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No,notreaching my way. Bradley was reaching upward… to point at something over my shoulder.
FUCK.
I whirled, knowing already it was way too late. Two shots rang out in quick succession as I fell backward and sideways, draping myself protectively over the shell-shocked goal of our mission.
Pain exploded in my right shoulder, my rifle falling uselessly to the ground. The man standing over me was the machine-gunner — the guy who’d ditched the M2. Apparently he’d doubled back.
“Stupid!” the man grinned, through yellowed and missing teeth. He raised his pistol again, leveling at my face. “So, so stu—”
An explosion preceded the man flying sideways through the air. One second he was standing there smugly, the next he was just…gone.
The event was as dramatic as it was instantaneous, but I didn’t have to wonder what happened. I knew the Benelli shotgun that had caused the damage, just as I knew the man who owned it. Squinting up, silhouetted against the sun, I made out a shape so big and familiar it could only belong to one person.
“Duncan?!” I swore, unable to hide my astonishment.
My friend stood there in full jungle camouflage, face-paint and all. Before reaching down to help me to my feet, he assessed me with a slow shake of his head.
“Iknewyou’d screw this up,” he chuckled gruffly.
