It was the woman. A ridged steel rod in her hand, the kind used in reinforced concrete. On one end it was wet with his own blood. She had wrenched it from the stack of construction materials behind the bunker a few feet away.

“Like the lady says, every tool is a weapon if you hold it right.” Another clout, this one just above his ear, the bar bouncing off with the sickening thud of metal against bone. The world around him seemed to waver.

“They warned us about your lies,” she growled. His vision was blurred, a red haze, but the expression on her face was unmistakable: pure immaculate loathing.

Dammit! At a time when he should have been fully vigilant, he had allowed her to lull him with her lies, her pretense of sympathy; in fact, she had merely been biding her time, awaiting an opportunity. And playing him for a fool.

Sprawled on the ground, he could hear the blood pounding in his head, like a steam engine. Groggily, he reached for the Beretta, but it was too late. She was racing away from him at top speed.

The impact of the rebar had caused a mild concussion at the least; it would take him a few minutes to struggle back to his feet. And by then, she would be gone. An enemy, an asset—gone.

He felt a wave of nausea welling from his gut, and a sense, too, of emptiness. Whom could he trust? Which sides had taken arms against him?

Which side was he on?

At this point, he could only say: his own. Could he expect allies? Did he deserve them? The sniper believed that he was guilty; would he have done anything different in her place?

He glanced at his watch, tried to rise, and blacked out.

“Annunciate radio check.”

“Annunciate, annunciate. All secure. Over.”

Vietnam was seldom quiet. Combat zones were a cascade of sounds and sights. Artillery pounded, parachute flares whistled as they illuminated the night sky like a hundred kliegs. There was the streak of tracer bullets, the whomp of choppers, the winking lights of jets. Soon, it was all as meaningless as the bleating horns and motors of rush-hour traffic. At the same time, their commanding officer had helped them develop a sense of what wasn’t routine.

Dialing his scope furiously, zooming through the marsh grasses and palms, Janson saw the clearing with two hutches. There was a cooking fire in front of one, and two VCs squatting in front of them. Were there tripflares? Three days earlier, Mendez had blundered across one; within seconds, an illumination round was automatically fired—a loudly hissing magnesium flare, which drifted slowly toward earth on a tiny parachute, casting an eerie white glow on them all. They could afford no such mistake now.

Janson radioed Demarest. At least two Victor Charlies identified. Three hundred meters away. Awaiting instructions.

Awaiting instructions.

Awaiting instructions.