one more time and made up his mind on how they’d deal with the situation. He pressed his mic button, explained his plans, and asked each squad leader to confirm they had received the transmission.

The map proved remarkably accurate. The three MRAPs took a turn off the main road and started up the only street that led to the old mosque. The street was more like a driveway than a road, and the mosque looked abandoned and pretty decrepit. No vehicles sat parked in front of its mud walls, which stood probably fifteen feet high. At the front, an iron gate blocked any traffic that might try to enter the inner compound.

The walls were so high that there was no way Mushahid or Deraz would be escaping if they were in there. And the hill had a fairly steep, rocky slope on all sides except for the driveway, which had been improved through the years. I’d even have trouble with a quick escape down those slopes, Nick thought, and I’m a lot younger than Deraz, that is if Deraz is here. And this meant the three MRAPs had the only feasible exit covered.

“Good place to defend,” Nick said to Truck, “but a damn bad place to try to escape from.”

And though he saw no one, Nick felt Deraz was here. It was too perfect. Too out of the way. Too hidden and desolate.

They were a hundred yards away, approaching at fifteen miles per hour. The road had been built on the hill’s most gentle slope, and its two-hundred yard length had probably provided a great killing field too many times to count. Nick wouldn’t have wanted to fight his way up it that was for sure.

But today, it was devoid of obvious defenders. Clearly the Taliban, if they were here, were relying on camouflage instead of a stout defense to protect whoever was there. The road led to a small looping circle in front of the compound walls, which would allow traffic to exit without having to back all the way down the road.

The mosque had been built before cars were a concern and thus lacked a parking lot or any real accommodation for those who wanted to drive to it. Probably why its attendance and use had ended.

Nick felt some comfort in knowing that even devout Muslims would rather drive to their religious services rather than walk through the rain or cold.

Maybe there aren’t as many crazy fundamentalists as they want us to think, Nick considered.

Analyzing the situation, Nick saw that S3 had two options. Ram the gate or circle down part of the loop and park the MRAPs next to the wall. They could use the massive vehicles as improvised stepladders to scale the towering walls.

Nick imagined the long drops on the other side and the loss of surprise as men clambered up and over. This wasn’t even a hard choice.

“Floor it and ram the gate,” he said to Truck.

The MRAP’s diesel growled as Truck put the pedal to the floor. The vehicle accelerated to nearly forty miles per hour.

“We’re so getting in trouble for this!” Truck laughed, a hint of boyish mischief in his voice. Damaging a mosque was high up on the list of offenses that American troops could commit.

“We’re already in trouble,” Nick replied. “Might as well add ‘wrecking an ancient mosque’ to the charges.”

The 40,000-pound battering ram toppled the gate from its hinges as easily as a grown man might flip a tall champagne glass on its side. The gate exploded from its anchors and flew thirty feet across the compound’s grounds. Truck slammed on the brakes hard, so the MRAP would stop before it busted through the outer wall fifty yards ahead, flipped, and rolled down the steep slope.

MRAPs aren’t made for quick stops, and the vehicle failed to stop before slamming the other wall. It knocked half of the wall down the side of the hill, but at least it helped stop the MRAP.

“Fuck me,” Red said from up in the gunner’s turret.

Everyone tried to recover from the collision and G-forces, so they could deploy quickly. By the time they untangled themselves, the other two MRAPs had entered the mosque’s compound.

Fighters poured from all three vehicles, swarming the small mosque like a vengeful nest of hornets. Before the .50s could even get turned and on target, the fighters were rushing into two separate entrances.

The mosque’s old doors didn’t even have locks.

Nick heard firing and cursed his body for not being as fast as the younger bucks in the unit. By the time he had circled the MRAP and rushed through the front door, the main sanctuary of the mosque had been cleared.

Five dead Taliban lay in pools of blood by their weapons, and S3 members were stacked on the door to what looked like a small storage room. Or maybe a small prayer room or confessional. Nick wasn’t well-versed on mosque layouts, so damned if he knew.

Meanwhile, other members checked the final nooks and crannies of the mosque for anyone hiding out, since Nick didn’t see Mushahid or Deraz among the bodies on the floor.

As the searched wrapped up, Nick felt a growing confidence that Mushahid or Rasool was in the final room the team members were stacked on. Every fiber of his being told him that was the case.

“No grenades!” he yelled across the sanctuary. “Flashbangs only!”

Chapter 106

Rasool had heard the heavy vehicles crash through the gate and the fighting in the sanctuary. The AK fire had ended quickly, and he overheard only the aggressive language of the foreigners now.

He had been praying, no weapon even near him when they arrived. And though it would have been nice to go down in a blaze of glory, shuffling across the floor to his weapon (even with the assistance of his staff) would have proven too slow. So he had said a few final words in prayer, grimaced in pain as he stood, and rolled up his prayer mat.

He pulled his satchel over his head and moved toward the door, when it suddenly flew open from an impact. He saw a police officer retracting his leg from a powerful kick before his eyes caught a grenade bouncing in.

His heart skipped a beat -- maybe three -- as he imagined what a horrific way it would be to die by a grenade exploding right next to you. But something in his mind told his heart it was too small for a grenade. Maybe one of those non-lethal ones the Americans use.

Then an ear-splitting boom erupted and an eye-splitting flash blinded him as he was knocked off his feet. He tried to stop the room from spinning, but he was completely disoriented. Before he could have another thought, he felt someone knee him in the back and pin him to the ground.

And then there were shouts he didn’t understand, some yelling that sounded like cheering, and then his arms were being wrenched behind his back. They were bound by something sharp, and he was hoisted to his feet.

Nick tried to push through his men, who were celebrating.

“We got him!” said Taylor, a member of their 2nd Squad.

Nick shoved his way through and saw him. An old man had been yanked to his feet, his arms held by two stout S3 members.

It was certainly Rasool Deraz, but he looked older and more fragile than Nick expected.

Nick couldn’t help but smile. Even knowing he (or Mushahid) would be in the room, it seemed too good to be true. And Nick instantly realized that if Mushahid wasn’t here protecting Deraz, he was at the presidential palace.

But before Nick could have another thought, he got tackled. Truck grabbed him by his assault vest and started shaking him.

“We fucking got him, Nick!!” he shouted. And then he head-butted Nick’s helmet with his helmet, as if they were crazy football players.

Red grabbed Nick by his gear and started shaking him, as well. The little man’s contagious energy surpassed Truck’s brute strength, jerking Nick about and unbalancing him a bit.

“Your plan worked!” Red screamed.

Nick was embarrassed and yelled for them to stop, but no one could hear him over the hurrahs of Lana, Preacher, and a half-dozen other people. Nick ducked his head as multiple hands were now slapping him on his helmet and gear.

“Damn it, stop it!” he called out, flustered.

But the yells continued. He heard Lana say, “We saved the country,” and someone else follow with, “There’s no way we’ll end up in jail now.”

Nick somehow shoved and fought his way out of the circle in the crowded room.

“That’s enough,” he said. “We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

The jumping and hollering slowed. They had lost too many men today to be continuously overjoyed at the turn of events.

“I’m serious,” Nick said. “That’s enough. This isn’t over, and we’ve got work to do.”

He looked about, found Red, and pointed at the door.

“Red, grab some men, set up additional security, and get those MRAPs parked behind the wall so they can defend the road coming up the hill.”

“Roger that,” Red said.

Nick looked about.

“Where’s Lana?”

“Here!” she said, pushing through the bodies.

“Find a Taliban radio and start transmitting that we’ve captured Rasool.”

“There’s one over here,” an S3 member said across the room.

“Get it done,” Nick instructed. “And quickly. Say that he’s been captured by Afghan police forces. Say that the Afghan army has set up directional finding equipment and that they’re closing in with police units on the presidential palace. We’ll use some informational warfare against these fools.”

He stepped away and re-assembled his satellite phone. He pulled his wallet out and located Allen Green’s phone number on a folded-up sheet that was worn and smeared. He deciphered the numbers and called him.

Allen answered immediately, which surprised Nick since New York was eight and a half hours behind.

“Nick! Are you okay? The news says the capital has fallen, the president has fled, and the State Department will soon negotiate a safe withdrawal for all American forces.”

“Slow down,” Nick said. He had forgotten how fast his friend from New York talked. “I need your help. Both in the short term and probably in the long term.”

“You’ve got it. You know that. What do you need?”

“In the short term, I need you to leak a story to your friends in the AP. Tell them Afghan police forces have captured Deraz.”

“Nick, I can’t burn my bridges with these people by making stuff up. Even if they print it, they’ll hate me afterward. They might even lose their jobs.”

