ADEN

Three months ago . . .

“Hey, Sarge, can I have a word?”

With my ass on a cot and doubled over lacing up my boots, I avoid looking at LaRoy. If I make eye contact he’ll only take that as an invitation to air his concerns. The same bullshit concerns he’s been airing for the last few weeks. “Not now, Private.”

His boot steps close in, signaling he’s not going to let this shit go. “Colt.”

With a final tug on my shoestrings, I push up to stand and face my brother-in-arms head-on. “As long as we’ve been fighting side by side, how many times have I let you down?”

The trained Special Forces soldier in him stiffens his spine and snaps back a quick “Not once, sir,” but his wary expression betrays his strength, showing the worry of a friend.

“Grant, I said this before and I’ll say it again.” I strap on my gear while I continue. “You have nothing to worry about. The United States government gave us a job, to train Iraqi forces so that they can defend themselves against ISIL. We’ve done that, and we have a formidable team to show for it.”

“I don’t disagree with you, Aden, but . . .” He turns back toward the sound of our men chanting as they prep for our op—the last op of our deployment before we get to go home back to the States.

The air is electrified with a palpable energy reminding me of the days before playoff games in high school when the locker room felt alive with the excitement of a team about to annihilate the competition.

To keep from being overheard, Grant steps closer. “It’s not the men I’m worried about, it’s their leader.”

I resist the urge to pinch the bridge of my nose. “Al-Bishi is intense, but he’s harmless—”

“How do you know that, Aden?” There’s anger in his voice and a flash of something wild in his dark eyes.

“Because he’s a twenty-six-year-old husband and father of two little girls who live in a city that is controlled by evil. He is invested in our mission.”

He scoffs. “Invested. Is that what he told you?”

“No, that’s what my gut tells me and my gut hasn’t failed us yet.”

He steps back with a humorless bark of laughter. “Fine. But I too am invested in our mission, Colt. I’m twenty-eight hours away from a flight home to my wife and baby who I haven’t seen in over a year.”

“This isn’t a meat-eating op, our only job is to provide backup if needed. Al-Bishi and his men are ready to handle this alone, there’s no reason why you won’t make it home to Kim and Eva.”

He shrugs. “I’m keeping my eye on that asshole and if I see so much as a muscle twitch in the wrong way I’m puttin’ a fucking bullet in his skull.”

Now it’s me who steps close. “Grant, I get it. You’re feeling the effects of a fifteen-month deployment. The paranoia, trust me, I fucking get that—”

“You don’t get shit.” He turns to stomp out of the room, but turns back one last time, his eyes blazing with the angst I heard in his voice. “Strap up, Sarge. As much as you can carry. We’re gonna need it.”

“Hadhih laysat munawara.” This is not a drill. I address both the Iraqi team as well as my own in Arabic. “We have intel that there are two ISIL leaders currently hiding in this village.” I turn toward Al-Bishi, who is standing at my left. “You’ll take orders from Al-Bishi. My team has been instructed to provide backup only. Any questions?”

When the group of eighteen stay silent, I nod for Al-Bishi to command his men.

“Shukraan laky a sadiq.” Thank you, friend.

It’s never sat well with me that he refers to me as “friend,” as it implies we’re on equal ground when I’m his commanding officer, but I’ve let it slide for the sake of peace. Feeling eyes on me, I find LaRoy glaring a hole right through me. Twenty-four more hours, Grant. Hang in there, brother.

Al-Bishi runs through the plan to hike the four kilometers to the outskirts of the small village, then to surround the house and when they’re all in position to infiltrate.

With adrenaline coursing through our veins, we make quick work of the hike down into the valley, making sure to say alert and low to avoid being spotted. The only noise we’re putting off is the steady crunch of our boots to the dirt.

The scent of livestock alerts me that we’re close, so I motion for my guys to get down and be on the lookout. Pride fills my chest when I see Al-Bishi give a similar command to his men and they follow his order with ease.

Schmitt pulls up to my side, flashing me an eager smile. I’ve never met anyone as excited for battle as Camden Schmitt. It’s as if he came out of the womb a soldier, and although I dig his enthusiasm, his thirst for combat can make him unpredictable.

“Don’t.”

He chuckles quietly. “Oh come on, Sarge. One last time before I go back to Britney and I’m stuck in civilian life.”

“My job is to get you to your wedding in one piece or Brit will have my balls.”

I know I don’t need to remind him of our team’s role in this op, but I do anyway. “Backup only, Private.”

“Party pooper.” He drops behind me as we edge along the wall that runs the length of the small village.

