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Over his earpiece, Rapp heard their men respond. Joe Maslick was in position to the north and Bruno McGraw to the south. Charlie Wicker, debatably the world’s top sniper, was still setting up in the high ground, but promised to be ready inside of one minute. There was no hurry, so Rapp waited a full three before giving the order.
“Move in. Hold your fire until you hear mine. After that, kick up some dust.”
He and Coleman crept out of the ditch, with Rapp sweeping leftand his teammate right. They passed through a band of trees that had managed to take hold in the harsh environment and started climbing.
The loose terrain eventually gave way to a rock face steep enough that Rapp had to sling his rifle and use both hands to climb. Once at the top, he found himself within twenty yards of the village’s first building—a crumbling structure with an empty door frame. He took aim at it and fired a controlled burst before running toward a path to the west.
A moment later, gunfire erupted throughout the tiny settlement. Muzzle flashes overpowered the starlight and the peace that reigned just seconds before was broken so violently that it was hard to believe it ever existed. A rotted wooden door with a rudimentary latch appeared to Rapp’s right and he kicked it open, spraying the interior with his rifle.
The layout of the village made it practical to divide into quarters and each of them kept to his section in order to avoid friendly fire. Wick would remain in an overwatch position to call out any potential mistakes and deal with any surprises. Not that Rapp anticipated either.
He turned his attention to an ancient animal trough and put a few rounds into it because, why not? It still held some water from recent rains, and splashes appeared in the unsteady light. Rapp crouched and slapped in a fresh magazine before emptying half of it into the window of a house that looked exactly like all the others.
Finally, he stood, turning full circle before toggling his throat mike. “They knew we were coming!” he shouted. The level of his voice wasn’t necessary for their communications technology, but was instead for the benefit of any Afghans who might be within earshot. The goal was to put on a show, and he felt like they’d accomplished that.
“Let’s get the hell out of here!”
The undisciplined gunfire ceased, plunging the village back into the darkness and silence that it had been mired in for at least a quarter century. His three teammates fell in behind as Rapp broke into the open and headed northwest toward a designated landing zone. Wickhad been tasked with covering the majority of their retreat, but would soon start breaking down his kit to follow.
The dull thump of a chopper became audible as they maintained their heading, but it still wasn’t visible as it angled in. Rapp continued to the extraction point at a pace that was set to allow his overwatch to reintegrate with the team. Still no resistance or any indication at all of human presence. Just as the Agency’s analysts had promised.
The black outline of the helicopter finally appeared and began to descend. Rapp cut left and stopped, waving his men on. “Go! Go!”
Wick was straggling a bit and Rapp grabbed some of the diminutive sniper’s gear to lighten his load. The doors in both sides of the aircraft were open and all five men arrived at roughly the same time, piling in as the rotors started to pick up speed again. When the skids began to leave the ground, they all jumped out the other side and slipped into a boulder field just beyond. A moment later, the chopper was airborne and banking toward their base of operations.
The actual target was a village about a mile to the north. The idea was that the men there would have seen the commotion and heard the helicopter, leading them to assume that the Americans had once again gotten hold of bad intel and attacked a settlement that hadn’t been inhabited in decades.
If Rapp knew the Afghans—and he did—they’d get a real kick out of it. There was nothing they liked more than watching US forces screw up. It didn’t happen often in combat situations, but when it did, the locals used it as proof of their mastery over the desert, the superiority of their way of life, and proof that God loved them best. It was human nature to embrace the inferiority of one’s enemies. A bias so strong that it tended to prevent people from thinking too hard about the actual plausibility of it.
No one liked a killjoy.
CHAPTER 4
ASHRINKwould probably be concerned that Rapp associated the smell of Afghanistan with home. Dust, stone, sweat, and food cooked over an open fire. The reason he’d been able to operate so successfully in the region was that to some extent he’d gone native. He’d never seen his time in-country as a tour. He’d rarely felt a compulsion to go “home,” which, for much of his life, had consisted of a beat-up apartment with boxes that never seemed to get unpacked.