“No, hear me out. It’s true. I’m going to get a photo to you. We’ve captured him, but we don’t want credit for it.”

“Our military?”

“No, S3. But we disobeyed orders to do so. We were ordered to stand down, but you know me.”

“Eesh,” Allen said. “Yeah, I know you.”

“I know. I know. We need to get this story out ASAP. I’ll have one of our support people get you the photo. Give your news sources a heads up, so they can schedule the story to drop as fast as possible. I need this story publicized immediately before our damn government surrenders over here.”

“I’ll have a breaking news alert up that says Deraz has been captured in like ten minutes, but don’t leave me high and dry on this.”

“We won’t. We’ll get you the pic, the details on where he was captured, et cetera. It’ll be a great story, but the credit goes to the Afghan police who showed incredible bravery, blah, blah, blah.”

“Of course.”

“But we need to be prepared to pivot, Allen. If the State Department or Mr. Smith target me for defying orders, we’ll need to reverse the earlier reports and say they were incorrect. That actually a military contractor unit called Shield, Safeguard, and Shelter apprehended him. I don’t want to do that, but the public will be my only leverage if they come after me and my men.”

“Nick, if they come after you for risking it all and capturing Deraz, we’ll crucify them in the media. Heads will literally roll.”

“We may need it. Now, get to work on that news alert about Deraz’s capture. I’ve got a country to save.”

Nick then hung up and looked at another number in his wallet. He had written down the Bagram Airfield commander’s number without listing the general’s name as a precaution when they had gone into Pakistan. It was an absolute, last-ditch effort that they could have used had they obtained a cellphone from a dead fighter there.

And as the phone rang, Nick hoped he could convince the base commander to start operating again. Nick smiled. Yes, he thought. It would only be, ahem, in self-defense of an American contractor company that was under grave attack.

Nick laughed at the loophole he had found. Well, Mr. Smith had said they could fight in self-defense. It wasn’t Nick’s fault they had been blocked by the Taliban from leaving Kabul and gotten turned around as they tried to escape. And it was certainly an accident that they had gone deeper into the city instead of toward safety.

Sometimes those GPSs didn’t work worth a damn.

Chapter 107

After speaking with Bagram Airfield’s commander, Nick next called his IT people at the same base. He quickly informed them of Deraz’s capture and asked if they could hack into the Taliban’s website.

Sure, they replied. They had Ahmud al-Habshi’s login information, after all, since they had scanned and ripped the servers for all relevant password and login data.

Nick instructed them he wanted them to log in and post thsat Deraz had been captured but the Taliban would continue its fight against the forces of injustice.

“Just coordinate with Lana so it sounds legit. As if they posted it.”

“Why not just say it and put up a picture of like Sylvester Stallone as Rambo holding a machine gun with an American flag behind him?” the lead IT man asked, half-joking and half-serious.

“Because it needs to look legit, not like some eighteen-year-old hacker from Texas posted it,” Nick said.

“Roger that, sir,” the IT man replied.

“I’ll have Lana contact you in a minute, but be prepared to make this happen as quickly as possible.”

Nick started to hang up, then had a better idea.

“Say, any chance you guys can hack the Afghan government’s website?”

The man stuttered a bit. “Uh, sure. Most likely. Especially since now they’ve probably got no IT people monitoring it.”

“Good. Then, hack into it. Announce Deraz has been captured, and that police and army units are moving back into the capital. Urge them to remain calm and ask residents to stay inside. Something like that. Put that up in both English and the local languages.”

“Roger that. We’ll get something and get our translators in the States to put it in the local language.”

“No,” Nick said. “Use Lana. We need to stay off the radar on this.”

Several miles away, Mushahid Zubaida was suffering from a mixture of emotions. Anger. Grief. Shame. The disgraceful female voice on the radio now urging them to surrender mocked him.

He had lost so many men, but they had done it. They had taken Kabul. The presidential palace was theirs. And it was at that very moment, while at the peak of victory, that Mushahid, the Fist of the Taliban, learned of his greatest failure.

Rasool had been found. Despite all their precautions, despite the power that had shifted in their favor to secure the win, he had been taken.

Mushahid had roared and rampaged at the news. He’d broken several pieces of the presidential furniture, ripped down a large tapestry, and even lifted a large vase over his head and heaved it through a window. He had just paused to take a breath, his rage-filled eyes set on a large ornate mantle clock when his radio bleeped, followed by the voice.

His spotter reported heavy activity at Bagram Airfield. It appeared that American forces were back in operation. Several aircrafts were being prepped for take-off, and troops were loading up in vehicles.

They would be on top of them in less than a half hour. It would take longer for the troops leaving Bagram to get there, but it wouldn’t matter because by the time troops arrived, the aerial attacks would most certainly wipe out what little remained of Mushahid’s fighters. To make matters worse, it appeared that some of the army deserters they’d gained were getting cagy, and the Taliban’s decimated numbers continued to shrink. It seemed that certain loyalties were shifting and returning to their government masters.

Mushahid could taste the bile rise up in his throat as he realized that they had no choice but to abandoned their conquest and run. And then he gave the mantle clock a taste of his full wrath.

But suddenly as he stared down at the shattered carcass of splinters and gears, Mushahid remembered the other spotter he had sent out had not yet reported. Mushahid impatiently called, repeatedly barking for his informant to reply. By the seventh or eighth repetition, the spotter finally called back, sounding parched and breathless. He announced that he had only just reached the location, his voice sounding garbled as his dry tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

“What do you see at the mosque?” Mushahid, asked, his voice trembling a bit as he clung to his last bit of hope. “Is it true?”

It took a maddening amount of seconds for the response to come back. Mushahid scanned his surroundings for another inanimate victim to obliterate. But finally, the spotter reported, and with every word, Mushahid’s world sank deeper.

The mosque had been overrun with Afghan police. And they were just beginning to load up into their impenetrable Cougar MRAPs, taking Rasool with them.

Mushahid cried out, grief overtaking his rage. There would be no chance for rescue. They would never catch them in time. And even if by some miracle they were to spot the convoy, they were no match for the daunting MRAPs. In all his shame and anguish, Mushahid would have welcomed the certain death that would follow such an attempt.

He would never see his mentor again. He had failed.

Mushahid gave into the despair, begging Allah to take him where he now kneeled, sobbing on the polished palace floors. But suddenly there was a calm in the storm of his mind, and Mushahid found himself in a position that he never had wanted to believe he would face.

Mushahid was no longer the Fist of the Taliban, he was the Head of the Taliban. And to run blazingly into such a guaranteed slaughter would effectively destroy the cause that his own beloved Rasool had given his whole life for.

So Mushahid forced down every rebellious instinct and let the wise, instructive words of Rasool Deraz permeate his mind as he ordered (with great sadness) the Taliban’s retreat from Kabul.

With Allah’s help, Mushahid assured himself, they would be back, and they would fight another day.

Chapter 108

Nick waited a full forty-five minutes before he risked calling Mr. Smith. By then, the three MRAPs had returned to the warehouse with Rasool Deraz.

The base army commander had deployed a hundred soldiers to the warehouse to protect the high-value target. For now, S3 retained control since Nick wasn’t sure if Deraz would be given up to the Afghan government or to the American government. As Smith liked to put it, that was a decision far above his paygrade.

On paper, the hundred soldiers had deployed to provide protection to some American defense contractors who were under siege and surrounded. That wasn’t close to being true, but it was the only way for the base commander to allow the soldiers to operate legally. The base commander had also immediately re-established air ops, informing his superiors of the move and the besieged American contractors.

His superiors, from Afghanistan to Washington, didn’t counter his decision. They were all in cover-their-ass mode, and it was the base commander’s ass on the line. No way would they issue orders that might lead to Americans dying, which would promptly stop their career in their tracks.

Additionally, the base general had detached several soldiers with radios to serve as forward observers for S3. Nick’s company lacked the correct radios to coordinate with American air power, and both Nick and the base commander wanted to reclaim the presidential palace as quickly as possible. Both men knew if they waited for a decision from Washington, they’d be told to hold in place and it might take half a day to get any real guidance.

Better to act and seek forgiveness, both believed. And as long as they won and the results weren’t disastrous, they knew they’d be cheered and celebrated. Not to mention, the presidential palace had truckloads of secrets in it. Informants’ names. Rooms full of intelligence. Crates of top-secret documents from the United States.

