Chapters (110)
- Cover
- ALSO BY J. TODD SCOTT
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- PROLOGUE
- I
- II
- PART ONE
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- PART TWO
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- PART THREE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- FIFTY
- FIFTY-ONE
- FIFTY-TWO
- FIFTY-THREE
- FIFTY-FOUR
- FIFTY-FIVE
- FIFTY-SIX
- FIFTY-SEVEN
- FIFTY-EIGHT
- FIFTY-NINE
- SIXTY
- SIXTY-ONE
- PART FOUR
- SIXTY-TWO
- SIXTY-THREE
- SIXTY-FOUR
- SIXTY-FIVE
- SIXTY-SIX
- SIXTY-SEVEN
- SIXTY-EIGHT
- SIXTY-NINE
- SEVENTY
- SEVENTY-ONE
- SEVENTY-TWO
- SEVENTY-THREE
- SEVENTY-FOUR
- SEVENTY-FIVE
- SEVENTY-SIX
- SEVENTY-SEVEN
- SEVENTY-EIGHT
- SEVENTY-NINE
- EIGHTY
- EIGHTY-ONE
- EIGHTY-TWO
- EIGHTY-THREE
- EIGHTY-FOUR
- EPILOGUE
- I
- II
- III
- IV
- V
- VI
- VII
- AUTHOR’S NOTE
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- Excerpt from LOST RIVER
- LITTLE PARIS
- DILLON
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- What’s next onyour reading list?
Danny closed his eyes and curled up tight and made himself as small as possible, as the Bronco rattled and shook from Johnnie Macho’s steady assault. He needed to abandon the Bronco and pull back to the sheriff’s truck, recover his AR-15 from where he’d hidden it. He couldn’t see the shooters bearing down on Amé on the opposite side of the van, but at least if he was out on foot, he could swing around and flank them.
Yet his body only curled tighter on itself, that great hand earlier that had been squeezing his chest now holding him back, refusing to let him move.
He’d left the Big Bend behind and was now back in Afghanistan—in Wanat—taking RPG fire again from the Taliban guerrillas who’d crept up on his platoon. A group of them had also commandeered the roof of a nearby hotel, shooting down into his men’s observation post, their AK-47s talking loudly to each other. He’d forever remember that sound, and all the others that came with it: men screaming and the boom of Camp Blessing’s big guns, and the air-bending whup of the AH-64 Apaches circling low above them. It had been dawn instead of dusk, but the light had been the same—that diffuse, improbable glow that heralded the day’s rising and setting sun.
That only existed on the other side of night.
He’d returned fire with his M-249 Minimi then, the spent brass bouncing all around him, too hot to the touch, like the rounds he’d just been firing from the M110—the heavy brass still rolling around his curled-up body—here and now.
Not in Wanat, but right here at the edge of the Far Six.
No matter what his body and his brain were telling him, no matter what his closed eyes were seeing, he wasn’t in Afghanistan anymore. He’d survived that, and if he wanted to survive this, he had to fucking move.
Now.
If he didn’t move, he was going to die and Amé and the sheriff were going to die.
He punched himself in the head with a closed fist. Once, twice, then over and over again until his vision cleared.
He was crying.
But he willed his body to unclench, cursed at it and spit at it and ordered it to just fucking move, soldier, and then pushed down the Bronco’s tailgate.
SEVENTY-SIX
Marco had slowly been rolling up the gravel drive, lights off, trying to make sense of what he was seeing, when the explosion occurred.