Stiles brought up his rifle and peered through the stubby scope he’d electrical-taped to the handle. The luminescent dot fell dead center of the shadowy figure’s back, but he didn’t squeeze the trigger. The man did not seem to be looking his way, nor did he seem concerned by the point man’s presence. Could he not know Stiles was there? It seemed an impossibility given his less than stealthy approach but . . . Stiles’s mind was racing, his heart pounding, flooding his veins with adrenaline and his senses with life. He could see the man’s outline clearly now, the pained angle of the neck, the matted hair, the torn coat. He could not smell him yet nor hear his breathing but the rain was probably masking those. It didn’t matter. He had his target.

He slung the rifle over one shoulder, slowly and quietly, then slipped his hand beneath the poncho and brought out his Ka-Bar. Don’t kill him yet, he cautioned himself. Silence him first—there may be others like this Hoss character he must have been speaking to. Don’t go horse shit and start killing right and left, just recon and report back. Think of the men.

He glided silently through the damp compost of the forest floor, so slowly that the mud didn’t squelch around his boots to give him away. Up close he could make out little more of the man. He slid up behind him and stepped in between his legs to cut his balance, then looped an arm around his mouth and face and fell backward to drag his assailant to the ground.

But his arm didn’t find any resistance. He tumbled back into the weeds alone, knowing that the man now stood directly over him. The knife was forgotten as he fumbled frantically for his machine gun, praying that he could at least take the sonuvabitch with him.

“I’d be ashamed, Hoss,” said the voice, its deep timbre amplified in the silence. “All that training and you’re still clumsy as ever.”

Stiles gulped and gagged and for a moment thought he’d swallowed his tongue. His eyes crawled up the dark form before him, now silhouetted against the dim light that peeked through the lattice overhead. No, it couldn’t be. . . . “Hoss?” he stammered. “Only one person ever called me Hoss.”

The figure held out its arms. “Ta-da!”

“But you can’t be my brother . . . he’s back in the states. . . .”

“Was back in the states.”

The voice. It had taken a few moments for its familiarity to sink in, to convince him. “Alex?” He rose hesitantly. “Is it really you?” He reached out to the shadowy figure, only to have it back away. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Just stay back, Chris.”

Stiles wiped his eyes. “C’mon, Alex. Let me get a good look at you. Did you join up, or—”