Page 102 of Fixed Asset

They’d heard it too. Voices in the distance.

“Yep,” Pete whispered. “We got incoming.”

Cat dropped her hand, and out of the corner of my eye I saw her pull her pistol from her holster as she stepped next to Calista and whispered something to her as I swung my M4 up, the buttstock of the rifle pressed tight against my shoulder, ears straining to hear, eyes scanning the hilly terrain.

Mason had his dry pack hanging from one shoulder. Using his opposite hand, he unzipped and reached into the side pocket, pulling out a pistol. Wordlessly he handed Calista the weapon he’d obviously stowed for the swim. As soon as Calista retrieved her weapon, Mase secured his bag and pulled up his M4.

Without needing verbal commands, Mase moved left, I stepped right, and we took our watch positions, leaving Pete and the women between us.

“Copy that.” Pete spoke quietly, ending the call. Then to the rest of us, “Carlos’s cousin got word Calista escaped, and he knows she had help.”

Fuck.

Not surprising but still fucking hell.

Pete quietly went on. “He knows she fled on a boat and is sending men out on the water. Airport’s gonna be hot.”

No, now fucking hell.

“New exfil?” Mase asked.

“No. Shep said we’d have backup. The plane’s thirty minutes out.”

Fuck, fuck, fucking hell.

We were in an alcove with a small beach that would open up to a ravine. We needed to hurry up and get to higher ground.

I glanced down at my Suunto, checked where we were on the GPS, and motioned forward. Pete led, taking the western route avoiding the structure to the east. It was the longer route, but safer.

Calista dogged Pete’s heels, Catarina behind her, with me after Cat, and Mase taking our six. Single file, we trekked the valley—a fetal funnel with a pucker factor of ten. I felt sweat trickle down my back and didn’t breathe a full breath until we climbed a small hill.

My relief of being out of the ravine was short-lived—not a single tree, bush, or building for cover. The lights of the village shone to the north, then total darkness beyond. It was eerie as fuck, a fishing village in the middle of nowhere surrounded by inky black.

The next twenty minutes were silent.

Utterly so.

As the silence stretched, the sweat continued to trickle down my neck, and a ball of unease formed in my gut.

It was too quiet—like an ambush you didn’t see coming.

As soon as the thought crossed my mind, Murphy’s Law of Combat number two kicked in: incoming fire has the right of way. Or was it fifteen: anything you do can get you shot, including nothing.

Either or, shots rang out.

Catarina dove forward, taking Calista to the dirt. From behind me, Mase blindly returned fire. I hit my knees and did the same. Pete was on his stomach diagonally in front of the woman, barrel of his rifle pointing behind Mase’s position, now covering our backs.

“Come on, fuckers,” Mason grumbled. “Show daddy where you are.”

“Did Mason just call himself daddy?” Calista snickered.

It didn’t take long for more shots to pop off, the muzzle blasts giving away the enemies’ location on the eastern hilltop. Which brought us to Murphy’s Law of Combat number one: if the enemy is in range, so are you.

“Cover me,” Pete ordered. “I’ll meet you at the cemetery.”

Before I could reject Pete’s plan for a solo mission to get to the enemy, he was up and running.

Fuck.