OF gunfire split the air and echoed across the arid Afghan mountain. Two members of the twelve-man team of special operators went down in a mist of red as Kalashnikovs unleashed a ribbon of lead.
It’s a trap, Mark Talon thought.
Instincts overruling fear, the Delta Force operator returned fire. Fueled by a burst of adrenaline, he bolted toward the ridgeline with his MP4 blazing. There was no distinction between himself and the weapon in his gloved hand; they had fused to become one deadly organism programmed to take out the enemy hiding in the steeper hills overlooking the pass. Sweat masked his face and his boots crunched over the rocky terrain. The white noise of incessant popping and hissing accompanied his ascent.
Like everyone on the team Talon was dressed like an Afghan, sporting the traditional local garb. The Taliban wasn’t fooled. They knew that under the facial hair and headdresses were American soldiers. Someone had tipped them off.
Talon cursed. He hadn’t quite trusted the guerilla leader-turned-informant when the man told them that Taliban fighters would use this pass to smuggle guns over the Pakistan border. Then again, it was hard to trust anyone in a country torn apart by war. Sometimes you had to take a gamble and hope it worked out. This time the risk had backfired and instead of catching the terrorists in the act, they’d walked into a goddamn ambush.
Making matters worse, they were babysitting some hotshot reporter who’d been embedded with the unit for the last eight days. Why couldn’t the politicians understand that a “shadow war” meant operating in the shadows? Cameras and journalists weren’t an option. No matter how attractive or charming they might be.
Michelle Rossi had turned into quite a distraction to everyone, including himself. A dead civilian wouldn’t go over well with the brass but if Talon was to be honest, his concern for the brunette journalist ran a bit deeper. He was embarrassed to admit it, but he was starting to like the reporter. Her safety was the first thing on his mind.
Three feet from Talon’s position a grenade tore up the ground. The six-foot tall, sinewy operator instinctively dove forward. The impact of hitting the gravel sent a jolt through his entire body, but the armor under his robe absorbed the brunt of it.
As he tugged down the scarf covering his face, heavy wool scratching his newly grown beard, Talon scoped the dark rocks that loomed ahead. Death was waiting in those outcroppings. How many good soldiers had the enemy already claimed?
Talon vowed not to be one of them as he scanned the rocks for the human-shaped shadows raining lead on his team. Responding to a flicker of movement, he squeezed the trigger of his weapon and a Taliban fighter collapsed in a string-cut sprawl. Another quick burst cut down the man with the grenade launcher hiding near him.
Two down.
Lead ravaged the hillside as Talon’s radio crackled and the voice of Sergeant Erik Garrison, his unit’s commanding officer, filled his ear. “Charlie Four, this is Charlie Six, air support is a no-go…”
Erik’s voice was drowned out as a mortar ignited ten feet from Talon’s position. Heat singed the air and shrapnel showered down on him.
He needed to move.
With that in mind Talon sprang to his feet, his bullets carving a path for him as he sprinted toward the next boulder. He distinctly made out screams. A moment later, the enemy fire stopped.
Face pressed against the cold rock, he listened. The pass had grown silent and for one illogical second he was convinced he was the only man left standing. Couldn’t be. He stole a look back but there was no sign of the team.
No sign of Michelle.
Fear rippled up his spine. Immediately he crushed the emotion before it could infect his brain and paralyze him. There was a perfectly logical reason for the quiet. The others were gaining their bearings behind some rock, the same way he was.
Eyes alert, body coiled, Talon continued his advance up the hillside. He was heading for a string of boulders that lined the mountain like jagged stone teeth. To his surprise, the shelling didn’t resume. Could he have hit them all?
Staying low to offer his enemies less of a target, Talon circled the boulders and froze. Splayed out before him were the bloodied bodies of the combatants he’d taken out. But something was wrong. Terribly wrong.
These faces didn’t belong to the enemy. These were Americans.
His team members.
What have I done?
The arm of one of the