PART 1

They say you can’t run from your past, but for fourteen months, I did a pretty damn good job of hiding mine behind a clipboard and a barcode scanner.

To the eighteen men at the Sentinel Security Group compound, I was just Carolyn. Carol. The quiet, boring logistics coordinator who made sure the toilet paper was stocked, the generators had fuel, and the MREs didn’t expire. I was the woman who nagged them about inventory sheets and requisition forms. I was safe. I was invisible. And that’s exactly how I wanted it.

At 38, I’d cultivated the perfect “civilian contractor” persona. Average height, dark blonde ponytail, practical clothes, and a face that revealed absolutely nothing. When I walked through the warehouse, checking crates of 5.56 ammunition, I didn’t touch them with the familiarity of someone who had sent thousands of those rounds downrange. I touched them like boxes of printer paper. Just numbers. Just stock.

Mind-numbing work. That was the goal. Mind-numbing meant I didn’t have to think. I didn’t have to calculate windage or lead targets. I didn’t have to see Patrick Coleman’s face bleeding out in the Afghan dirt because I hesitated for a split second.

“Carol, you got a minute?”

I looked up from my tablet. Kenneth Foster, the compound manager, stood in the doorway of the supply warehouse. He was wiping sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief, already wilting in the early morning heat of Alcader Province.

“What do you need, Ken?” I asked, putting on my best ‘mildly annoyed bureaucrat’ voice.

“VIP arrival today. Marilyn Fitzgerald. CEO of Tech Vantage. Big shot. She’s coming to evaluate our security posture, maybe sign a massive protection contract. Art wants everything perfect.” He handed me a list that looked like it had been drafted by a lawyer who thought a combat zone was a 5-star resort. “I need you to stage the guest quarters. Special dietary requests, secure comms, the works.”

I scanned the list. High-maintenance. “I’ll have it ready by 1400.”

“Good. Art’s stressed. He’s got the whole security detail on edge.”

I nodded, watching him leave. A CEO visit meant more patrols, more weapons, more testosterone-fueled tension. It meant the guys—Art, Clayton, Warren—would be locked on, scanning for threats. It meant my safe, quiet little bubble was about to get popped.

By late afternoon, the compound was buzzing.

I watched from the shadows of the warehouse as the convoy rolled in. Three armored SUVs, heavy, black, and imposing. The gates slammed shut behind them with a metallic finality that always made my skin prickle.

Marilyn Fitzgerald stepped out. She was 55, sharp, and radiated the kind of power that money buys. She walked like she owned the sand beneath her heels. Flanking her was Clayton Hayes, our lead operator. Former Green Beret, solid as a tank, and arguably the best shooter on the team—or so everyone thought.

“Good to meet you, Ms. Fitzgerald,” I heard Clayton say, his voice carrying that confident, operator drawl. “We’ve got the perimeter locked down. You’re safer here than you are in D.C.”

I turned away, feeling a ghost of a smile tug at my lips. Safer. There is no safe. There is only alive, and there is dead. I learned that the hard way.

I spent the rest of the day playing maid. Setting up secure Wi-Fi, arranging bottled water, ensuring the linens were crisp. I kept my head down, avoided eye contact with the security team, and ignored the way my hands wanted to check the sight lines from the VIP quarters’ windows. Old habits. They itch like a phantom limb.

That night, the insomnia hit.

It usually did when the routine was broken. I lay on my cot, staring at the ceiling fan cutting through the stagnant air. 0200. 0300. At 0400, I gave up. I dropped to the floor and punished myself. Push-ups until my arms shook. Sit-ups until my core felt like it was on fire. Physical exhaustion was the only thing that kept the memories at bay, but tonight, even that wasn’t enough.

By 0540, I was back in the warehouse. Might as well work. The compound was quiet, bathed in that deceptive, violet pre-dawn light. The desert holds a chill right before the sun breaks, a brief respite before the furnace kicks on.

I was counting crates of medical supplies when the radio on my belt crackled.

“Operations, East Tower. I’ve got movement on Observation Ridge. Single individual, approximately 650 meters out.”