We spread out behind the Iraqi soldiers and wait for them to enter through the gate. Al-Bishi gives the command and his men pour in like water to surround the house.

I motion with one arm for my team to follow and as we do, I feel LaRoy has my six. Whatever makes him feel better. I make a note to myself to talk to him about getting some help for his delusions as soon as we hit US soil.

Seamlessly my team of eight works like appendages of one well-oiled military machine. Having fought side by side for the past seven years, we’re able to read each other’s body language as we file in behind the Iraqi team. My senses are on hyper-drive as I identify the smell of smoke from a dwindling fire, my vision picking up the tidy kitchen and the sounds of—where is everyone?

My feet freeze. Breathing stills.

The only sound is the rapid beating of my pulse in my ears.

This is a surprise ambush on a residential location. Where are the women and kids?

My mind draws the conclusion just as the sound of rapid fire explodes all around us.

I point my weapon but don’t see the enemy we’re firing at.

The plaster walls burst and shatter.

I drop to the ground. Roll to the kitchen to take cover and that’s when I see them.

Terrorist militia dressed in all black flood in through the doors and windows. Bodies of men dressed in US fatigues drop all around me with the spray of pink mist.

We were set up.

Grant.

Fuck!

“It’s a setup!” I fire my weapon, clearing the way to crawl out in search of my men. “Get out!”

My ears pound as gunfire erupts from every direction. We’re completely surrounded. I grab O’Connor as he’s firing with one hand and dragging a bleeding and unconscious Iraqi soldier with him.

“Take cover!”

“No!” He fires and a body drops. “I won’t hide!” A bullet sings past me and buries itself into O’Connor’s neck.

Blood splatters my face.

He falls, clutching his throat.

“Fuck!” I whirl around and send a bullet through the enemy’s cranium.

Rage overtakes me.

Al-Bishi is a dead man.

Storming through the house I fire at the black-clothed militants, dropping them one by one as I hunt down the Iraqi commander.

The one I trained myself.

The one I fucking trusted with not only my life but the life of my men!

“Al-Bishi!” My throat burns and with the buzz of gunfire in my ears, my voice sounds more like a whisper. “You coward!”

Then he appears almost as if out of nowhere, or maybe he was searching for me too. Those black eyes shine with the joy of death that I’ve only ever seen in the face of pure evil.

“Sadiq!” His blood-covered face lights up with the joy that comes from a successful op. “American pig!”

My death is only seconds away, and as I raise my gun I welcome the burn of the bullet that’ll soon take my life. It’s what I deserve for not listening to Grant.

Oh God, Grant.

I say a silent prayer that he’ll forgive me for what I’ve done.

The pop of gunfire sounds.

A force slams into me.

I fall to my back and groan.

A heavy weight on my lungs makes it impossible to take a full breath.

Thankfully, there is no pain.

Only the warm slick blood that flows around my throat.

I close my eyes, grateful that it’s over, when something smacks my cheek.

“Sarge! Get up!” Schmitt’s over me and for the first time since I’ve known him, he looks scared. “Dustoff inbound!”

Dustoff. Medivac?

The ground shakes.

A bomb dropped.

“Our backup is here!”

He heaves the weight off my chest.

A flash of brown hair coated in blood and gray matter hits my vision.

With renewed strength I push myself up and—oh God . . . “No!” I grip Grant’s vest and shake him, knowing it’s pointless. One side of his head is gone. “No!”

It was Grant who fell on top of me.

He took that bullet for me.

After I ignored his concerns, he sacrificed his life . . . for me.

“Sarge, we gotta go!” Schmitt pulls my arms off LaRoy and I scramble to my feet. Bombs continue to shake the walls and small-round fire is still popping off randomly.

Crouched low, we maneuver over bodies. More fire. We duck behind a flipped-over table.

“You go!” I fire off a round. Feeling numb and sick I push back all thoughts and allow my training to take over. “Al-Bishi is mine!”

“I’m not leaving you!” He lifts his head up and takes a few shots, then falls hard to my side.

I shove him away with my elbow. “Go! That’s an order!”

He continues to press against me.

“Schmitt, dammit! I gave you an or—” He stares up at me with lifeless eyes. Blood forming rivers from his nose and mouth. Smoke curling up from the small bullet hole in his forehead.

Red coats my vision.

I stand to my full height.

The sound of gunfire stopped.

The room is silent.

Dead bodies litter the floor.

Shock overtakes me. My hands shake but I feel nothing.

Only one thought pumps furiously through my mind.

It should’ve been me.