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Prologue
Patton
Seven years ago in a jungle south of the border…
The clock is ticking.
We have to move fast or this will go terribly wrong.
Sweat rolls down my sides, and I exhale slowly, calming my pulse.
The air around us is heavy and close, so thick it’s almost visible and so hot it’s almost impossible to breathe.
Tropical plants form a dense barrier of wide, shiny leaves around us, and we’re hidden in the brush around a small, cinder-block hut.
Our target is a green dot on my screen blinking right in front of us.
He’s here.
“Moving in, eleven o’clock.” Taron’s voice is low in my ear.
“Coming up from the southeast.” Sawyer’s distinct southern drawl is a quick response.
“No noise. No prisoners.” I give the order, firm and clear.
I’m the leader of this three-man rescue mission, and we won’t fail.
We surround the unpainted, cinder-block hovel. It’s quiet in the shadows. The windows are black holes with no glass, empty squares that could be hiding anything—watchers with guns, lining us up in the crosshairs.
Or he could be alone.
No, it would never be that easy.
He could be dead.
My jaw tightens and I push back on the thought. What good would he be to them dead?
Taking a knee, I slowly lift my gun to my eye, setting my sites on the front door. We’ve been tracking radio signals, emails and IP addresses, until we isolated them here.
Two weeks have passed since Martin was jumped on a routine fuel run. From what we’ve been able to piece together, they took him down with PAVA spray, a paralyzing nerve gas. Then the videos started.
Two weeks of grainy images of our friend and fellow Marine tied to a chair with a bag over his head. They’d rip it off to reveal black eyes and bloodstained skin. Then the threats started—guns and money. It’s what they all want. Until now, the moment of truth in the heart of a South American jungle.
We’re tired, thirsty, and focused on retrieving our friend, kidnapped off-duty in a routine stop on our way to a peace-keeping mission in Caracas.
Sawyer checks in from his point, and we watch as Taron creeps across the face of the structure, approaching the weathered wooden door. His gun is at his chest as he carefully reaches out and knocks.
Three sharp raps, and we wait.
Nobody breathes.
No response.
He looks to me, and I give a nod. I’m front and center, ready to cover him.
Nobody gets past me.
Nobody takes my men.
We’re brothers—no one forgotten, no one left behind.
My heart beats like a mallet against my ribs. As much as we’ve trained, this scene is entirely unpredictable. We hope to have the eleme
nt of surprise. We hope his kidnappers believe we’re still in Los Cabos, but they could be smarter than we give them credit for. With low growl, I shake my head. Not likely.
These drugged-up gangsters dared to kidnap a Marine. The only thing stopping us from torching this whole place is my belief we can extract him without causing unnecessary casualties.
Taron’s jaw is set, the sleeves of his tan shirt showing from beneath the black Kevlar vest are stained with sweat, and his light-brown hair is wet. All our faces are scrubbed with camouflage, making the whites of our eyes seem to glow.
My breath stills. My cheek is pressed to my gun barrel, and the noise of cicadas rises like a chorus around us. It grows louder, a warning.
I shake off the thought. Taron is my focus.
The shadow of Sawyer emerges from the brush at the opposite end of the house. They’re acting on my orders, but we’re brothers. We’ve had each other’s backs since Day One. This is more than a rescue. Martin is family.
Taron moves away from the concrete wall, and my finger is ready on the trigger. The only thing standing between us and what’s about to happen is a wooden door…
He lifts his leg and gives the door a sharp kick, sending it flying against the wall with a blast that rattles the quiet jungle. His back is against the wall again, and he holds, waiting for a barrage of bullets.
None come.
