We were parked in the pitch-black alleyway behind a run-down excuse for a home. Pike studied the thermal image on the handheld monitor as the thermal camera-fitted drone hovered over the target’s roof.

The area could have easily passed for being in any region of Mexico. Nearby storefronts and billboards were written in Spanish. Several of the dilapidated stucco buildings throughout the neighborhood had no windows, and very few had cars parked outside.

Although many of the one-bedroom homes sprinkled throughout the desolate desert region appeared to be abandoned, the majority were occupied by low-income families. Sadly, the area reminded me of my childhood.

“Looks like there’s no electricity in the house,” Pike said. “With those windows boarded up, we’ll need to use infra-red.”

Night vision goggles magnified a morsel of light enough to allow the user to see in near darkness. In the completely darkened home, however, we’d be required to use infra-red light to illuminate the rooms. The light was invisible to the naked eye, and only someone fitted with night vision would be able to see the infra-red glow.

“We’ve got nine bodies,” Pike whispered as he studied the monitor. “There’s six just inside the back door that look like they’re sitting, two in the bedroom on the left side of the hallway, and one in the room on the right. The two bodies in one bedroom are horizontal, the other is fetal. Probably asleep.”

“What do you want me to do?” CW asked.

“Land it,” Pike said. “Unless Briggs wants to see something else.”

“Land the drone,” I agreed. “Let’s get geared up, go in, and get this over with.”

Protocol prevented us from flying into the cities where our assignments took place. Weapons, ammunition, and equipment were placed in checked baggage and flown into a neighboring city, where a car was rented and then driven into the target’s city. On this mission, we’d flown into Phoenix, which was three hours away. We then drove a rented SUV to Nogales, Arizona.

CW secured the drone, and we retrieved our weapons from the rear of the SUV. The HK MP7 was perfect for the assignment, as they were short-barreled, making them easy to handle in close quarters. The silencers allowed us to use the weapon in urban settings without alerting neighbors to the fact someone was firing live rounds.

“We using the SAPIs?” Pike asked, referring to the Small Arms Protective Inserts for our tactical vests.

“I don’t need to look at the intel sheet to know these guys are armed to the teeth,” I responded. “They’re cartel members. I’m wearing mine.”

The insets provided additional protection against weapons larger than small caliber pistols. In combat, the they were often discarded due to the additional weight they added to the vest. In a ten-minute long operation, the additional weight was negligible.

Pike looked at CW.

CW shrugged. “If they’ve got AKs, that Interceptor isn’t going to stop them on its own. I’m planning on going home when we’re done. I’m wearing mine.”

“Fuck it,” Pike said. “I’ll wear the fuckers.”

Pike was a risk-taker, often placing himself in situations that he didn’t need to. In combat, he volunteered to be the number one man in many situations where we were clearing buildings filled with combatants. His seniority allowed him to be the third man in, yet he often refused the position at the rear, fearing he may miss some of the action.

“Pike, you’re the number one, I’ll be number two, and CW will be three. Be advised, no one makes it out of there alive.”

“Roger that,” Pike said. “How are we going to breach the door?”

“Backdoor breach,” I replied. “No explosives. I’ll use my boot.”

At 0300, it was doubtful any of the neighbors were going to second guess our SUV being there. To think it was the first time they’d seen a late-night visitor at one of the homes in the neighborhood was laughable.

Wearing all black tactical gear, we approached the rear of the home with our night vision goggles affixed to our helmets and our weapons at the ready. Upon reaching the rear door, Pike took the number one position.

He looked at CW, and then at me. We gave the nod of approval.

The heel of my boot hit just to the side of the door handle. The door flew open with a loud bang, revealing six occupants. CW and I fired our weapons simultaneously, eliminating the six men in the room without any opposition.

Pike moved to secure the hallway.

The abandoned home was free of any furnishings or carpet. Despite our weight causing the floor to creak with each step, we followed Pike toward the rear of the eerily empty home. As we reached the end of the corridor, automatic weapon fire erupted from inside the left bedroom.

Pike booted the door and stepped to the side. Simultaneously, CW fired through the paper-thin sheetrock walls, into the bedroom.

I peered through the door’s opening. A man I quickly identified as Ortiz was frantically fumbling in the dark, hoping to find spare magazines for his weapon. His shirt was soaked in blood.

I fired two shots, eliminating Ortiz and the other occupant of the room.

The second bedroom had remained quiet during our not-so-silent raid of the residence. Unpainted repairs to the sheetrock walls gave indication that the room’s steel door and frame had recently been installed.

There were two reasons to have an iron-framed steel door in such a residence. To secure what was inside the room from leaving, or to deter who was outside the room from entering.

I raised my clenched fist, directing the men not to breach the door.

I attempted—unsuccessfully—to turn the door handle. A quick inspection revealed a keyed door lock, meaning the door had been locked—with a key—from the outside. Whoever was on the other side of the door was secured inside the room.

Despite the fact I’d been in similar situations no less than a few hundred times, I had yet to get past the nervous feeling that filled me when I was uncertain of what was on the other side of a door.

Pike gestured toward the door with the barrel of his weapon.

I shook my head. Firing his 9mm submachinegun at the steel door would put all of us at risk of ricochet. I released my weapon and allowed it to hang from my shoulder by the sling. Using my hands, I made the gesture of pumping a shotgun to CW.

While CW retrieved the breach shotgun, Pike anxiously rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet.

Breaching a steel door with a boot would be close to impossible, depending on how securely it was installed. Blasting it with explosives would alert every neighbor within a half-mile radius.

