CHAPTER ONE
Eight Years Ago
Natasha
Ripples of overheatedair stretch out for miles in every direction. Along the horizon, the clear blue sky turns a hazy orange—courtesy of ultra-fine sand stirred by even the gentlest breezes.
It has a scent. Sand. Something I’d never considered before spending so many years of my life surrounded by it. Now, it oozes from my pores. A strand of hair escapes my braid, and even that reeks of the dirty, chalky, stale stench thatisthe Al Anbar province.
Our boots leave perfect impressions in the powdery substance. Chris Bowers—one of the few men I trust with my life—grabs his mic. “Lima Command, this is Foxtrot Bravo. Approaching the target location.”
“Foxtrot Bravo, this is Lima Actual. Drone footage shows no heat signatures. You’re good to go.”
“What’s Lima Actual doing on comms?” I ask, keeping my voice to a whisper.
“No fucking clue.” Bowers adjusts his goggles, checks his H&K, and shrugs.
In my ear, our squad leader, Bastian, sends his own action report. He receives the identical response and a go ahead to breach the cluster of buildings four clicks from our location.
“I can’t believe there’s no one here. Not for a goddamn second,” I mutter.
A dog trots from a burned out shell of a house across from us. He doesn’t give a fuck we’re here. How a part of Iraq with so few people can have so many dogs is beyond me. They’re everywhere. This one isn’t skin and bones, so he’s clearly not hurting for food.
Bowers presses his back to the wall of the house. The high-value target was seen here less than forty-eight hours ago, with three of his cronies spotted at the location the rest of our squad is about to breach.
He signals his countdown silently. My gloved hands tighten on my weapon. With a swift kick, he decimates the flimsy door. The flash bang rolls through the main room. We wait a single second after the deafeningcrackbefore we race inside.
“Clear!” I call. Bowers is already in the second, smaller room to the west, and I take the one to the south. They’re all empty. Not just empty. Deserted. Practically pristine other than the thin layer of dust that covers everything in this province.
I kick a rug aside. Four wood planks don’t belong amid the hard packed dirt. Signaling for Bowers to cover me, I hook a finger through a metal ring attached to one of them.
He nods, giving me the go ahead.
The hidey-hole can’t be more than a meter deep, and it, too, is empty. “What the fuck?” I ask. “Something’s not right here.”
“Lima Command, this is Foxtrot Bravo. Target is clear. Repeat. Target is clear.” Bowers doesn’t wait for command to answer. He tears off his goggles, wipes the sweat from his brow, and leans against the wall opposite the busted door.
“There’s no way this place was occupied forty-eight hours ago,” he says with a shake of his head. “It’s been weeks. Months, even.”
I depress the button on my radio. “Foxtrot Alpha, this is Foxtrot Bravo. Be advised, target location Bravo is deserted. Watch your six.”
Bastian doesn’t answer.
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”
Bowers is out the door seconds behind me, and we hoof it the mile and a half to where our Ford Ranger LTV sits behind a small rock formation. “Call it in, Chris,” I say as I slide behind the wheel.
“Lima Command, this is Foxtrot Bravo. On our way to Foxtrot Alpha to provide backup.”
The squelch never fails to hurt my ears, but you get used to it after so long deployed. “Negative, Foxtrot Bravo. Go to?—”
The rest of his words are lost, but I slam on the brakes. “Did he just tell usnotto provide backup?”
We stare at one another for several seconds. We can’t disobey a direct order. But from the look on Chris’s face, he’s as conflicted as I am.
“Foxtrot Bravo to Lima Command. Say again?” he asks.
Silence.
