PROLOGUE
“Watchingthesundropdown behind that ridge kinda reminds me of the sunsets we get back home.” Boone Langston lay on his belly on the hard, dusty ground. He grimaced, shifted his weight to remove a rock digging into his hip, and tossed it aside.
But these mountains—the Hindu Kush in Afghanistan—were far more hostile and dangerous than the ones he’d been surrounded by as a kid growing up on a ranch in Dubois, Wyoming.
Which was why he brought his high-powered binoculars to his eyes and scanned the valley below.
“See anything down there?” Aaron Udall, aka Hustler, was prone next to him, his binoculars up as he scanned the mountainside.
“No, but that doesn’t mean they’re not there.” Boone learned that lesson during his first deployment.
He, Udall, and two teammates about fifty yards back were senior airmen and part of the Air Force’s elite special reconnaissance. Four days ago, Boone’s team was air-dropped about ten klicks from their current location. Their original directivewas to establish a base for future operations that would provide strategic, operational, and tactical intelligence.
That all changed two days ago, when a group of rebel fighters shot down a Red Cross helicopter carrying an injured soldier from the battlefield. Now they were tasked with finding the wreckage, determining the status of the six souls on board, and arranging for their evacuation.
It was universally recognized that the Red Cross emblem signified neutrality. Anything bearing that seal was protected under the Geneva Convention, and attacking it was against international humanitarian law.
The world had drawn a pretty hard line when it came to firing on Red Cross vehicles and personnel.
You just don’t.
Unfortunately, the rules of war were seldom respected in territories living under primitive laws established thousands of years ago.
Thanks to the helo’s FTS, flight tracking system, locating it had been relatively easy. Getting to it, on the other hand, was going to be a challenge. They would have to cross through the narrow valley below, leaving themselves wide open to an ambush.
“I’ll bet you a hundred bucks you didn’t have guys shooting at you back home on that fancy ranch of yours, did you.” Hustler was prone next to him, his binoculars up as he scanned the mountainside. “What’s the name of it again?”
There was always a bitter edge of jealousy to Udall’s words whenever he spoke of Boone’s family ranch. Yes, it was large andhis parents had money—now—but they’d busted their asses for every acre, horse, head of cattle, and chicken.
Carving out a successful life in what was still a vast wilderness was no easy feat.
“Wind River Ranch.” He was proud of what his parents built.
“Shit, I owe Rabbi twenty bucks,” Udall said. “I bet him the name was Wild River Ranch.”
Udall would wager on pretty much anything. One time, the team was on a C-17 headed to Bagram Airfield for a three-day reprieve from being shot at, and Boone overheard him betting their teammate Rabbi that he could “bang more broads than him.”
Udall spent an inordinate amount of time in the village right outside the gates of the base. Most of it, enjoying the company of local women who were either unmarried or who’d become widows during the war. There’d been a couple of them that were so young, they would’ve been considered illegal back in the States.
Rabbi had almost taken him up on his bet until he realized there was no way to verify Udall’s numbers. Rabbi’s real name was Dick Skinner, so the nickname was crudely apropos. Growing up with a name like that couldn’t have been fun and probably instigated more than a few playground scuffles.
Udall was slick as cow snot, always looking to make a buck, hustling for that next big “thing.” Most of the guys blew it off as a personality quirk. Boone knew better. The guy had a rough upbringing and grew up thinking everything would be better if he had a bunch of money. That’s why they called himHustler, because he was always working an angle. And he wore that nickname with pride.
“Well, Rancher, you takin’ the bet or what?” He elbowed him in the side.
Boone had been dubbed Rancher for obvious reasons.
“Nah, no one ever took a shot at me.” He shifted to cross his ankles, and his boots kicked up dust and sent it floating around them. “At least, not on purpose.”
He chuckled at the memory and swept the binoculars to the left to focus on a large cluster of bushes and trees below them. That area would make a damn good place for a sniper to hide.
“What the hell, dude.” Udall lowered his binocs slightly and gave him a sideways glance. “You can’t just drop something like that out there and then not tell me what you mean.”
“When I was about eight, my dad and uncle took me hunting.” He’d been thrilled they asked him to go along. “We were tracking this big-ass bull elk, and it stopped to munch on a patch of mushrooms or something.” It had been the most impressive elk Boone had seen up to that point in his life. “My uncle called the shot. So, we all stopped, knelt down, and waited. Just as he was getting ready to pull the trigger, he got stung by a bee on his earlobe.” Poor guy’s ear swelled up to the size of a golf ball, and for several days, it looked like he was wearing an earring.
“He yelled out in pain, tumbled over, and accidentally squeezed the trigger. His shot ended up hitting a tree about ten feet in front of where my dad and I were hunkered down.”
“Oh, shit,” Hustler said. “See, that’s another reason why I’d never live out in the boonies like that. I prefer civilized society.”