Blowing the handle off with the specially designed shotgun would be loud, but it wouldn’t put our lives at risk. Fifteen seconds after the handle was blown, we’d be out the back door, and on our way back to Phoenix.

After a silent moment passed, CW returned. He pressed the tip of the barrel against the door’s locking mechanism, turned his head to the side, and pulled the trigger. Simultaneously, I kicked the door.

The heavy door swung open, slamming into the opposite wall with a floor-shaking thud! A putrid stench hit me like a gut-punch, causing me to suck an unwanted breath.

“Hold your fire,” I coughed out.

In the far corner of the empty room, a young woman was sitting on the floor, shaking.

Although we could see her through our night vision, the complete darkness left her blind to where we were or what we looked like. The green glow of her silhouette cowered in the corner, waiting to meet her fate. Thin, naked, and underdeveloped, she looked to be no more than twelve or thirteen years old.

“Habla bien ingles?” I asked.

With a filthy hand, she swiped her matted hair away from her face. “Huh?”

“Do you speak English?”

She nodded toward my voice. “I uhhm. Yeah,” she said, the words getting caught in her throat as she spoke. “Please…don’t…I’ll do whatever you want…”

“What’s your name?”

“Amber,” she responded. “Amber Kilgore.”

I cleared my throat. “Are you hurt, Amber?”

It was a ridiculous question, really. I could only imagine what she had been through, none of which did anything but harm her emotionally and psychologically.

“No,” she whispered.

It was people like her that drew me to the profession I was in. Preventing her and those like her from being harmed by the Nation’s predators was my driving force.

Without approaching, I looked her over. One of her wiry forearms covered her chest. The other hand was cupped between her legs. Her pale skin was spotted with dark bruises. Dried blood covered one cheek. Matted hair hung from her head like strands of dirty yarn.

There was no denying she’d been through hell and lived to tell about it.

Taking her with us wasn’t an option. So far, we hadn’t risked our identities. I couldn’t give her an opportunity to identify what we were driving, our facial features, our gear, or our manner of dress.

It was a risk I couldn’t take.

I silently recited the intel sheet’s instructions. Eliminate all occupants of the residence.

I lived in a world of black and white. Everything of this earth was categorized. It was either right, or it was wrong. I now stood on that division line between the two, uncertain of where things fell. The orders of my intel sheet were to eliminate her, no questions asked.

What should have been as crisp as a razor’s edge—right on one side and wrong on the other—was now a gray area of uncertainty. I mentally shook my head, hoping to clear it of my automated manner of thinking.

“Can you find your way home?” I asked.

Relief shot from her lungs. She nodded eagerly. “Uh huh.”

“Count to two hundred, out loud,” I said. “When you get to two hundred, stand up and go home. But, only after you reach two hundred. Understand?”

“Uh huh.”

“There’s no one left here to hurt you,” I assured her. “As long as you count to two hundred.”

“Oh…kay,” she stammered, nearly bringing herself to tears. “Thank…you.”

Pike trained his weapon on her. “Intel sheet said—”

“Fuck the intel sheet,” I snapped. “Load up.”

“Go ahead,” he said, his weapon still pointed directly at her. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

Stripped of her innocence and wearing the scars from the unspeakable horrors she undoubtedly endured, Amber Kilgore began to count.

I thought about what Doc Rhoades said about Shep. I wondered if Pike, like Shep, was a sociopath and a sadist. If he derived pleasure out of harming people.

I cleared my throat. “Load. Up.”

Pike’s attention remained fixed on the girl. Illuminated by the glow of my night vision, but invisible to the her, he remained statue-still, staring straight ahead.

Unaware of the stand-off we were in, Amber counted, eager to complete the task that would free her of the living hell she’d been thrust into.

In perfect timing with each number that passed her lips, my heart took a simultaneous beat. Convinced that she and I were somehow connected, I fixed my barrel on Pike. I was prepared to see a flash from the muzzle of his weapon, and to hear the muffled report of it being fired. I knew if he took that path, the next weapon to fire would be my own.

Protected from the lingering tension by the darkness that enveloped her, Amber continued to count. “Thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three…”

Like a wolf standing in wait for prey, Pike stared at the naked teen. The passage of time was suspended by the sound of her unsteady voice as she approached her numeric goal.

I raised the barrel of my weapon slightly. The tip of my finger slipped into the trigger guard. I drew a short breath and held it.

Squeeze the trigger before he does, Briggs.

The barrel of Pike’s weapon lowered.

A breath of relief escaped me. I stepped aside and gestured toward the back door. All told, the mission took less than five minutes. In that time, I felt like I’d aged ten years.

After the men walked past me, I took one last glance at Amber Kilgore. Her hands covered her eyes, as if she were playing a game of hide and seek. Thoughts of my own childhood surfaced.

Although she couldn’t see me, I winked and turned away. Semper fi, Amber.

We walked into the moonlit yard. Filled with equal parts adrenaline and anger, I removed my headgear. Pike removed his, paused, and looked at me. His expression was one of disappointment.

“Eliminate all occupants of the residence,” he said, reciting the written instructions of the intel sheet, verbatim. “Did I miss something?”

“She was a twelve-year-old American,” I said.

“A twelve-year-old American occupant of the residence,” he argued.

“My assignment,” I said. “My fucking choice.”

“There’ll be hell to pay for defying those orders,” he said.

He may have been right. But whatever I owed for the decisions I made, I was sure I’d already paid it ten times over.