Predictably, the shooting started about twenty seconds later—undisciplined bursts that melded with the growing sound of the rotors. The noise level rose to the point that Rapp could abandon stealth and move as fast as the foliage would allow. Instead of the AK, he’d opted for the Glock 19 that had served him so well over the years. There was a silencer in his pack, but he’d decided not to mess with it. If all went to plan, the two men would be dead before they heard the shots that killed them.

The flashes of their weapons became visible in the dying afternoon light, allowing him to make on-the-fly adjustments to his trajectory. When he finally got eyes on the two men, both were focused entirely upward, firing wildly toward the chopper hovering well out of their reach.

The jungle was so dense that Rapp was forced to hold his fire until he was at nearly point-blank range. The first round hit the man on the left between the shoulder blades, pitching him into a tree where his body got tangled and hung like a discarded doll. The second tango didn’t even notice. He just kept shooting skyward until the side of his head disintegrated.

Rapp let his momentum carry him to a clearing large enough to land the chopper. It began to descend, and he dove through the open door while the skids were still a couple of feet from the ground. A moment later, he felt the increased gravity as Fred Mason started to climb.

“You good?” Scott Coleman shouted, and Rapp gave him the thumbs-up before putting on a headset.

“Have you been able to hear the shooting?” Coleman asked over the comm.

“Yeah. Kind of intermittent and hard to pinpoint, though.”

“Not anymore. It’s turned into a full-blown firefight.”

“You think it’s the American team?”

“I don’t know who else it could be. Not exactly a high-traffic area down there.”

Rapp nodded, taking a moment to consider what he wanted to do. “Fred, can you fly us over their position?”

“No problem, Mitch. Give me two minutes.”

The sun had just disappeared over the mountains when they arrived, putting the forest in shadow and highlighting the muzzle flashes beneath the canopy. Coleman was right. It wasn’t just harassment anymore.

“Do we have external sound?”

They’d rigged some of their aircraft with megaphones to provide instructions to Chism. If this was one of them, they might be able to use it to find out what was going on down there.

“Yeah,” Mason responded. “You want me to patch you in?”

Again, Rapp paused to think. He was a private contractor now. The self-inflicted problems of the US military really weren’t any of his business. A cooler full of beer and a lift to the Entebbe airport were only a few minutes away.

“Shit. Yeah. Do it.”

“Okay, you’re live.”