My hand froze over the clipboard.

Observation Ridge. It was a jagged spine of rock overlooking our compound. Perfect elevation. 400 to 800 meters distance depending on where you stood.

Art Donovan’s voice came back, calm and gravelly. “Confirmed. Keep eyes on. Probably a shepherd.”

“Roger. He’s… wait. He’s stationary. Prone position behind rocks. 675 meters.”

Shepherd’s don’t go prone at 0600.

I shouldn’t have moved. I should have stayed in the supply room. But my feet were moving before my brain signed the permission slip. I walked into the Operations Center just as the sun began to bleed over the horizon.

The room was the nerve center. Screens everywhere. Art stood at the tactical table, looking like a statue carved from granite. Clayton was there, gearing up. Warren, our medic, and Rachel, former Air Force Security, were watching the monitors.

They looked up when I entered.

“Carol?” Art frowned. “Something wrong with the supplies?”

“No,” I lied, my eyes darting to the screen showing the East Tower feed. “Just… heard the traffic. Wanted to know if you needed water staged for the QRF.”

“We’re good. Go back to the warehouse.”

I didn’t go. I stepped closer to the monitors. The resolution was grainy, but I could read terrain like a book. The ridge was a sniper’s playground. Natural defilade, shadow pockets, uneven skylines.

“Operations,” the radio barked again. It was Carl in the East Tower, and his voice had jumped an octave. “I’ve got multiple contacts. Repeat, multiple contacts on the ridge. Count is… seven… eight. Eight individuals. All prone. All taking positions.”

The air was sucked out of the room.

Eight men. Ridge line. Prone.

“Battle stations!” Art roared, slamming his hand on the table. “This is not a drill! All hands, sector defense! Get the VIP to the hardened room! NOW!”

The alarms didn’t sound—too loud, gave away too much—but the radio traffic exploded. Men were sprinting outside, boots pounding on concrete. I backed into the corner, my heart hammering a rhythm I hadn’t felt in three years. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. The rhythm of the hunt.

“Go, Carol!” Clayton shouted at me as he racked the slide on his rifle. “Get to cover!”

I ran.

I made it halfway across the compound courtyard when the world ended.

CRACK.

It wasn’t a bang. High-velocity rounds don’t bang. They snap. A sharp, supersonic whip-crack that tells you the bullet has already passed you.

I spun around just in time to see Art Donovan. He was standing near the tactical command post, shouting orders. Then, suddenly, he wasn’t shouting. A mist of red sprayed into the morning air. He clutched his throat, eyes wide with confusion, and crumpled to the dirt.

CRACK-THWACK.

Clayton was next. He was running toward Art. The second round hit him mid-stride. It blew through his chest plate like it was cardboard. He dropped heavy, sliding in the dust.

Then, the ridge erupted.

It wasn’t chaotic spray-and-pray fire. It was surgery.

Snap. Snap. Snap.

Precision fire. Rhythmic. Terrifying.

“Sniper!” someone screamed. “Get down! Snipers on the ridge!”

I dove behind a concrete Jersey barrier, scraping my palms raw. Dirt kicked up into my face as a round impacted inches from my head. I curled into a ball, breathing dust and cordite.

Peeking around the edge, I saw the massacre unfolding.

Our guys—Sentinel’s best—were pinned. They were good operators, brave men, but they were fighting a ghost. They had M4 carbines with holographic sights, effective out to maybe 300 or 400 meters if you were good. The shooters on the ridge were 600, 700, 800 meters out.

It was a turkey shoot.

“I can’t see them!” Warren yelled over the radio, his voice cracking. “Where are they coming from?!”

“Observation Ridge! High ground!”

“I have no targets! I can’t engage!”

I watched Jackie Palmer, the new kid, try to sprint for better cover. He made it three steps. A round caught him in the leg, spinning him. As he tried to crawl, a second round finished him.

They were double-tapping. These weren’t insurgents. These were pros.

I closed my eyes, listening.

Crack. (Pause). Crack.

I knew that sound. .300 Winchester Magnum. Maybe .338 Lapua. Bolt action.