This intel needed to be secured, and quickly. Nick had put Red in charge of a convoy of three MRAPs, with the Army forward observers, to seek out the tanks and secure the presidential palace. He had to deal with something far more unpleasant -- and crucial -- than fighting the enemy or recapturing the country’s capital building. This seemed impossible at first blush, but welcome to fighting wars in the modern day era, where every politician and general would sell you out in a heartbeat and write a book some day with half of the country’s secrets in it.

Nick returned to the one functioning office and dialed Mr. Smith’s number.

As soon as he answered, Nick knew he was in for some fun.

“What the hell have you done? Why have you not been answering your phone? Where are you?”

Nick waited for him to finish.

“We’ve had some technical difficulties with the phone,” Nick said with a smile a mile wide across his face.

“You have no idea how much shit you’re in. We told you to stay in place, and we know you did something. And now there are all these false stories out saying Deraz has been captured. I know you did that. Do you know how fucked we are when it comes out that it’s not true? That the war is actually over and we lost. You set everyone up for a major disappointment.”

“But it is true,” Nick said.

“What do you mean it’s true?” Mr. Smith snapped.

“We captured him. S3 captured him, that is. But for now, we’ll just say the Afghan police did.”

Mr. Smith was silent. Nick knew it was a lot to take in. It was nice, for once, having the power in the conversation.

But then the man continued.

“Nick, you disobeyed orders. You’re in so much shit. We’re talking congressional hearings here and prison. Prison, Nick. You knew what your orders were.”

“Those hearings are going to be fun,” Nick said, “when I and the base commander and all the other military officers share how we were ordered to cease all operations and capitulate like complete cowards. Who’s going to take credit for those orders, by the way?”

“This isn’t a game, Nick,” Mr. Smith chided.

“You damn right, it isn’t!” Nick screamed. “Marcus and a slew of others are shot all to hell while you fucks sip coffee and decide what we should do from the comforts of your conference rooms!”

“Nick, calm down.”

“No, you calm down! This can go down one of two ways. Option one is you convince your bosses at the CIA that they can, for once, be on top of the political game. They can take credit for helping save a country that almost fell to pieces. They can help make this a victory and inform the President that the CIA used assets on the ground in a contractor company to capture Deraz and save the country.”

“Nick, we had orders. Even my bosses. That won’t work,” Smith explained.

“The hell it won’t! They can say on-the-ground assets lost communication with their superiors and reacted to fresh intelligence on the location of Deraz. Just say they were unable to obtain guidance from their superiors, so they took initiative and launched an immediate operation to capture the Taliban’s most highly valued target.”

Mr. Smith sighed.

“I can pitch that, but that story is about as bad as something a middle schooler would create. They’re not going to go for it.”

“Then we’ll go with option two,” Nick growled.

“And what’s option two?”

“Option two is I go to all-out war on every dumb bastard that had a hand in this nonsense. Including you, if you get in my way. There will be so many leaks in the press and so much public outrage that even the janitors at the White House will be forced to resign.”

“It’s a politically delicate situation,” Mr. Smith replied, sounding a bit surprised. “I’ll have to get back to you.”

“Tell your bosses to get in touch with the Afghan president. Have him turn the convoy around and meet up with the two battalions on the outskirts of Kabul. We’ve nearly secured the presidential palace, and the Taliban are running. Let’s save this country and forget the bullshit politics. I hardly think after missing the attacks of 9/11, failing to foresee the rise of ISIS, and a dozen other screw-ups, that the CIA wants to have to explain how it missed that the Taliban was about to capture the capital. That no one saw it coming. Let’s give the CIA a win. They could use one.”

As he waited for a response, Nick’s hands shook with adrenaline, frustration, and incredulity. Surely, they’d see the clear solution and do the right thing for once. Nick gritted his teeth, as he listened to the silence on the other line.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Mr. Smith conceded.

Nick listened to the phone click dead and smiled. He knew common sense would win out and he had escaped with his skin again somehow.

He looked around the warehouse for a vehicle. Now all he wanted to do was check on Marcus and the others back at Bagram.

Chapter 109

Nick opened the office door and was surprised to see Red standing outside it.

“Oh. Hey, Red.” Nick said. “How are you back already? Is the presidential palace secured?”

“Yes, sir.” the man reported, but with an unusual lack of enthusiasm. “It was actually pretty easy. The Taliban was running off by the time we got there. And the few that thought to brave it out didn’t stay long when they heard the planes and helo’s.”

“What planes and helo’s?”

“Well, the decision to move on the palace got deferred to the Bagram base commander, since our four-star general in charge of all operations in Afghanistan was in Washington for an emergency meeting with our President. And the Bagram commander was all for saving Afghanistan. He decided to stake his career on it.”

Nick had watched Red closely as the little man gave his report. Something was off about him. He was too serious, subdued even.

“Well,” Nick said, setting his observations aside. “It’s no big secret, really, that our general was a political appointment and a coward at best. But I’m impressed to have actually found a kindred spirit among us. That one-star base commander deserves a promotion in my book.”

“Yeah, he does,” Red agreed. “Because that’s not all he did. Not only did he back us up big time, he called for an all-out effort to secure the palace. Fifty soldiers came in right behind us, and the commander had ordered another hundred flown in behind that.”

“Wow,” replied Nick, impressed.

“He’s also just announced a beefed up convoy with Apache escorts to bring the president back into Kabul,” Red continued. “Plus, believe it or not, Afghan police are drifting back in as well. And their wearing their uniforms.”

“That infamous Afghan allegiance at its best,” said Nick, shaking his head. “Damn, I guess we really have licked the Taliban, at least for now anyway.”

Red simply nodded, but his eyes had drifted off, resting in an unfocused gaze at the wall. Nick was about to question Red about his behavior, but suddenly the man asked, “So what happened with Mr. Smith?”

Nick was a little startled to hear the question come out of Red’s mouth with such a genuine limit of interest in his voice. His eyes still looking, while not really looking, at the wall.

“Uh,” Nick started. “Well, it was pretty ugly. But I think he has a good story to tell his superiors. And hopefully, they’ll buy it.”

“But if not,” Nick hesitated as Red’s focus sharply snapped back on him. “Red, I want you to assure our team that I will fall on the sword. I made the orders, and as far as the CIA knows, I never told anyone that the orders were illegal.”

Red looked Nick dead in the eye. “And I’ll be right there with you, boss,” the man said with absolute resolution. “I won’t let you go down all by yourself.”

Nick gave the small man a grateful smile. “We’ll just cross that bridge if we have to. But it sounds like things are coming together and with luck, the results will weigh more than our errors in judgement.”

Nick felt such a relief at how things had played out. There was a part of him that just wanted to celebrate what they’d actually pulled off, illegal or not. But there was another part of him that delayed the celebration as existing matters pressed heavily on his mind.

Nick patted Red on the shoulder, the man’s eyes looked almost hollow this close. “Come on,” Nick said. “I want to go find a couple vehicles and check on Marcus.”

Nick had just stepped passed Red when he realized that the little man wasn’t following him. He hadn’t even moved.

Nick stopped and looked back. “What is it, Red?”

The little man turned, his face squinting and straining as he tried to hold back the rush of tears tumbling down his face.

“No…” Nick muttered.

“Dr. Julia called,” Red sobbed. “Marcus didn’t make it, man. He’s gone.”

Red dropped his head into his hands, and at the same time, a flaming brick smashed into the floor of Nick’s stomach. His head started to spin, and he thought he was going to fall, but Red was there to catch him.

Red pulled Nick’s unwounded arm around his small but sturdy shoulders. “Come on, boss,” Red said, shaking his own grief enough to help support his leader. “Let’s go back to the office for a bit.”

Nick stumbled back to the office, leaning on Red, and felt the warmth of an unwelcome and traitorous tear slowly trickle down his face.

Marcus…

Epilogue

The following days and weeks were a blur to Nick. He functioned, but barely. Red practically oversaw S3 and protected Nick from the majority of the backlash-bullshit from the missions.

The two Afghan army battalions returned to Kabul, quickly re-establishing order. Police officers gradually resumed their duties, and the nation’s president vowed to relentlessly hunt down the Taliban and chase them all the way to the border.

S3 vacated the warehouse, leaving it abandoned once more, and returned to Bagram. The team members engulfed the wounded: nursing them, checking on them, encouraging them.

The Afghan mission to take down Rasool Deraz had cost Shield, Safeguard, and Shelter eight deaths and over a dozen moderate-to-light injuries. It would take months to rebuild S3 into a fighting force.

The death of Marcus deeply wounded Nick. Losing Marcus rekindled the pain of losing Nick’s best friend and spotter, Nolan Flynn, back in the ’80s, whom he lost to the Soviets.

