The ridgeline lit up. A streak of fire cut through the darkness. Ghost's heart slammed against his ribs.
"RPG! Falcon, incoming!"
The rocket screamed toward the bird. Falcon yanked the Black Hawk into a sharp dive that defied physics. The RPG streaked past where they'd been, exploding somewhere behind them. Falcon looped back, and the door gunner opened up, tracers lighting the ridge. Stone shattered. Figures dropped.
Ghost didn't watch. He shoved Bear toward the ramp. "Move."
Bear stumbled through and collapsed inside, one hand braced against the bulkhead as blood slid down his neck. Ghost turned, laying down cover fire.
Torch jumped in. Reaper. Frost. Predator. Rogue. Each man loaded in fast succession. Brick came last, emptying his magazine before diving through the ramp as Falcon pulled power.
"We're in," Ghost snapped. "Go!"
The rotors thundered, kicking up a dust cloud that swallowed the compound. The Black Hawk lifted hard and fast into the night.
Inside, the cabin settled into rough quiet. Gear clattered. Breathing evened out.
Bear leaned back against the bulkhead, face pale, eyes half-closed. "Don't say it," he rasped.
Torch didn't miss a beat. "You look like hammered shit."
Bear managed a weak grin. "I was aiming for rugged."
"You missed. Badly." Torch tossed him a ration bar. "Try not to bleed on Falcon's seats. He'll charge you."
Ghost leaned forward. "You're lucky we got to you in time."
Bear huffed a rough laugh. "You're lucky I didn't die just to avoid your attitude."
Across the cabin, Rogue still gripped his rifle, knuckles white, staring at nothing.
Ghost saw it clearly now, the setup was too clean, the timing too precise.
Someone had planned this, and he wasn’t letting it go.
3
Bagram Airfield & F.O.B. Kilo
Rachel Parker adjusted her backpack until the weight settled into its usual spot between her shoulder blades. The strap dug into the same place it always did, and she didn't bother trying to fix it anymore. Ahead, the Black Hawk's rotors churned the air into chaos. Rotor wash blasted sand into her face, hot wind coming from every direction at once.
She'd spent enough time in war zones that complaining about weather or sand felt pointless. Just part of the job now.
She ducked her head and walked straight into the gusts, boots crunching over gravel. Soldiers moved around her with quiet urgency she recognized, some focused and silent, others talking in that clipped, half-finished way people did when they'd been deployed too long.
Rachel climbed into the Black Hawk, boots thudding against metal. She slid into a seat along the bulkhead, the camera bag's strap brushing her calf as she settled. The vest pinched under her pack's weight, and she shifted, searching for comfort she knew she wouldn't find.
The weight against her thigh was a camera, not a rifle. Different tool, same danger. The men around her carried weapons to clear paths. She carried one to document what they walked through, the parts people back home never saw or understood.
The rotors deepened in pitch as the crew ran through preflight. Across from her, soldiers sat in a row with helmets on, rifles resting in their laps. Dirt streaked their faces, expressions unreadable behind tinted goggles.
Rachel studied them, wondering how they did it. How they stayed that still, that focused, when everything around them was actively trying to kill them.
She glanced at her watch out of habit. Another assignment. Another few months in a place that would take something from her she wouldn't get back. Her parents had never understood why she chose this over the tenure-track position waiting at Georgetown. Safe office, predictable schedule, summers off. Her mother still called every few weeks asking when she'd come to her senses.
But Rachel had tried the academic route. Had spent two years teaching undergrads who didn't want to be there, writing papers nobody would read, attending faculty meetings that made her want to scream. The field was different. The field mattered.
Or maybe she was just running. She'd never been sure which.