I counted the reports. Different distinct tones. Three SR-25s. Two M2010s. A couple of heavy calibers. Eight shooters. Overlapping fields of fire. They had set up a kill box, and we were the rats trapped inside.

“Man down! Man down! Brian is hit!”

I looked across the kill zone. Brian Hutchkins. He was the one who showed me pictures of his daughter’s soccer games every Tuesday. He was lying on his back, staring up at the empty blue sky, a dark pool spreading beneath him.

He wasn’t moving.

Something inside me snapped. Or maybe… maybe it healed.

For fourteen months, I had told myself I was a logistics coordinator. I told myself Carolyn Spencer, the SFOD-D sniper with 156 confirmed kills, didn’t exist anymore. I told myself I couldn’t handle the weight of the rifle, the weight of the decision, the weight of the ghost of Patrick Coleman.

But looking at Brian… looking at Art… watching my friends get systematically disassembled by shooters who thought they were gods because they had the high ground?

The fear evaporated. It was replaced by a cold, crystalline anger. A familiar, icy calm settled over my nervous system. The world slowed down. The noise of the screaming and the gunfire faded into the background.

I knew exactly what I had to do.

I keyed my radio, cutting through the panic.

“Warren, this is Carol. Listen to me.”

“Carol? Get off the net! Stay down!”

“Warren, shut up and listen!” My voice didn’t sound like the supply girl anymore. It was hard. Flat. Command presence. “I can stop this. But I need thirty seconds.”

“What? You’re gonna get killed! Stay put!”

“I am former Army SFOD-D,” I said, the words tasting like copper in my mouth. “Counter-sniper specialist. 156 confirmed eliminations. I can neutralize these targets, but I need you to buy me thirty seconds to get to the armory. Do you copy?”

Silence. Absolute, stunned silence on the frequency.

Then, Warren’s voice came back. Different. Desperate, but focused. “What do you need?”

“Suppressive fire. Everything you’ve got. On the ridge. Just make them duck. On my mark.”

I pulled my knees under me, tightening my shoelaces. I looked at the armory building. It was forty meters of open ground. Forty meters of death.

“Operations,” Warren shouted. “All elements! Suppressive fire on Observation Ridge! Give Carol her window! 3… 2… 1… MARK!”

The compound exploded with noise. Every surviving operator pointed their weapon at the mountain and held the trigger down. It was useless fire—they couldn’t hit anything—but it was loud. It was enough.

I moved.

I didn’t run like a civilian. I ran low, zig-zagging, erratic bursts of speed. I felt the air snap around me as the enemy snipers tried to adjust, but the wall of lead coming from our guys threw them off just enough.

I hit the armory door with my shoulder, punched in the code—4729 Alpha—and fell inside.

The silence of the room was heavy.

I didn’t look at the inventory lists. I didn’t check the clipboards.

I walked straight to the secure cage in the back. There it was. The M2010 Enhanced Sniper Rifle. .300 Win Mag. Leupold Mark 5 scope. It had been sitting there for months, collecting dust, a “just in case” weapon that nobody on the current team was qualified to use properly.

Nobody except me.

I pulled it from the rack. The weight of it… God, the weight of it felt like coming home. It felt like an extension of my own arm. My hands moved on autopilot, muscle memory overriding fourteen months of rust.

Bolt check. Clear.
Magazine check. Loaded.
Optics check. Clean.

I grabbed a chest rig, shoving eight spare magazines into the pouches. 160 rounds. Enough to start a war. Enough to end one.

I caught my reflection in the glass of the gun cabinet. The ponytail was messy. There was dirt on my cheek. But the eyes… the eyes were different. The soft, tired look of the logistics coordinator was gone. The predator was back.

I keyed the radio one last time.

“Warren. Cease fire. I’m moving to the rooftop. Tell the boys to stay down.”

“Carol… good luck.”

“Don’t need luck,” I whispered to the empty room. “I need windage.”

I kicked open the back door and headed for the stairs.

PART 2

The staircase to the roof smelled like industrial cleaner and old coffee—the scent of a mundane office building. It was a jarring contrast to the slaughter happening outside.

