Instinct. Colt pointed and pulled the trigger. No thought, just a tap to his chest, to his head, and the so-called journalist lay in a puddle.

But even before Colt pulled the trigger, he knew—not the journalist. Not even an American, but a man dressed in White’s clothing.

“It’s a trap!” Colt snarled into the coms.

“Get out of there!” Ace shouted.

But Colt was trapped, bullets obliterating the door. He pressed his back to the wall, glanced around the edge.

A shot nearly shaved off his nose.

“I’m pinned down.”

“Copy,” Ace said. “Hang tight.”

Colt waited, not looking at Vader, his heart a fist, slamming against his chest.

And then the compound blew. A thousand projectiles pinging against the hut, men, supplies, shrapnel. Colt ducked, ears ringing, then grabbed Vader, hoisted him up over his shoulder, and fled.

He dove behind a hut, trying to catch his breath. Vader hit the dirt, his body a rag.

Colt ground his jaw, tried not to let his gorge rise. His ears still rang, but he could hear Ace shouting at him.

“Back to rally point!”

Right.

He grabbed Vader again, hoisted him, and then, with a grunt, ran.

And ran.

Ace caught up to him, four hundred yards from camp. A shot had ripped through his arm.

But most importantly, only Irish was with him. They each carried a body. Leroy. Batman.

Which left Nelson, Rags, Elvis, and Nuggsy back in the savanna for their corpses to be brutalized. Or worse, if they weren’t dead, to be tortured.

No! Colt stumbled, dropped Vader, and vomited, his hands bracing himself.

Irish too. Batman was still alive, a shot to his leg losing too much blood. Someone had tied off a tourniquet and tranq’d him, but he lay in the grass, moaning.

Marsh had shown up, and now stepped away, calling for exfil.

Ace stood, pacing, watching their backs. Nuggsy arrived, out of breath.

They hadn’t been chased. Just expected. Just ambushed.

The Black Hawk arrived within minutes, and they loaded Batman and Leroy onto the deck along with Vader, and then Irish and Colt piled in with them.

Ace and Marsh climbed in last, their feet on the skids as the chopper arced away.

Colt wanted to empty his gut, again, at leaving his men behind.

Ahmed had lied to them.

Of course the punk had lied to them.

But even as they sped through the darkness, back to their camp, a hot ball formed in Colt’s chest.

Ahmed had lied . . . and his brothers were paying the price.

Colt was practically out of the chopper before it landed. Thankfully Batman was still alive, so the medics rushed to help him.

But Colt headed straight for the makeshift prison of their patrol base, more of a hideout with a few key personnel.