He looked up at the stars for a moment and then returned his attention to the path he was walking along. It led to the village where the two American hostages were being held, but went no farther. A dead end for him both literally and figuratively. He didn’t belong there anymore. He belonged in Virginia. In South Africa. It still surprised him how clear that had become. He had a place, and it was with Claudia and Anna.
More and more, he felt like it was time to circle the wagons. To bring the few people he cared about inside and keep everyone else out. His enemies kept multiplying, but at the same time became harder to identify. No one cared about anything beyond creating sufficienttheater to move up the rungs of power. And anyone who wasn’t unwaveringly devoted to producing that theater—anyone who for a moment lapsed into reality or put country before ambition—ended up with a blade in their back.
Maybe that’s what had originally attracted him to Afghanistan. Their family and tribal bonds were unbreakable, and the enemy was obvious. The people here didn’t skulk around. They looked you in the eye when they tried to kill you. Not exactly Utopia, but there was an appealing honesty to it all.
Rapp adjusted the cloth sack slung over his shoulder and slowed his pace. He’d traded his combat gear for traditional Afghan garb and a pair of trail-running shoes that had been deliberately trashed to look like something left behind by an American soldier. The hope was that he’d appear familiar enough not to set off any immediate fireworks. Just because the war was over didn’t mean the peace had begun.
Ahead, the flicker of firelight was quickly joined by the scent of smoke. A few hours ago, the village he was walking toward almost certainly would have been set up for an ambush. There were solid reasons to believe that factions high up in America’s intelligence community had convinced these people to hold on to their hostages in order to facilitate a little side job. They’d likely been given the time of Rapp’s arrival, his incursion plan, the size of his team, and a rundown on his weapons. All they had to do was lie in wait. Then, when he and his men were dead, it would rain American dollars.
The question of what to do about it had been the subject of spirited debate. The obvious answer was to roll in early with an overwhelming force, but that had drawbacks. Namely, a lot of corpses that would inevitably include the two hostages. When Rapp suggested they carry out the attack exactly as planned, but a mile too far to the south, everyone had thought he’d lost his mind. They’d eventually come around, though. Mostly because it was his ass on the line and not theirs.
Rapp made it to the edge of the village without any issues. The houses were all dark, with shutters closed and the women and childrenstashed safely behind them. Ahead, booming voices punctuated by intermittent bursts of laughter were audible. He continued toward them, listening to the conversation as it became intelligible.
Despite his Dari not being anywhere near as strong as his Arabic, he caught the gist. Strained jokes about the Americans not being able to read a map, needing glasses, or being led by women. The customary chest-thumping about what they saw as their overwhelming victory against the most powerful militaries in history. Alexander the Great. The Persians. The British and Soviets. Now the Americans. Beneath the bravado, though, there was always an undercurrent of fear. The realization that there could be a Reaper drone circling just overhead.
After what had happened in the abandoned village neighboring them, they’d be absolutely certain of their opponents’ next move. When the Americans screwed up, they went back to the drawing board. They analyzed what had gone wrong, cleaned their weapons, revisited their strategies, and upgraded their technology. As far as the Afghans were concerned, there was nothing the Americans hated more than improvisation. But as predictable as Western forces could be, the Afghans were even more so. They’d been doing the same things the same way for the better part of a thousand years.
As Rapp closed in, the conversation became clearer, switching from light comedy to a graphic description of what they’d have done if the Americans had managed to find their village. Tales of heroics worthy of Greek mythology ensued, all with the requisite assurances of God’s favor.
The bonfire and men huddled around it came into view a few seconds later. None of them were the enemy. Not anymore. The enemy now was the people in Washington and Langley who had set this up. To the Afghans, Rapp’s death meant money for food and shelter. Maybe a little revenge on a former rival or bragging rights when it came to finding a wife. The betrayal wasn’t here. It was back home.
He continued to grip the bag with his left hand, while extending his right in a way that would make it clear he wasn’t holding a gun. Thereaction was immediate when he entered the circle of light. Men who had been sitting leapt to their feet and ones who had weapons nearby snatched them up.
