The good news was, he and the others were positioned on the high ground. Always better in a firefight. And they had one of the best Ranger snipers in the army ready to help take the bastards down.

All but Markham. Edge had shown Trace his photo. Markham would stay alive—for now.

One of the men turned on the floodlights in the circle around the landing zone, and Edge switched back to his regular binocs. The thump, thump, thump of a chopper grew louder as the helicopter approached. It hovered above the circle of lights, stirring up clouds of sand and small rocks, then swayed side-to-side as it settled onto its skids.

The rotors slowed to a soft spin but didn’t stop. The doors slid open, and two men jumped down. SUV car doors popped open, and cartel men poured out. As one of the men in the first car stepped out and walked into the light, Edge recognized Major Bradley Markham, and fury burned through every cell in his body.

“Hold your positions,” Colonel Harding commanded through the earbuds.

“Roger that,” one of the militia men replied.

“Copy,” Edge said, clamping down on his control. He wanted to grab Markham by the throat and drag him all the way back to Fort Campbell.

Nobody moved.

Edge glanced at Skye, could barely make out her slender figure in the darkness. Worry for her settled in his chest. He vowed, as he had a dozen times, that he’d do whatever it took to protect her. Even bagging Markham wasn’t worth getting Skye wounded or killed.

They were minutes from the takedown. Tension filled the air. Anything could happen. He flicked a glance toward Skye’s position, worry for her filling him with dread.

He shook his head to clear it. Too late to change things now. He focused on the action happening near the circle of lights, watched Markham pace over to the helo, then motion for his lieutenant to join him. The guy was a big, muscular man with close-cropped, reddish-brown hair and a tat on his neck behind his ear. He was carrying what looked like a black vinyl laptop case.

Another man approached, this one with coarse black hair and a thick mustache, wearing a dark sport coat over a white shirt, and a pair of tan slacks. The fit of the clothes and the way he moved said he was the man in charge.

The ATVs rolled up to the chopper, engines went off, and men began unloading the two-wheeled trailers stacked with wooden boxes. Through the open bay doors of the chopper, he could see the ends of a pile of narrow boxes. The Stinger missiles must already be on board the helo; they would have come from a different location on the base.