I moved fast, weapon high, checking corners out of instinct. On the second floor landing, I nearly collided with Linda Crawford. She was our HR admin, a sweet woman who organized the office birthday parties and complained about the air conditioning. She was huddled under her desk, clutching a stapler like it was a grenade.

She looked up, her eyes wide, terrified. She saw the tactical vest. The magazines. The massive long-range rifle in my hands. And then she looked at my face.

She didn’t recognize me.

For fourteen months, I had been “Carol from Supply.” I was the person she gossiped with in the breakroom. But the woman standing in front of her now wasn’t Carol. The mask had slipped. Linda opened her mouth to speak, to ask a question, but the look in my eyes stopped her cold. I didn’t say a word. I didn’t have words for her. I stepped past her, kicked the roof access door open, and stepped into the furnace.

The rooftop was flat, covered in gravel and tar, dotted with humming HVAC units. It was exposed, dangerous, and perfect. It gave me the one thing the team on the ground didn’t have: elevation.

I moved to the western edge, sliding into a prone position behind a low concrete retaining wall. The gravel dug into my elbows, a familiar, grounding pain. The sun was fully up now, baking the rooftop. Heat waves—mirage—were already starting to shimmer off the desert floor. That was going to make the long shots tricky.

I didn’t care.

I pulled the M2010 into my shoulder. The stock welded to my cheek. My world narrowed down to a three-inch circle of glass.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Pause.

Observation Ridge jumped into focus. To the naked eye, it was just a pile of brown rocks. Through the Leupold Mark 5 scope, it was a high-definition map of threats.

I saw the enemy immediately. They were confident. Arrogant. They thought they had suppressed the entire compound. They weren’t expecting counter-fire. They certainly weren’t expecting a ghost.

Target 1. Range: 675 meters. He was prone behind a rock outcropping, but his discipline was sloppy. I could see six inches of his left shoulder and the side of his helmet.

My brain kicked into a mode I hadn’t accessed since Kandahar. The math wasn’t conscious; it was felt. Distance 675. Angle -3 degrees. Wind 4 mph from the west, full value.

My finger found the trigger. The pad of my index finger rested on the curve of the metal.

Don’t pull. Squeeze.

The rifle bucked against my shoulder. The sound was a thunderclap that erased the ambient noise of the battle below.

Through the scope, I didn’t see the recoil. I maintained my sight picture. I watched the round impact. The shoulder I was aiming at disintegrated. The figure jerked violently, flailing backward out of cover, tumbling down the scree.

“One,” I whispered.

Below me, the rhythm of the enemy fire faltered. They were confused. They heard the boom of the .300 Win Mag. They saw their buddy drop. Panic was starting to set in.

Good. Panic makes you stupid.

I cycled the bolt—clack-clack—ejecting the spent brass and chambering a fresh round.

Target 2. Range: 520 meters. He was closer, hiding behind brush. He thought the bush concealed him. It didn’t concealment is not cover. I tracked the heat signature of his barrel.

Crack.

The bullet punched through the brush and the chest plate behind it. He dropped instantly. No twitching. The lights just went out.

“Two.”

For a split second, a dark thought intruded. I am exactly who I was afraid I was. I had spent years in therapy trying to convince myself I wasn’t just a killer. I tried to believe I was a builder, a helper. But God help me, nothing in the logistics warehouse ever felt as natural as this. I was a weapon. And right now, my friends were dying, so I would be the sharpest, deadliest weapon on earth.

Target 3 was smart. He realized the game had changed. He started moving, sliding backward and left, trying to break my line of sight. He found a depression between two boulders. Good fieldcraft. But he made a mistake. To keep eyes on the compound, he had to expose his head.

Range: 580 meters. Shooting slightly downhill. The crosswind was picking up. I held two MOA left.

Crack.

The impact was visceral. A pink mist sprayed against the gray rock behind him.

“Three.”

The compound had gone silent. Our guys had stopped shooting. They were watching. They were realizing that the hand of God had just reached down and started smiting the people trying to kill them.

