OKAY, WE’RE HERE,” Grayson said, pointing to a laminated map that was still easier to use in a group than the Merge. They’d made it to the base of the eastern slope leading to the flag—not quickly by any stretch of the imagination, but with no injuries. The downside, though, was that the two non-combat soldiers were tired enough that they were stumbling every time they sped up to even a slow jog.

Grayson slid his finger across the wet map. “I’m saying that our injured sniper is here. The terrain above him is too steep to climb in his condition and coming around this way is too far. He’s going to dig in as a first line of defense.”

“So you think the others have pulled back to the flag?” Stacy said.

He nodded. “And that leaves their forces divided. I say we take advantage of that. I want you two to move directly up the ridge. Take it easy and stay low. I’m going to swing around behind him through the harder terrain and we’ll catch him in a crossfire.”

“What about the people above?” Duane asked.

“The rain’s coming in and that’s going to keep visibility down. I think we’ll be okay.”

“You think?”

“Combat’s like Vegas. There’s no sure thing. It’s about playing the percentages.”

Grayson took off up the steep slope and the other two started along the ridge at the best pace they could manage. The Ranger had been right about the rain: A few heavy drops quickly escalated into a roaring downpour.

Smith took a different route, switching his Merge’s frequency to the one being used by Delta.

“Lieutenant Raymond, this is Colonel Smith coming in on your position from the south.”

“Understood,” came the response.

Grayson had guessed right about his injured opponent but had taken a more cautious route that allowed Smith to beat him. When Smith arrived, he found the unhappy Delta man lying in a shallow depression that was quickly filling with water. Smith lay down next to him, feeling his fatigues finally soak completely through. Fortunately, the temperature was hanging on just north of eighty degrees.

“How’s it going?”

Raymond shook his head miserably. He’d been hit in the shoulder and had immobilized the arm by tying it to his torso.

“I figure I’m bleeding out, sir. Twenty-five-meter accuracy at best. Who the hell are these guys?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

Raymond frowned, undoubtedly believing that he was up against some new black ops team carefully disguised to pass as a typical slice of Midwestern America. He slid forward out of the water a bit, sinking his elbow in the mud and scanning to the east through his scope.