I try. It’s not unheard of for our radios to give up the ghost in the middle of a mission. The sand here is so fine, it gums up everything eventually.
But I don’t get a response either. Not from Command or from Bastian. “We’re exposed here. Which way do we go?”
Bowers outranks me—technically—by a single promotion. But while he’s a better shot, I’m the one responsible for logistics.
“This is rotten as fuck,” he says. “They’re walking into an ambush. I’d bet my entire stash of Twinkies on it.”
That does it. Chris isveryserious about his Twinkies.
It takes us less than ten minutes to reach the settlement. Six houses are scattered inside an area surrounded by a low stone wall. Boot prints mixed with impressions from soft soled shoes mark the route Bastian and the others took.
“This isn’t the right way,” Bowers whispers. He shows me the map. The target location is on the north side of the settlement, and Bastian’s size twelves are most definitely heading south. We follow in his footsteps until we clear the last building and find a set of stairs leading down a steep hill.
This isn’t supposed to be here. None of the intel we reviewed this morning showed an elevation change. Or a second set of three houses in much better condition than any we’ve seen in months.
Goosebumps race down my arms, despite the heat in the air. A woman cries out, muffled words in Arabic I can’t understand. Another scream. This one—a child’s?—is immediately followed by a man’s shout and a gunshot.
We take off at a run until we reach the door. It’s open an inch, and as more shouts, wails, and thuds come from the interior, I angle a glance through the crack.
My stomach twists into a knot. I’m going to be sick. Bastian stands over a young girl, his pants around his ankles. She can’t be more than fifteen. Her clothes are torn; she’s covered in blood.
“Gun,” Bastian says. Collins passes him a pistol, and I press my hand to my mouth as my squad leader shoots the girl in the head. Her mother—also half naked—pleads with Sutton for all of two seconds before he snaps her neck.
My legs won’t move. Bastian pulls up his pants. He turns to face an older man kneeling in the corner. Doherty has a gun pressed to his head.
“Where’s the product?” Bastian snaps.
The man shakes his head and spits. “Filthy American. Fuck you.”
I urge Chris back toward the stairs as Doherty fires. More pleas in Arabic follow, along with another three shots.
Chris starts to protest, but I shove him up the last step. “Donotsay a fucking word. To anyone.”
“Natasha—”
“I mean it, Chris. You know Bastian’s a piece of shit. He sent us on that wild goose chase for a reason. And now we know what it was. Trust me.Please. Not a word until we’re back at Victory.”
“We have to get to the transpo. If they find us here…”
I hold up my hand and reach for my radio. “Foxtrot Bravo to Foxtrot Alpha. Be advised, we’re closing in on your location. Two minutes.”
It only takes seconds before Bastian’s voice echoes in my ears.
“Fall back, fall back! It’s an ambush!”
At least two of our squad let loose with rapid fire rifle blasts. “That’s our cue,” I mutter and heft my own H&K. Bowers gives them our approach vector, and we rush toward what I already know is a massacre.
“Hostiles neutralized,” Bastian says just before we burst through the door.
Blood paints every wall. The dirt floor is soaked with it. A blanket covers the young girl. The wife lies under the husband’s body, and two other men are shredded with bullet holes.
“Fuck. What the hell happened?” I ask.
“First target location was a dud.” Bastian shakes his head. “Totally empty. But this asshole,” he kicks the husband’s shoe, “was acting shifty. So we followed him.”
“And shot his entire goddamn family?” I can’t stop a fraction of my outrage from bleeding through. But if I weren’t angry, he’d be even more suspicious. At least that’s what I tell myself.
Collins grabs the dead man, rolls his body over, and pats his tunic. He comes up with a grenade and waves it in front of my face. “Fucker was willing to blow up his whole fucking family to take out a few Americans.”