I could hear Warren’s voice on the radio, breathless. “Who is that? Who’s firing?”

“It’s Carol,” Owen’s voice came back, filled with awe. “It’s the supply girl. She’s on the roof.”

Target 4.

This one was different. He didn’t move. He didn’t panic. After seeing three of his team wiped out in under sixty seconds, he went statue-still. This was the professional. The alpha.

I scanned the ridge. Nothing. Just rocks. Just heat shimmer.

Minutes passed. Sweat trickled down my forehead, stinging my eyes. I didn’t blink. Sniper duels are a game of patience. The first one to move dies.

I ignored the flies buzzing around my head. I ignored the screaming heat of the roof. I focused on the anomalies. Straight lines in nature. Shadows that didn’t match the sun angle.

There.

A glint. A tiny, momentary flash of sunlight on glass.

720 meters out. Extreme range for the conditions. He was tucked deep in a fissure at the northern edge of the ridge. He was hunting me. He knew I was on the roof. He was waiting for me to silhouette myself.

I shifted my aim, moving millimeters at a time. The wind was gusting now, 6 to 8 mph. At 700 yards, that wind would push a bullet nearly ten inches off target.

I had to be perfect.

I visualized the trajectory. The arc of the bullet fighting gravity and air. I aimed slightly above and to the left of that glint.

Trust the math.

I pressed the trigger. The rifle roared.

Flight time was roughly one second. It felt like an hour.

I saw the result through the scope. The glint disappeared as the enemy sniper’s scope shattered. The body behind it convulsed, rolling partially into view.

“Four,” I said, cycling the bolt. “You were good. I was better.”

That broke them.

The remaining four shooters lost their nerve. They had watched half their team die to an invisible enemy who didn’t miss. The psychological pressure cracked their discipline.

Target 5 broke cover, scrambling up the ridge line, trying to get to the reverse slope. He was running full tilt.

Range: 615 meters. Moving target. Sprinting.

I had to lead him. I tracked his movement, swinging the muzzle smoothly. Swing through, fire.

The round caught him in the lower back. It folded him in half. He tumbled down the slope like a ragdoll, his rifle clattering away.

Target 6 tried to be smarter. He moved tactically, bounding from rock to rock. Move, cover. Move, cover.

I waited. I didn’t chase him with the crosshairs. I aimed at the gap between two boulders where I knew he had to appear.

Come on… come on…

He stepped into the gap.

Crack.

The round took his legs out from under him. He hit the ground and didn’t get up.

“Six.”

Target 7 was at maximum range—790 meters. He was climbing a steep face, abandoning his weapon, just trying to survive.

This was a difficult shot. High angle. Long distance. The heat mirage was making the target dance in the scope.

I exhaled, emptying my lungs. I paused at the bottom of the breath, where the heart rate is slowest.

I squeezed.

The bullet arched across nearly half a mile of desert air. I watched him freeze, then slide. He fell twenty feet, landing in a crumpled heap at the base of the cliff.

“Seven.”

Silence again.

I scanned. And scanned.

“Operations, this is Carol,” I said into the radio. My voice was eerily calm, even to my own ears. “Seven hostiles down. One unaccounted for. Stay down.”

“Carol… Jesus Christ,” Warren whispered. “Status on the last one?”

“Searching.”

I swept the ridge. Nothing. No movement. No glint. No shape.

Then, Rachel’s voice cut in. “Carol! East Tower. I’ve got thermal on the last one. He’s dug in deep. 450 meters. Bearing 285. He’s in a depression. I can’t see him visually, but the heat signature is glowing.”

I swung the rifle. 450 meters. Easy range. But she was right—he was fully concealed by a rock shelf. I couldn’t see him.

I had two choices. Wait him out, or flush him out.

“Rachel,” I said. “I need you to mark him. Put tracer fire on that position. Don’t try to hit him, just show me where he is.”

“Copy. Engaging.”

From the tower, Rachel’s M4 opened up. Thump-thump-thump. The red streaks of the tracer rounds arced through the air, smashing into the rocks around the hidden sniper.

It spooked him. He thought they had him dialed in. He made the fatal mistake: he tried to return fire.

