Prologue
The farmhouse was burning.
Not the roof.Not the walls.The air itself.It stank of cordite and ash and blood, and Dale Ricoh’s ears rang from too many close shots and the sound of Marsh yelling something over the roar of gunfire.
He ducked low behind the broken half-wall, chest heaving.His M4 was nearly dry, and the second magazine he’d slapped in was already feeling light.Smoke smeared the dark, and across the rubble-strewn yard, he could see Van pressed against the far side of the outbuilding, eyes locked to Dale’s.
One nod.One chance.
Dale surged up, firing controlled bursts at the far tree line where muzzle flashes blinked like hellfire.Van broke cover, sprinting across the open yard, weaving through debris.Bullets tore up the dirt behind him.
A mercenary burst from the side of the farmhouse, shouting in Russian, rifle raised.Dale didn’t hesitate.He threw his weapon on its sling, surged forward, and met the man head-on.
Elbow to jaw, bone crunched under the impact.He spun, caught the rifle barrel and twisted, driving his knee into the man’s gut.As the merc staggered, Dale slammed the butt of his palm into his nose, then used the momentum to hurl him into the side of the building.The man collapsed, unmoving.
Another figure darted from the shadows—close quarters.Too close.
Dale pivoted just in time to duck the arc of a blade, the whoosh of steel slicing the air above his head.He caught the attacker’s wrist, twisted, and slammed his head forward.Skull cracked against skull.The smaller form stumbled back, dazed.
Too small.
Dale hesitated for half a second as the figure staggered under the blow.The kid—he couldn’t have been more than sixteen—blinked at him, swaying.Dirt smeared his cheek, and blood trickled from a cut above his brow.He wore patched gear too large for him and gripped the knife with both hands like it was a lifeline.His lips were drawn into a snarl of fear and determination.
Dale raised his blade but didn’t strike.
“Boy,” he said hoarsely in Russian.“You don’t have to do this.Go.Leave!”
The boy’s breath came in ragged gasps.He looked over his shoulder, toward the tree line, then back at Dale.There was a second—a heartbeat—where Dale thought he might drop the weapon.Might run.
But the kid screamed instead and lunged forward, blade flashing.
Dale’s reflexes took over.
Steel met bone, and the knife plunged into the boy’s ribs with a sickening crunch.The kid choked on a cry, eyes going wide, surprise and agony etched into his face.Dale caught him as he collapsed, lowering him gently to the ground.
Blood pooled quickly beneath them.
The boy’s mouth moved, but no sound came.Dale leaned closer.
“Goddamn it, kid,” he whispered.“Why the fuck didn’t you leave?”The kid blinked once.Then he was still.“Fuck.”
Dale stared at the boy’s face.Pale.So damn young.He looked like he should have been in school, not on a battlefield.He stood up and moved, trying to shake that boy’s face from his memory, but knew it was futile.He carried the face of many he had killed in the line of duty.
The air vibrated with chaos.Ricochets sparked against the stone wall beside him.He moved instinctively, tracking each teammate’s position.Marsh was laying down suppressing fire with calm, vicious accuracy.Ricky shifted to flank right, picking off a shadow moving through the brush with a tight double-tap.
Then Dale spotted Hogan—mid-charge, barreling toward a group trying to flank Van.He roared something unintelligible, firing as he ran.Dale sprinted after him to cover his six.
Too late.
Hogan staggered mid-stride, his weapon dropping as a sharp crack rang out.Blood sprayed from his temple and he went down hard, momentum flipping him to his back.He didn’t move.
“Hogan’s down!”Dale shouted, but the report of gunfire swallowed his voice.
Dale dropped to a knee, returning fire toward the trees, trying to pin the shooter.His shots clipped bark and shattered a branch, forcing one merc to duck back.Another rushed out, aiming for Marsh.
Dale was already moving.
He hit the man like a freight train.They tumbled to the ground, fists and elbows flying.The merc landed a blow to Dale’s ribs, but Dale twisted, grunted, and drove his forearm under the chin.The snap of cartilage was muffled by the mud.He rose with a snarl, blood on his knuckles.
