Sandofur pressed a remote and the incendiary charge he had planted at the other end of the compound exploded in a blinding green-white fireball. Whitman and Orteño followed him in. Flix was already at work jamming any communications from inside the compound.

The three raced across the sparse grass to the central villa that protected Seiran el-Habib. By this time, men should have been pouring out of the structure’s two doors, and now Sandofur had another scent in his nose, so sensitive to the tremors of intention.

“It’s a trap!” he shouted, moments too late. A bullet slammed into his chest, embedding itself in his body armor. He staggered, firing at the men who had melted out of the shadows along the periphery of the wall. They had been waiting in the darkness, waiting as if they knew precisely—

A second shot caught Sandofur in the throat. Blood and air poured out of him. His head lifted and the rain fell upon his face as softly as snowfall out of the Canadian Rockies. He smelled the blood of the felled elk and in his mind he ran to it, elated at his first kill. Soon, he and his father would slaughter the beast, then butcher it, making mouthwatering steaks three inches thick. In the here and now, he continued to fire, but now, on his knees, he could see nothing of the others. Then a third shot took apart his skull, rendering him oblivious to their fate.

* * *

“We’ve got to fall back!” Flix shouted, giving Whitman cover fire as he raced toward Sandofur. “Whit, get back here! We’ve no chance to nab the target! Whit! Let’s haul ass!”

“I’m not leaving him behind!” Whitman shouted. “Keep me covered!”

Flix heaved a grenade at the nexus of enemy fire, ducked down at the resulting burst of stone, cement, and body parts. By this time, Whitman had grabbed Sandofur, hoisted him over one shoulder, and turned back toward the compound’s wall.

Flix led them directly into the smoke and pink dust at the center of the blast, which had created a kind of sickening corridor for them, strewn not with rocks, but with bodies and bloodied limbs and, at one point, a head ripped clear off its neck.

Enemy fire continued, but it was lighter and more sporadic. Flix launched another grenade behind them, and they were over the wall by the time it went off. They raced through the rain, which seemed heavier now, coming in bursts like machine-gun fire. The sky seemed lower, the clouds roiling, as if being stirred by a giant’s hand. Neither Flix nor Whitman had time to worry about whether the helo could make it through the low ceiling; they were too busy running for their lives.

Over the rocky terrain they fled, following their GPS path home. Behind them they heard what might have been another explosion. Or it could have been the throaty roar of an armored vehicle starting its pursuit of them. If that was the case, their chances of reaching their exit position would be severely lowered.