“Check him,” Luke said, though he already knew what Colley would say. He fell back into a cross-legged position, and sat that way for a long moment. They had a day off during Ranger School one time. A bunch of guys held a pick-up game of football. It was a hot day, and the game was shirts versus skins. Luke spent the game throwing laser strikes to this big, thick, foul-mouthed redneck with a front tooth missing.

“Wayne.”

“He’s gone,” Colley said.

Just like that, Wayne was dead. Luke’s blood brother. The godfather of Luke’s unborn son. A long, helpless breath went out of Luke.

In war, Luke knew, that’s how it went. One second, your friend—or your sister, or your wife, or your child—was alive. The next second, they were gone. There was no way to turn back that clock, not even one second.

Wayne was dead. They were a long way from home. And this night was just getting started.

“Stone!” Martinez said.

Luke pulled himself to his feet once again. Martinez stood by the pile of corpses that had once protected the target. All of them appeared to be dead, all but one, the man who had stood at the back. He was tall, still youthful, with a long black beard speckled with a little gray. He lay among the fallen—shot full of holes, but alive.

Martinez pointed a pistol down at him.

“What’s the guy’s name? The one we’re looking for?”

“Abu Mustafa Faraj al-Jihadi?” Luke said. It wasn’t really a question. It wasn’t anything, just a string of syllables.

The man nodded. He didn’t say anything. He looked like he was in some pain.

Luke took a small digital camera from inside his vest. The camera was encased in hard rubber. You could bounce it off the floor and it wouldn’t break. He fidgeted with it for a second, and then took a few snaps of the man. He checked the images before he turned the camera off. They were fine—not exactly professional quality, but Luke didn’t work for National Geographic. All he needed was evidence. He looked down at the terrorist leader.

“Gotcha,” Luke said. “Thanks for playing.”

BANG!

Martinez fired once, and the man’s head came apart.

“Mission accomplished,” Martinez said. He shook his head and walked away.

Luke’s radio crackled.

“Stone! Where are you?”

“Murphy. What’s the status?”

Murphy’s voice cut in and out. “It’s a bloodbath out here. I lost three men. But we commandeered one of their big guns, and we cut an opening. If we want to get out of here, we need to go RIGHT NOW.”

“We’ll be out in a minute.”

“I wouldn’t take that long,” Murphy said. “Not if you want to live.”

* * *

Six men ran through the village.