Afghanistan had cost him Flynn then, and now Marcus.

And the loss of Marcus brought back the black cancer of remorse inside Nick.

Why had it been Marcus he had ordered into the streets to wave down the tanks? Why had he run out of his home after fighting with Anne the night she was later killed? Why had he ordered S3 into the Mexican slum, costing the lives of Lizard and so many others in the process? Were those close to him simply doomed to tragedy or death?

So many dead. So much heartache.

It consumed Nick’s soul and shamefully chipped away at remained of his heart.

Nick had fallen so deep into the abyss that upon the unit’s return to the States, Red and Allen met and decided Nick needed to get away. They called Isabella, who immediately said she wanted to see Nick anyway.

Nick agreed to return to Mexico, but Red and Allen knew better than to trust Nick to take care of himself. If left on his own, Nick wouldn’t make the trip to Mexico or even contact Isabella. He would spend weeks and weeks, drifting across the country on lonely highways and diving into bottles too deep to ever escape from.

So Red and Allen helped Nick pack and against his strenuous objections, they flew with him to Mexico City, where Isabella promptly swept him up in her arms. She promised she wouldn’t let him out of her sight.

And with that, she grabbed his arm and walked with him to their vehicle. Red and Allen hauled Nick’s luggage behind them and watched as Nick seemed to awaken to the positive energy and spirit of Isabella. Even the walk with her through the airport appeared to revive him.

They loaded Nick’s luggage into Isabella’s armored SUV and waved, as the two drove off into the distance. Isabella had taken some family-emergency leave from the police department and booked a secluded beach resort for the next two weeks, after which she’d drag him back to her large condo.

“Isabella will save that man from the darkness,” Red said, watching their vehicle until it disappeared in the traffic.

“She will,” Allen agreed. “And then he’ll come back to the only thing he knows.”

There was some concern in the statement, and Red knew Allen wasn’t a big fan of guns or violence.

“Nick does what Nick knows how to do,” Red said. “Same as how you do what you know best.”

Despite the fact that he had enough money from his book sales of Nick’s story to last him ten lifetimes, Allen had recently launched a watchdog group of senior reporters to conduct difficult and dangerous investigations into public officials and agencies.

“I suppose you’re right,” Allen said.

Allen knew Nick would do more than just return to S3 when he healed. Nick would resume his quest for vengeance against a particular U.S. Senator from Texas. And while Senator Ray Gooden deserved to die at the end of Nick’s gun, Allen had plans to change Nick’s mind on that regard. There were other ways to take a man down, and there were fates worse than a bullet fired from long range.

But for now, Nick needed some sun, some Isabella, and some distance from the dark art he was a master of. If only for a little while.

Author’s Note

It should go without saying that clearly I am no expert on Islam. Though I have read a couple dozen books on Islamic terrorism and armed jihad, I am confident I have made some mistakes while attempting to fairly present their side. Nonetheless, I have tried to portray their goals and beliefs as accurately as possible.

I owe my beautiful wife Danah so much for all her help on this book. She helped with the characters, she helped with the ending, she helped with rewrites on some of the chapters. She is a big reason for why this book, in my opinion, is my best ever.

I also need to thank several current or prior uniformed members of our Armed Forces, who helped me make this book happen. These include former Army Captain Mathew Bocian, Army Ranger Sgt Travis, and USMC SSGT Frank Kovach.

Other works by Stan R. Mitchell:

Sold Out (Nick Woods, No. 1)

Mexican Heat (Nick Woods, No. 2)

Afghan Storm (Nick Woods, No.3)

Little Man, and the Dixon County War

Detective Danny Acuff, (Book 1)

Soldier On

About the author:

Stan R. Mitchell writes some of the most action-packed, fast-moving novels around. Tired of slow-paced, investigative novels that take 50 pages to excite you? Look no further!

Stan is the best-selling author of 5 novels in 3 different time periods. He's also a prior infantry Marine with Combat Action Ribbon, and a former journalist who spent ten years in the newspaper business, learning how to hook the reader, cut out the filler, and just tell the story.

In short, Stan is knowledgeable, he's fast, and his books will blow you away. You can learn more about him at http://stanrmitchell.com.

If you enjoyed “Afghan Storm (Nick Woods, No.3)” please consider dropping a short review of it on Amazon. Reviews go miles and miles toward helping readers discover new authors, such as Mitchell.

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Don’t miss Mitchell’s other exciting book, Little Man, and the Dixon County War! (Free preview follows.) Book description:

Blood. Pain. Justice.

In the savage Wild West, these are three words that are more than just words on a page.

You know them. You live them. And not a single dawn arrives that you’re not thankful to still be alive.

In this brutal, untamed landscape, comes an honest man, who will do what’s right even if it costs him his life.

Awaiting him is an evil cattle baron named McConnell, who’s the most powerful man in the West.

The honest man -- Paul Zachary -- has just hung a badge on his vest, while McConnell has just set his sights on the new lawman.

McConnell has bribed or buried every man who's ever stood up to him, and he has almost a hundred gunhands under his control.

It looks like the mortician is about to get really busy…

“Little Man, and the Dixon County War” is a fast-paced thriller set in the Western era. Fans of “Appaloosa” and “Django Unchained” will almost certainly love this book.

But be forewarned. There are no cattle drives or beautiful sunsets. No slow scenes with formal manners and tender dames.

This is the gritty West. A place where lawless land barons push the weak, and sworn law officers balance keeping the peace and staying alive. Blood flows early and often, and danger lies waiting around every corner.

This is not a book for the faint of heart, or for those who want to imagine living out west before the land was tamed. Had you lived in these times and on these pages, you'd keep a gun by your side. Probably two. And you'd damn well better have known how to use them.

This book -- as you can see -- contains mature language and moves fast. It's a hard, thrilling ride, so if you choose to saddle up, prepare to be thrown off a time or two. And if you make it to the end, you’re not done yet: perhaps the only thing more thrilling and explosive than this book is its ending.

(Publisher’s note: Due to the high demand for a follow-up book, production has already begun on Book 2. It’s expected to drop in the Spring of 2016.)

Free Extended Preview of Little Man, and the Dixon County War follows below…

Chapter 1

My life took a turn for the worse the night a boy named Joe burst through the door of the Marshal’s office in Belleville, Texas.

“Mr. Zachary, come quick,” the boy panted, still standing in the doorway, holding it open. Little Joe, probably about ten, wiped down tables and picked up plates down at Frank’s Saloon. An easy enough job, but tonight he looked panicked and out of breath.

“What’s the trouble,” I said, easing my chair to the floor and taking my boots off the desk.

“Down at Frank’s Saloon.” Little Joe gasped between his frantic details. “Big guy named Bill Garland. And two others.”

I stood. Looked over at the double barrel shotgun leaning in the corner. Decided two barrels wouldn’t do against three men. “What happened?” I asked as I grabbed my hat and started for the door.

“This huge guy Bill Garland beat up two men. Bad.”

“Oh?”

“Even kicked them when they were down. Used the toe of his boots, too. Right in their sides. He hurt 'em bad. Real bad. Better hurry.”

“Bill Garland, eh?” I repeated as we walked down the dusty street. I knew Garland had quite a reputation. He’d made a name for himself after killing six men in fair and square gunfights. I’d need to be doubly careful tonight.

I took a deep breath, flexed the fingers in both my hands, and asked, “Why didn’t Frank pull out his trusty double-barrel shotgun from behind the bar? He knows how to deal with out-of-control drunks. Been doing it for years.”

“He started to,” the boy said exasperated, “but Bill Garland’s two partners drew on him first and took his gun.”

I pulled the brim of my hat lower. I kept my eyes on the doors of the saloon ahead, while keeping my peripheral vision on the dark shadows along the street.

“Now,” the boy said, walking fast to keep up, “they’re claiming they’ll have one final drink, as well as take a bottle to go. And when Frank said they owed him five dollars for the drinks, plus damages of fifteen dollars for all the tables and chairs they broke, Bill Garland said 'no way.' He said that Frank actually owed him twenty dollars for the fact he’d gotten hurt fighting.”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah, that’s what Bill said, but it ain’t true a’tall. I saw the whole fight, and Bill never even got a lick landed on him.”

“Sounds ’bout right,” I said. I edged closer to the darker side of the street, now just fifty feet away from the doors.

“Bill Garland told Frank he ought to run a safer establishment, and that because of hurting his back while fighting to defend himself, he wouldn’t be able to work for a couple weeks.”

“What did Frank do?” I asked, lowering my voice. I motioned for the boy to do the same.

