other Talibs in the back as they ran for the AKs.
It was all over in a matter of seconds. Mercer stood over the bodies, under the stars, his heart pounding. Two years in chains and then suddenly he was free. And freedom meant making choices—something he had not been able to do for almost two years, but something he’d thought about for most of those years. Virtually every soldier would now do what they were trained to do and sworn to do under the Code of Conduct—escape and evasion, making every effort to link up with friendly forces. And this was something that Captain Mercer, Delta Force, would do. The difficult part would come when he had to explain to the American Army why he’d left his post—why he’d deserted—but even that wasn’t so difficult, and if they believed him, he, Captain Kyle Mercer, would be truly free: free to go home, free to remain in the Army, and free to testify about Operation Flagstaff. The deserter would become a hero. And he would get his revenge in a court of law.
But that wasn’t the kind of revenge Kyle Mercer wanted. And it wasn’t the kind of revenge he trusted. So he’d walked to the pickup truck and found the camcorder that his captors had used over the years to record his beatings and his interrogations, and to record their own stupid posturing as they played with their guns, or the time they’d recorded the torture and mutilation of a captured Afghan soldier.
Mercer felt the sweat forming on his face as he recalled all of this—his moment of freedom and his moment of truth. At some point during his captivity he knew he would not take the easy path to revenge if he escaped. He would take the difficult and unexpected path—the path an ancient warrior would take. The path to personal revenge and retribution that would lead him to Brendan Worley’s throat.
No, he wasn’t going home. His mother was dead, and his captors had taunted him with that information when they’d heard the news. His father, he hoped, would understand why his son had chosen not to come home. And if he didn’t, it didn’t matter.
Mercer stood in the Taliban camp, knife in hand, looking at his kill, illuminated in the moonlight and by the flickering fire of the torches. The two men whose throats he had cut were still face down, bleeding out onto their prayer mats, forever facing their holy city.
He filled with rage—rage at these sadistic and stupid half-wits and their miserable cult. And rage, also, at the bastards in Washington and Kabul who didn’t understand war, and didn’t understand the warriors they’d created. And Kyle Mercer raged at himself—his former self—the boy peering through the chain-link fence at Camp Pendleton, mistaking theater for truth.
That boy was dead, and so was the man he’d become—Captain Mercer was dead. And all that remained was the killing machine they’d created. But killing wasn’t enough—so he took the camcorder and began taking heads. And when he’d finished, he delivered his final verbal message to the Army: I quit. I am no longer one of you. I am now your worst nightmare.
Kyle Mercer looked up at the tepui, the dwelling place of the gods. Someday—on the day he killed Brendan Worley—he would climb up there and look down on the world. And he would step into the fast-flowing stream and be carried to the edge of the waterfall, and he would be one with the water and the air and the earth—he would be free. He would be home.
PART V
BOLÍVAR STATE, VENEZUELA
AUGUST 2018
CHAPTER 39
Captain Collins’ voice came over the PA: “All right, folks, we’re cleared to land and we are beginning our initial descent into Ciudad Bolívar’s Tommy-Can-You-Hear-Us Airport.” Collins thought that was funny, and he pretended to radio, “Tommy, can you hear us?”
Brodie smiled. The captain was a little crazy. And crazy was what they needed today.
Collins said, “Might be a little bumpy. Buckle up.”
Taylor roused herself from a half-sleep on the back bench seat, and sat next to Brodie and buckled in.
Brodie asked her, “Do you think a six-foot, two-hundred-pound man can fit back there?”
“Do you mean you?”
“You know who I mean.”
“We’re on a recon mission, Mr. Brodie.”
“Right.”
As the Cessna descended, Brodie looked out the side window. In the clear predawn he could see vast fields of patchwork farmland, and directly below he spotted acres of oil storage tanks. Up ahead were oil wells scattered throughout the farms