McCrea glared first at the hand on his arm, and then at George’s face. When the other man let go, McCrea said, “The word isn’t enthusiasm. It’s commitment. Now answer my question. Look at the bodies on the ground and tell me if getting your stuff back was worth the sacrifice.”

“Go to hell.”

McCrea laughed. “That’s pretty much a guarantee for all of us after this.”

“Hey, Major?” It was one of the Foster twins. Kyle, he thought. “We’ve got a wounded guy over here.”

“How bad?”

“Pretty bad, I think. He was hit in the stomach. He’s bleeding a lot.”

McCrea walked that way. As he approached, he saw a man in his forties writhing on the ground.

“Are you the one who shot him?” McCrea asked. From here, he could see that he was definitely speaking with Kyle.

The kid looked down at the man and nodded.

“You a hunter?” McCrea asked.

Another nod.

“What do you do with a wounded deer after you trace his blood trail?”

Kyle’s face paled and he took a sideways step to preserve his balance. He knew exactly what the answer was.

“It’s got to be you,” McCrea said. “It’s cruel to let him suffer, and we’re sure as hell not wasting medical supplies on the people we came here to engage.”

“I–I don’t think I can.” Kyle’s eyes pleaded with McCrea to take care of it for him.

“Suit yourself,” McCrea said. In total, six people lay dead in the woods, soon to be seven when Kyle’s guy either bled out or was finished off. Two of them looked familiar to McCrea—they were the silent gang members during that initial meeting—but the others did not. He didn’t ask any of his team if they knew any of the identities, in part because he didn’t want to hear the answer. Knowing the names of people you’ve killed helps nothing.

Jeffrey Grubbs was not among the dead.

McCrea planted his fists on his hips. “Well, shit.”

“Major!” Caleb yelled. “This one’s alive. Not even hurt!” He had his rifle back up to his shoulder, leveled at a target on the ground that McCrea couldn’t see.

The entire team rushed that way, and the intensity of the attitudes startled McCrea. “Nobody shoot!” he shouted. “Whoever it is, we need to take them back.”

Caleb was covering a kid—older than him, but not yet twenty. He was on his knees and crying over a woman’s body. “Mama,” he said. “Don’t die, Mama.” The hole in her head was testament to the fact that he was too late.

Caleb lowered his rifle and swiped at his eyes as George arrived and shoved the young gangster backward onto his back with a heavy shove with the sole of his boot.

“That’s enough!” McCrea said. “Enough.”