“He argued at first,” Joe whispered, “but when Bill Garland said they’d bust the place up more if he didn’t pay, he handed them twenty dollars and gave them a new, unopened bottle of whiskey. Just like they asked.”

“He did?” I asked, skeptical. Frank Connors was the toughest saloon owner I knew, and he’d been handling drunks and gunfighters for years. Had killed quite a few, too.

“Of course he gave them the money,” the boy replied. “They’ve got his shotgun, and they’re threatening to break up the place worse than it already is. And all the other people in there are scared to death.”

I felt a bit of fear -- real queasiness -- down in my gut.

“Stay back,” I said.

Chapter 2

I waited outside the saloon doors in the shadows, ignoring the row of horses tied out front. Normally, Marshal Harrison and I took care of the rowdies. But tonight Marshal Harrison was a full day’s ride away, escorting a prisoner back to Belleville for trial.

I waited a moment longer, thinking through the various scenarios that might occur. It’s one thing for two Marshals to back down three angry drunks. It’s quite another for one man by himself. Especially a young man my age. Young and small in the West reads amateur and pushover, whether true or not.

I eased through the saloon doors, my hand resting on my pistol. I had every intention of talking Bill Garland down. No gun work for me tonight, since according to his reputation, he’d killed six men in fair and square gunfights.

No doubt he could beat me if it came down to pistol work, and I had no desire to gamble on a pistol fight with him. Not unless I could get behind a table or an edge of the bar. I’m not partial to fair gunfights.

With the saloon doors open and my hand on my pistol, I took in the scene. All the customers appeared to be in a state of shock. No music came from the normally loud piano and the men at the crowded tables sat still with downcast gazes. No one talked. No one played cards.

To my right, two men lay on the floor among the remnants of at least three shattered tables and a couple dozen broken glasses and plates. One of them was groaning and holding his side. The other was out cold in a small pool of blood that ran from his mouth. A tooth lay in the blood.

To my left stood Bill Garland, leaning on the bar, with his partners on both sides of him. All three men had their backs turned to me, but I knew Bill stood in the center. His reputation billed him as a hoss.

Most small men learned to expertly wield a pistol, while big men preferred to handle things with their fists. Bill Garland was an exception to the rule: A big man who could shoot with the best of them. At least, that was his reputation.

The bar had cleared out around them, and the folks who normally lined the bar stood against the walls. Everyone looked like they wanted to leave, but no one dared pass Bill Garland and his friends. It was as if the three men had some kind of contagious disease.

I stood just inside the doors and looked the three men over. Bill Garland was every bit the giant his reputation claimed. A big, ham-fisted man at least two heads taller than most in the room. A striped shirt strained to hold in his thick, wide back. And on the other side, the shirt struggled to contain his gut.

He had to weigh more than two hundred pounds. Why anyone would be stupid enough to try to take him on in a fight was beyond me. You don’t fight draft horses. Especially draft horses with a gunfighter’s reputation. At least now I knew why no one had broken up the fights to keep the men from being kicked while they were down.

Bill Garland was the most intimidating presence I’d ever seen. And dating back to my war years, I’ve seen a few men who’d scare the living daylights out of you.

Bill’s two buddies didn’t look like pushovers either. One was a scraggly, bearded Mexican. He wore a sombrero and looked about fifty. Old to be staying out late and carrying a fancy, ivory-handled pistol tied down to his leg. The other one was a tall, lanky white man probably in his mid-twenties. He had the look of a cocky Texan, since he wore a huge, high-crowned, wide-brimmed hat pushed back on his head.

I knew standing behind them that I was in deep shit. Some men carry experience in the way they stand, the way they talk, the way they look. These men were fighters and killers. They would have even been a challenge for me and ole’ Marshal Harrison together. I didn’t want to consider how it would turn out for just one young deputy.

Chapter 3

I considered sliding out of Frank’s Place -- the name of the saloon -- and pulling my pistol from behind the cover of the wall below the saloon doors. Maybe after I’d shot one or two of them, they’d decide they ought to leave, though big Bill Garland might take more than two shots to put down.

But before I could back out, Frank Connors, the saloon owner who stood behind the bar, looked up. Bill Garland, standing in front of him, saw his eyes move toward the saloon doors and turned to see who had entered. I heard several people audibly gasp, probably figuring a shootout would happen immediately.

“What seems to be the problem?” I asked, wanting to speak first.

Bill Garland, now enraged, threw his mug to the floor as hard as he could, shattering it into a thousand pieces.

“What do you want?” he demanded, practically sneering.

“I’m the law,” I said, “so don’t do anything stupid like going for your gun. I came to resolve this dispute.”

I said it as deep as I could, but it came out shakier than I wanted.

Bill laughed and smiled at the Mexican. The Mexican placed his hand on the ivory-handled pistol, which I thought was a little bold, while the lanky feller remained leaning on the bar, seeing no threat and keeping his eyes on the bar owner.

I shifted my eyes from Bill to the Mexican.

“If you draw and manage to kill me, you’ll have a posse the size of the Comanche nation coming after you,” I warned, nodding toward the roughly two dozen men sitting at tables or lining the walls. “Led by a handful of U.S. Marshals. And that’s if these fine folks let you walk out of the saloon alive.”

Bill Garland walked toward me, a monstrous hulk that caused the floors to creak.

“Son,” he said, “if you’ve got a lick of sense, you’ll leave us the hell alone. We’ll bury you before the hour is over, and these fine folks you mentioned won’t do a damned thing. Just like they didn’t earlier when I was tossing around and kicking their friends.”

He had a point there, but I tried not to show anything as I looked up at him. He moved his head closer, lowering it a bit, and said, “Little man, I suggest you leave now while you can and let us handle this disagreement with Frank here.”

His breath smelled of beer and peanuts, and it was hard not to recoil from it. But, somehow I managed to answer him.

“Ya know, if I was a tub of lard as big as you, I’d talk big, too. And if I wasn’t planning on hitting the sack soon, I’d show you why it’s best to keep your mouth shut. But, that’d take two hours and get me all sweaty and probably a bit busted up, so if you don’t mind, let’s settle this tomorrow.”

Bill pulled in his gut and hitched up his pants. I could tell the tub of lard comment had hit home. I doubt anyone had gathered the nerve to mention it before.

I thought he was going to reply, but instead he slapped me. Openhanded with his right hand. And he was WAY faster than I expected. Not to mention, he hadn’t telegraphed the move by flinching or moving his shoulder. I never saw it coming and my head rang from the force.

I tasted blood in my mouth and tried to collect my wits.

“Little man,” he said, leaning in again with his revolting breath, “you shut your mouth or I’ll slap you silly from one end of this room to the other.”

I’ve fought big men before and whooped most of ’em. But, it takes a lot of space and time, to wear them down. Most lack agility and move slow and give away what they’re doing by leading and flinching.

Bill Garland didn’t fit in that category, and it occurred to me that I was in deep shit. I didn’t have any men on my flanks as I’d had in war. And I didn’t have anyone who’d have my back in this saloon -- those along the walls and at their tables were too intimidated.

I’d never been so scared in my life. I knew for sure he was way more than I could handle, and that he’d very likely lame me for life if we fought and he kicked me while I was down. That slap – the force and weight of his hand – had felt like getting kicked by a horse. He’d probably nearly killed the two men lying on the floor. A kick from Bill Garland, if he were enraged and landed it well, could quite possibly kill me. A ruptured organ or cracked skull seemed completely reasonable.

The man in me wanted to fight. Every muscle fiber and piece of binding sinew in my body screamed at me to fight him. And I felt the men of my family – a line of tough hombres as stout as bulls and as stubborn as mules – looking down on me.

But despite the pressure of being a man and having a family lineage to uphold, every bit of common sense told me that a fight was what he wanted. He wanted to lame me for life to add to his already growing fame. As I considered these thoughts, Bill Garland saw I was going to do nothing.

“Little man, at least you got more sense than ya got stature.” And with that, he turned and lumbered back to the bar.

I stood there dazed. My face pounded with heat and pain from his heavy-handed slap, but as I looked around and saw everyone staring at me, embarrassment hit home. This man turned his back on me, because he didn’t see me as a threat. Worse, he’d slapped me, because he thought I was a joke. I’d have rather been punched. Maybe knocked out, or even injured and helpless from a broken jaw. At least then I’d have an excuse for not confronting him again. But to slap me? Like a girl?

So, instead of lying in the floor with a broken jaw having given it my all, I had to stand there, watching Frank Connors behind the bar and a couple dozen friends look at me pitifully. As if they felt sorry for me.

