If only he could find Charlie. Yeah, some ’Cong would do the trick. A sniper or two, or a small patrol. Hell, he’d take a whole fucking platoon if he had to. He was ready for them, waiting, all but hoping for those few minutes of life that combat granted. That was when the tension and the fear and the frustration melted away like poison sweated from the body. That was when his senses came alive—he could hear even beyond the gunfire, could smell a thousand scents and feel and taste—even C rations were a banquet then. For those few minutes he was really alive.

But doesn’t that mean you like to kill?

He thought about it long and hard, then took off a glove and held his hand against the squall. The rain barely tingled.

I have to.

A poor-man’s bird whistle sounded through the flooded gloom. The lieutenant was ready to move.

He acknowledged the ghostly shapes to the rear with a wave, then gave a like signal to the second point. Some fifty feet away in a banyan grove that flanked the designated trail (the one they were blazing, anyway) there was movement. A patch of sodden weeds tilted and raised as the helmet beneath it peeked out, followed by a chopped-down shotgun and crossed bandolier of shells. Pruett came into view looking like a soaked cat, his poncho plastered to his lean, lanky frame. He waved the pump gun in reply and waited for Stiles to move.

The tall, thin kid from Indiana was one of the better point men in the troop. He was quiet despite his size and could defoliate a patch of land with that scattergun before most could cycle a round. But he still deferred to Stiles in the field. They all did. It wasn’t rank; Stiles was a faceless grunt, just like the rest. Nor was it age or appearance—they were all fresh-faced and innocent, or had been once. But still, something made him stand out. Something about him garnered complete reverence and even a little fear. What was it?

Reputation. And not just because he was deadly up on point.

He was also a psycho.