From the corner of his eye, he saw more Marines running past.

“Boy, am I glad to see you guys.”

* * *

Ed Newsam picked his way across the jagged rocks.

He was tired. He was dirty. He was scratched up.

If he raised his gaze, the morning view across the mountain range was astonishing. If he looked down, the view was also astonishing, in its own way. Dozens of terrorist fighters littered the ground. They were skinny, they had thick beards, they wore head wraps. A few were alive and moving. Most were dead.

Many eyes were open and staring, seeing nothing.

He didn’t care about these guys. They had an unmistakable look about them. They were foot soldiers. Ed had a date with someone else.

Up ahead, a guy was sitting on the hard, dusty ground. He was one of the few without a serious injury. He sat cross-legged. The Marines had shackled his wrists behind his back.

“You,” Ed said.

The guy looked up. His eyes were exhausted. He didn’t have any fight left in him.

“Where’s your leader?” Ed said.

The guy stared at him, his eyes round and concerned. He shook his head.

“Ayn hu zaeim?” Ed barked.

Ed knew a little Arabic. The words were right. The grammar and syntax could go to hell. The man on the ground understood well enough. Light dawned in his eyes. He was careful not to speak in response. Silently, he gestured to his left with his head. The move was so subtle, it hardly qualified as movement at all.

Over there, perhaps twenty yards away, was another man on the ground. This man was also manacled, and he leaned back against some rocks. He had a leg injury, which the Marines had been kind enough to patch up for him. His right pant leg was cut away below the thigh, and the leg was wrapped in a bloody bandage.

Ed walked over to him.

The man looked up at Ed. He had jet black hair and a handsome face. His eyes were hard and unafraid. Oh well. There were a lot of hard guys in a war zone.

“You speak English?” Ed said.

The man nodded. “Little.”

“Who are you?”

The man smiled. “Who are you?”

Ed reached down and ripped the right sleeve of the man’s shirt. There, on the man’s round shoulder, was a tattoo of a crescent moon and a star, the symbol of the Muslim world. The man looked at it as if seeing it for the first time.

How did that get there?

Instantly, he realized his mistake. The one identifying feature in the video was that tattoo.

Ed pulled his sidearm. He pointed it at the man’s head. Still, the man showed no fear. If anything, his smile broadened.

“I should have gutted her like a pig,” he said.

BANG!

The shot rang out, echoing across the rugged hillsides.