It hit me that my whole life had come down to this moment. I could turn and walk out, but my reputation as a man would be over. All my war experience. Worthless. Me gunning down the Jones brothers after they robbed a bank. Forgotten. And worst of all, the reputation of my Zachary family name would collapse into a cowardly rubble. All because I’d let a man slap me and didn’t have the nerve to do a damn thing about it.

I knew, as I stood there ashamed, that I had to act, though it was clear I’d probably get seriously injured. Possibly even die, but I had to act. To do nothing was worse than serious injury or death. To just stand there would be to surrender my manhood and everything I’d worked to earn since my first fist-fight as a boy.

Bill Garland’s two friends had turned from looking at me, as well, and now all three of them faced Frank again, who looked even more scared now that the law -- his final hope -- had fallen short of proving a savior.

Shooting them in the back would be illegal and wrong, and drawing on them and asking them to disarm would only work for a few minutes. Even though I knew they’d drop their gun belts, I also knew I’d never get them to walk down the main street to the jail without jumping me.

Even if I did get them down the street, I’d have to get them in a cell somehow. Alone.

I cursed the fact Marshal Harrison wasn’t in town and had left me alone, and I cursed the fact I’d let Bill Garland slap me like I was nothing in front of so many people. My brain told me I’d have been better off not coming into the saloon at all when the boy Joe showed up. But that old family blood of mine had made me respond to the boy’s request.

I’ve never felt so many eyes on me as I felt that night, and I’ve never felt so clearly that my life hinged on a single moment.

And that’s when I saw the stool. It was to Bill’s left and behind him. It had probably been the Mexican’s, and he’d pushed it back when Bill had turned to face me earlier.

I moved toward the stool and grabbed a leg with each hand down toward the base. As I pulled it up with both hands, I realized it was far heavier and stouter than I expected. But with hardly a pause and with all the power I could garner, I spun in a complete circle and arched the stool from low to high, swinging it with all my weight and momentum.

I’ve cut a lot of wood and know that nothing creates power like long arcs, and I created a lot of power that night. Anger, shame, and adrenaline caused me to yank that stool off the floor and swing it as I’d never swung anything in my life.

The four-legged, thirty-pound walnut stool hit Bill Garland so hard across the shoulders that it likely injured him for life.

The stool slammed into him in the back of the neck and right shoulder area, and it didn’t even break -- the stool was that solid. Bill screamed, almost like a girl or a deer that’s been fatally hit, and as he fell, he twisted toward me and went for his gun.

Time slowed down, as it always does in those moments, and I saw Bill’s friends looking at me in shock in my peripheral vision. Too stunned to move. Too shocked to see I was no longer behind them, standing there helpless. The “little man” in over his head.

But, Bill, grievously injured as he fell to the ground, reached for his pistol. I’ll always believe he did it because he thought I’d smash him again with that stool when he hit the ground. Right in the face.

I wouldn’t have -- because it would have been unnecessary and would have left me vulnerable to his friends -- but, Bill didn’t know that. And as he clumsily went for his gun, I shoved the stool at him to startle him, drew my pistol, cocked it, and shot him right in the chest – about four inches to the left of his heart. Not a great shot, but first shots rarely are.

As the stool rolled away and he clutched at his chest, I cocked again, aimed better, and shot him one more. Even more accurate this time. About an inch off the mark.

My ears rang from the shots and smoke rose from my gun as I cocked it a third time and aimed it at the Mexican. Right at his head. About a foot away. I figured he’d be a far greater threat than the tall lanky Texan, who was still young and hopefully pretty green.

The whole series of events took less than a couple of seconds.

“You’ll regret that,” the Mexican said, looking from the barrel of my smoking gun to the bloody floor where Bill Garland lay.

“I’m just getting started,” I said, my voice having returned to its normal octave with the rebound of my courage.

Chapter 4

Standing there with my pistol, I knew the tide had turned. Thirty seconds ago, I’d been a young man who’d been slapped and humiliated in front of roughly twenty-five people. Now, I’d just killed the great Bill Garland, and his reputation had been transferred to me.

It hit me that I was no longer some minor Deputy Marshal in some no account town. I’d killed a famous man. A serious threat. I was no longer just a nobody.

Still aiming at the Mexican’s head, I commanded, “Drop your gun belt, nice and slow. I’d hate to accidentally shoot you. I’m a little jumpy tonight.”

The Mexican did nothing, and I wondered what I’d do if he refused.

“I’m not taking off my gun,” he said, and his deep voice, his aged confidence, his weathered face did something to me. It was his cockiness that drove me to the edge of my limit.

I raised the front of the gun barrel just a couple inches and fired. The blast shook the room, and the Mexican nearly jumped out of his skin as the bullet passed inches over his head and into the wall. I think he thought I meant to shoot him, and I have no doubt he filled his pants. I know I would have.

Visibly shaken, his hands quivering and high in the air now, he slowly lowered them, unbuckled his gun belt, and lay it on the floor.

“Bravo,” someone yelled behind me, clapping. Others joined him, still timid.

“You, too,” I motioned to the lanky one with my pistol. He’d turned around when the shooting started, but seemed convinced he was in over his head. He posed no threat. I’d just killed Bill Garland, and he probably thought I was the next Billy the Kid.

As the tall, lanky one went to unbuckle his gun belt, I stepped back to get some distance from them both. I didn’t want them to rush me.

When the tall lanky one’s belt hit the floor, the Mexican said, regaining his confidence, “Unload our pistols and give us our belts and guns back. We’re leaving town right now.”

“Those guns are no longer yours,” I said. “They’re the property of Belleville now.”

“What do you mean?” the Mexican asked, angry. He eyed his holstered pistol in the gun belt. It was no ordinary pistol; it had intricate sketching in both the frame and ivory handle.

“We’ll need to sell them to cover damages,” I said, nodding toward some busted tables and chairs.

“His pistol alone,” the Mexican tilted his head toward his lanky friend, “would cover the damages in here.”

“Burying expenses,” I shrugged, motioning toward the dead Bill Garland with my pistol.

Someone laughed behind me. And then someone else clapped. Others joined, and soon the applause, laughs, and jeers grew louder. Someone else yelled, “Way to go ‘little man,’” mocking Bill Garland’s words.

“Little man, indeed,” replied another customer.

The Mexican moved forward, and I reoriented my pistol from the lanky guy to him. He stopped a foot away and, as angry as I’ve ever seen anyone, said, “No one takes my pistol from me.”

“I just did,” I said, “which doesn’t say much for you since I’m new to the job.”

Several laughed and I realized I was really feeling it now. Even getting cocky.

“Now get the hell out of here,” I said, “before my pistol accidentally misfires. It happens sometimes with young deputies.”

Chapter 5

I didn’t aim to become a famous gunfighter. It’s just the way things worked out.

I only ended up as Deputy Marshal of Belleville because of some posse work I’d helped on. I was just passing through the town when I came upon the early stages of a posse forming. The town had been robbed, and the people were raring to go.

I’d told them I’d done some cavalry work in the war between the states, but back then all the men had supposedly “seen action” in the war, so news of wartime experience barely raised an eyebrow.

I didn’t do anything super brave as a member of that posse – at least nothing that compares to what I did in the war. I just talked less in the beginning and rode harder in the end. And when we cornered the Jones brothers in Dead Man’s Canyon, it seemed no one wanted to be the first to confront the bank robbers.

“They’ve killed a man before,” said Hugh, who’d been talking loudest the day before while the town’s posse had formed. “We better be careful.”

Hugh had said he’d served in the war, but I had my doubts.

Another man, Phil Campbell, said, “We need a plan,” though he’d also been talking big before the posse pulled out. He had claimed to be another “veteran.”

They probably talked some more, but I can’t say for sure. I rode away from the nearly two dozen riders while they strategized and planned and tied my horse to a tree nearby. I spent the next twenty minutes freezing my ass off as I crawled forward on the wet, cold ground with my lever-action rifle.

I slid and waddled from puddle to puddle, following the low ground as I worked my way toward the Jones brothers, who were also strategizing and planning at the end of the canyon.

Once in range, I cocked my rifle and took up a good prone position. I looked around, and decided where I’d run if I were them, then aimed in on the meanest-looking one.

“Drop it!” I yelled.

And as they scrambled to draw their weapons and locate the source of the shout, I blew a hole through the meanest-looking one, levered my gun, and then dropped the other. Neither of the two brothers even saw me as I lay in a depression in the ground three inches deep -- full of icy water -- that some cow had wallowed in months before.

My Captain used to say, “If you’re not muddy, you’re not low enough,” and that advice has saved my life more times than I care to count. And while I hated riding back to Belleville soaked and cold, it felt great to have so many men congratulating me on my “bravery.”

Deep inside, I couldn’t shake what I’d felt before but knew now to be true: not a single one of these men had actually seen action in the war. Because if they had, then they’d have known that crawling forward in the mud and knocking two men dead with a lever-action, repeating rifle falls far short of bravery. And if they had served, they’d have been sliding forward in the mud with me instead of standing around circled up, talking rather than doing.

Chapter 6

I’d barely gotten dried and put three rounds down at Frank’s Saloon before they offered me the job of Deputy Marshal of Belleville.

I was a hero for days following the burial of the Jones brothers in a public cemetery outside town. One of the more religious men called me a warrior of God, and the women sure smiled hard and looked long.

I learned real quick that Deputy Marshal work is mostly boring, and I nearly quit after three weeks of it. Though, I held out since it was still winter and cold and most of the cattle owners weren’t hiring hands.

Then the Bill Garland incident occurred. Once again the women went out of their way to thank me, and the men seemed torn between appreciation and envy. Nonetheless, after a couple weeks, things slowed down once more.

The work got boring, and the women stopped looking my way. My youth and short height always has a way of doing that, and it wasn’t long until I’d forgotten about the “little man” nonsense.

That is until Frank Connors burst into the Marshal’s office one day with a newspaper.

“Paul, did you see the most recent paper yet?”

“No.”

“Take a look,” Frank said, bringing it over and dropping it on the desk.

I picked the paper up and saw it was The Texas Gazette. The front page story was about me.

I slowly read over each bold-printed word, absorbing the official report.

“Deputy Zachary, an officer of the law for Belleville better known as ‘Little Man,’ shot and killed well-known gunfighter Bill Garland on Feb. 22.”

I looked up at Frank Connors.

“No one calls me Little Man,” I said.

“Well, they will now,” he said with a smile.

“You make this sound like it’s a good thing,” I muttered.

“Well, it is,” Frank beamed. “Belleville made the front page, and this story is being reprinted in papers across the state. It’ll drive more people here.”

“Easy for you to say,” I said. “You’re in the business of selling liquor. But, I’m in the business of trying to stay alive, and all this article did was put a bigger target on me.”

Frank didn’t have a response to that, so I grabbed my hat and went out for a ride. I rode in a wide circle around Belleville, not really looking for anything. Just thinking and trying to clear my mind.

Everything in me said the mean-looking Mexican would come back after me. I’d killed his friend. I’d embarrassed him. I’d taken his fancy gun, and then sold it as if it were no more valuable than an old farm tool. Hell, I’d have been pissed, too.

I stopped at the edge of some woods and dismounted, tying my horse to a strong limb. I walked out into a field of weeds and brush and sat down. I snapped a twig off a bush, and made a tooth pick of it, and simply decided to stay a while. Sitting back, my boot heels dug in the ground, and my elbows around my knees.

Looking out across the field, I allowed my mind to reflect on the recent events. I knew I was in a mess of trouble. At twenty-seven, I was young and inexperienced by the standards of most gunfighters. And while I’d played around quick drawing some, like every man in the Wild West, I hadn’t diligently practiced it. And while I was an expert shot with a rifle, I hadn’t shot enough with a pistol to have similar skills.

The skills I had were more military in nature. I could shoot a rifle, ride hard, and even track. But quick draw? Not really.

As the afternoon passed, I realized I’d have to change. I’d need to become a gunfighter. Not just a good one, but a great one. Or, I could ride off and leave town, but those were my two options: Get good or get gone. Otherwise, I’d be dead soon.

Finally, a couple hours later, I could think of no other angles around the problem. So, I stood up and began seriously working on my draw. Nice and slow at first. Then faster. And faster.

Next, I practiced my accuracy with the pistol. Shooting from the hip at a wide oak eight feet away. I struggled to hit it with the pistol down by my hip, so I moved closer to four feet. By the time I’d gone halfway through the ammo on my gun belt, I felt more confident but not nearly as good as I needed to be.

I rode back to town more humble than I left it several hours earlier -- the hours of shooting having had the opposite effect of what I intended. Before, I thought I was good. Now, I knew how average I actually was.

I took my time moving down the main street, which had gone from dusty to muddy following a rain shower the day before. I rode slowly, because I was uneasy. Not only about the mean-looking Mexican and his lanky young friend, but also all the folks who might be looking to challenge me and my new reputation. Some fool newspaper man had hung a big target on me, whether he meant to or not.

I stopped at the general store and looked up and down the street before dismounting and tying up my horse. I went inside and bought a box of ammo to replace what I’d shot.

I headed over to Frank’s Place next. Frank’s was a short distance from the general store – maybe two hundred yards, but I remounted and rode to it. I liked to have my horse just a few feet away ever since our bank got robbed.

Belleville had quickly gained a reputation as a good place for bank robbers to hit. It had a lot of money stashed in its bank for such a small town, thanks to its saloons stacked full of women. Also, it was on the fringe of civilization, so bandits could ride hard and have a decent chance of making a getaway in rough country.

I kept my horse, a thin six-year-old mare named Sable, to the edge of the road near the boardwalk of several saloons. These days, it seemed Belleville hatched new saloons almost every month. And since the town didn’t have a church yet, no one frowned upon what went on upstairs with the women. All the alcohol and available women brought other industries as well.

Belleville now had a blacksmith, lumber mill, stage stop, hotel, leather goods store, and well-run stable. Men, even married men, preferred to do their buying and trading in Belleville these days. They’d tell their wives the prices were lower, but the lights above the saloons through the late night told me more than low prices were involved.

A couple of the folks I tipped my hat to probably wondered why I was riding so close along the edge of the road. I’d made it a habit to ride directly down the center ever since I’d been sworn in as Deputy Marshal. I only moved for wagons – not even groups of riders. I’d once split a group of five rough looking riders. They were so mad that I probably would have been shot out of the saddle except that Marshal Harrison happened to be nearby and intervened.

But back then I wanted folks to know that I was the man and one not to be challenged. Maybe it’s true I was overcompensating for my size, lack of experience, and young looks, but so be it. Even though only mere hours had passed since reading that newspaper article, I couldn’t imagine riding down the middle of the main street. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. I was unsettled and alert, like I was riding into a new town. Not patrolling my own.

I wanted to see, not be seen. I wanted the jump on anyone coming to town for me. I certainly didn’t want to stand out, and with that thought, I realized how much I’d changed since reading that article just hours earlier before riding out.

Chapter 7

The hitching posts at Frank’s Place were slammed full of horses, but I directed Sable in between a couple of them and slid off, squeezing between the tight fit. I tied her off and stepped up onto the deck, pulling my leather gloves off and stomping my boots to knock the mud off.

I walked into Frank’s Place and saw nearly every other table was full. Many were playing cards, while others were drinking or putting down some food. I angled toward the bar, where I saw Frank.

“Where you been?” Frank asked, concern written on his face. “I sent my boy Joe to get you and he couldn’t find you.”

“I been out riding and shooting some,” I said. “What do you need?”

“I wanted to tell you a couple riders stopped by here earlier. They claim that Valdez plans to bury you. He’s assembling a gang of riders.”

“Valdez? Who’s Valdez?”

“He’s that Mexican you disarmed. Turns out he was a bigger gun hand than Bill Garland by a far sight. Them fellers said he’s killed eleven men and couldn’t believe you got the jump on him. Blames the whiskey. He’s not a blow hard like Bill Garland was, but he’s done a lot of gun work.”

“Get me a drink,” I said.

As Frank stepped away to grab a glass and some whiskey, I turned and scanned the room. Besides Valdez, I worried about wannabe gunfighters. Many men wanting to make a name for themselves had shot men like me in the back. They wanted a name that would make sure their bed was always warm and their glass always full. And if they had a crew with them, they could often stand off the other patrons who’d seen a man gunned down in cold blood. Shot in the back, most of the time.

I didn’t aim for that to happen to me, so I examined the entire room nice and slow.

I heard Frank place the glass of whiskey in front of me, and I turned back around.

“So, what are you going to do?” he asked.

“Don’t know,” I said, picking up my drink. “Be careful, I guess.”

Chapter 8

Valdez arrived two weeks later. But that two weeks felt like my year and a half fighting for the South. Dread and fear eat at you worse than hunger and pain.

My two weeks felt like two years. Maybe three. I fidgeted and looked about constantly, worried Valdez might be sneaking up on me. Frank Connors said I looked more nervous than an unarmed preacher moving through Indian country.

I slept in fits. I ate little; my normal hunger a distant dream. I couldn’t stand still. All I’d learned about courage and keeping your cool seemed for naught with the threat of Valdez’s return. I fiddled and paced like a dog thrown in a small, barren lot.

My fear turned to paranoia. I could think of a dozen different ways it could go down. Valdez could catch me leaving the Marshal’s office or exiting Frank’s saloon. He could hit me with a rifle while I was out riding Sable. Or, Valdez could keep it simple and just ride into town with a big crew and spread everyone out in front of the office. Demand we come out, assuming Marshal Harrison was there, or they’d burn the place down by chucking a couple lanterns against the building. Just in case, I’d bought four buckets, filled them with water, and placed them at each corner of the jail, ready to douse any fire Valdez might start.

Marshal Harrison said I was crazy, but I told him to not move those buckets. He didn't either, which told me he was worried, too.

To avoid being gunned down on my daily rides with Sable, I varied my routes and the time of day when I took my ride.

Valdez had too many options for killing me quite easily, as I saw it, but I couldn’t run. Especially if I wanted to keep my manhood and honor my family name. So, I started carrying my lever action Winchester everywhere I went. Resolute, I turned my anxiety into energy.

I practiced shooting every day. I demanded the Belleville Town Council include one box of shells each day as part of my pay. They did, after some heated arguing, but only because the man selling the ammo sat on the Town Council. I didn’t care if he got rich. I just wanted the ammo and ability to practice shooting.

For my pistol work, I carried the Colt Single Action Army, chambered in .45 with a 4 ¾” barrel. It was the shortest barrel offered, but nearly every gunfighter carried the short barrel. I moved up to the Colt Single Action Army as soon as it was offered in .45.

I thought the .45 was far more powerful than the more common .44 American chambered for Smith and Wesson Model 3 revolvers.

I spent half an hour every day practicing my draw and working through in my mind what I’d do in a gunfight. Draw. Fire. Take a knee. Fire again with your elbow propped on your knee for better accuracy. Find something to hide behind. Then fire again.

I did a similar drill with my lever action. Most of the lever actions in use fired the same ammunition you used in your pistols -- so that you’d only have to buy and carry one kind of ammo -- but I preferred the Winchester Model 1876. It fired a full-powered rifle cartridge, as opposed to a smaller handgun-sized round.

Besides shooting outside town every day, even in the rain, I practiced drawing and aiming my pistol as much as I could. When I was alone in the jail, I’d draw ten times standing. Whenever I stepped into the outhouse behind the jail, same thing. Draw and aim ten times before getting down to business.

Marshal Harrison gave me all kinds of hell about all the drawing and shooting and gun cleaning, which I seemed to be doing all the time now.

“You don’t see me shooting every day,” he said one day while we were at the jail, his hands clasped together across his big belly.

I stopped scrubbing out the inside of my pistol and looked at him. “Hadn’t seen you in the papers, either,” I said.

Marshal Harrison ran his hands through his gray hair and said, “That’s cause I’m wise enough not to completely embarrass a man. Especially a big-time gunslinger like Valdez.”

“Didn’t know he was a gunslinger at the time,” I replied. “But, after Bill Garland slapped and embarrassed me in front of everybody, I was too mad to think straight.”

I stood up and left the room. Not saying a word about where I was going. More and more, I saw Marshal Harrison as just an old windbag. More air than starch.

Chapter 9

The strain of worrying about Valdez grew so bad that when I finally saw him, I felt relief rather than fear. I was sitting in my usual spot by the door of the Marshal’s office, leaning back against the wall in an old four-legged cane chair with my thumbs hooked in my pockets. It was a small pleasure to sit like that in the early evening with my feet against the porch rail, watching people as the sun dropped down. I rested like this each night before the hours and hours of walking between saloons in order to keep cowboys quiet and trouble down.

Valdez and his crew ambled in at dusk on horseback. They came when I expected, riding in just before dark. Light enough to see your gun sights and with enough time to commit mayhem and murder and ride off into the night. Any pursuing posse would have nothing to track for at least eight hours, giving them an insurmountable lead if they rode hard and used their heads. Striking any earlier, or even at dawn, would be flirting with death.

Valdez came with six other men, and when I first saw them, a good three hundred yards separated us. I say I knew it was Valdez, but I couldn’t be sure at that distance. I certainly couldn’t see faces. However, the pace and the way they rode into town gave them away.

Cowboys ride in fast at a trot or struggle in as groups of two or three -- in a hurry to get something wet in their throats or between their legs. Merchants, farmers, and traders don’t have time to waste either. If they come in at dusk, they’re trying to catch the owner of the General Store before he closes, and they’re moving fast.

These seven men, all abreast, walked their horses down the main street slowly, clearly aiming to intimidate.

I eased my chair down and grabbed my rifle, which leaned against the wall just a foot away. I did all this nice and slow. At three hundred yards, I knew they’d struggle to see much, and I didn’t want them to know I’d recognized them.

I kept my rifle vertical and against my leg, hoping they wouldn’t see it. I even stood a second and pretended to stretch, using only my left arm above my head, then looked down the street to my right away from them.

I paused another second, looked down the road away from them, and walked through the door into the jail, as calm and slow as a woman who’d finished sweeping off the porch. I hoped I didn’t look alarmed or worried. I wanted them to stay in formation.

Marshal Harrison was away -- a recurring theme that was getting old. He’d left earlier to head up to the other end of town to check on a disturbance. One of the Chinese men that lives in town had claimed two cowboys had beat him up, but good. Marshal Harrison needed their names or at least a good description so he could try to identify them.

So, it was me and me alone, and I didn’t intend to end up dead. Now inside the jail and out of sight, I ran to the gun wall and snatched a handful of rifle cartridges with my left hand from a wooden box we kept loose ammunition stored in. I stuffed the shells in my left pocket and grabbed another handful.

I sprinted back to the door, staying inside, so they couldn’t see me. I dropped to my stomach, removed my hat, and slid to the edge of the door. I laid the second handful of shells in front of me and assumed a good prone firing position.

The seven horsemen had gained little ground. They now appeared roughly two hundred and fifty yards away -- they were walking their horses that slow. And it was intimidating. They seemed so in control. So powerful. So unmoving. Seven experienced men with revenge on their mind. Too much for two small-town, underpaid deputies out near the edge of the frontier.

I doubted they could see me. Only my head, shoulder and rifle showed. I figured they never expected to need to look low, at the bottom of a door. This wasn’t war, or so they thought.

I thumbed the hammer back and took a good aim at the third rider from the left. I couldn’t tell which rider was Valdez at this distance, but I assumed he’d be in the middle. It’d be easier to shift from left to right after my first shot, so with that line of thinking, I decided to take the third rider with shot number one.

I’d shoot once they came within one hundred yards. A range I didn’t miss at. But as slow as they approached, this wait would prove painful. Might feel as long as the two weeks had.

I decided not to dread the slow movement of the group, rather I embraced this timely opportunity to control my emotions and plan my steps. I’d been waiting on this, and I’d either live or not.

And I’m a hell of a man with a rifle. Been lugging one after squirrels and rabbits since I was a kid back in Tennessee. I’m much better with one than with a pistol, which is why I’d been shooting so much with my pistol. If this went as I planned, my pistol would never leave my holster.

What I was about to do was border-line murder. The law doesn’t shoot men down in the street with no charges. And that’s what they counted on. They planned to get close, maybe say a few words -- or maybe not -- and gun me down.

My only fear was if these men weren’t Valdez and company. I knew they weren’t Army soldiers -- Army troops moved in columns of twos and wore distinctive blue. But, these men could be a group of riders who were just nervous about the town. Maybe Belleville’s reputation was worse than I’ve heard.

But my gut said otherwise. It had to be Valdez and some of his gunslingers. And if it wasn’t, then I’d pay the piper and let the U.S. Marshal for the territory hang me for flat-out murder. Not lighting these guys up would be the same sentence -- only earlier and more painful.

Once they reached a hundred yards, the debate raging in my head ended. I needed to drop them while I had the surprise advantage and preferred shooting distance. I fielded a long rifle and waited in a perfect position. They rode on horseback and hadn’t drawn their pistols.

To continue reading, purchase it from here: Little Man, and the Dixon County War.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Chapter 92

Chapter 93

Chapter 94

Chapter 95

Chapter 96

Chapter 97

Chapter 98

Chapter 99

Chapter 100

Chapter 101

Chapter 102

Chapter 103

Chapter 104

Chapter 105

Chapter 106

Chapter 107

Chapter 108

Chapter 109