He popped up, swinging his rifle toward the tower.

I was already waiting.

The moment his head cleared the rock, my crosshairs were on him.

Crack.

The helmet shattered. He dropped his rifle and collapsed backward.

“Eight,” I said. “Clear.”

I didn’t move. I stayed on the scope for another three minutes, scanning. Watching for a twitch. A backup team. Anything.

Only when the dust settled and nothing moved on that ridge did I finally engage the safety.

“Operations, this is Carol. Eight targets neutralized. Observation Ridge is cold. You can move the wounded.”

I stood up slowly. My knees cracked. The adrenaline dump hit me all at once, making my hands shake. I looked down at the brass casings scattered on the roof. Eight casings.

Eight shots. Eight kills. 12 minutes.

I picked up the casings, pocketing them. I didn’t leave trash.

I walked back down the stairs. The building felt different now. Or maybe I felt different. Linda was gone from her desk.

I walked out into the courtyard. The silence was heavy, broken only by the groans of the wounded and the shouting of medics.

Owen Mitchell was standing near the door. He was covered in dust, holding his rifle. He looked at me as I walked out, the sniper rifle slung over my shoulder, the chest rig stained with sweat.

He looked at me like I was an alien. Or a monster. Or a savior. Maybe all three.

I walked past him toward the medical station. I needed to see who I had failed to save.

Warren was there, his hands deep inside Clayton’s chest cavity, trying to clamp an artery. He looked up as I entered. His face was smeared with blood—Clayton’s blood.

“You got them?” Warren asked, his voice rasping.

“All of them,” I said.

The room went quiet. Marcus, who was on a stretcher with a shattered hip, tried to sit up.

“I saw you,” Marcus whispered, slurring from the morphine. “I saw the muzzle flashes. You cleared the board, Carol. You cleared the goddamn board.”

“Who are you?” Derek Wallace asked from the corner, clutching his wounded leg. “Because you ain’t a logistics coordinator. Nobody shoots like that. Nobody.”

I looked at them. These men I had served coffee to. These men I had annoyed with paperwork.

“My name is Carolyn Spencer,” I said, my voice hollow. “Former SFOD-D. Counter-sniper. 156 confirmed kills before today.”

Owen gasped. “Delta? You were Delta?”

“I left three years ago,” I continued, staring at the blood on the floor. “I came here to get away from it. To stop being… this.” I gestured to the rifle.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Rachel asked, walking in. She looked shaken. “We could have used you.”

“Because I didn’t want to be used,” I snapped, the anger flaring up again. “I wanted to be normal.”

Before they could answer, the thumping of rotors filled the air. A heavy transport helicopter was coming in low.

“That’s the extraction team,” Warren said. “And the Regional Director.”

Bernard Walsh.

I knew Bernard. He was the one who hired me. He was the only one who knew the truth.

The chopper touched down, kicking up a sandstorm. Bernard Walsh stepped out, flanked by a trauma team. He didn’t look at the wounded first. He looked straight at me.

He walked over, his face unreadable.

“Report,” he said.

“Eight hostiles. Neutralized,” I said.

“I know,” he said softly. “I watched the feed.”

He leaned in closer, so only I could hear. “I put you here for a reason, Carolyn. I knew this place was a powder keg. I knew eventually, the supply girl would have to pick up a rifle again.”

I felt a cold chill that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. “You knew?”

“I needed a fail-safe,” he admitted. “And today, you worked exactly as designed.”

I wanted to punch him. I wanted to scream. But then I looked at Clayton, being loaded onto the stretcher. He was alive because I took the shot. I looked at Owen, Rachel, Warren. They were breathing because I stopped pretending.

“We have a problem,” Bernard said, turning to the group. “This wasn’t a random attack. We recovered a phone from one of the bodies. They were contractors. Pros. And they weren’t just here for the CEO.”

He pulled a tablet from his bag and held it up.

On the screen was a dossier. A photo of me.

“They knew you were here, Carol,” Bernard said grimly. “The target list was Marilyn Fitzgerald… and you. They came to kill the CEO, and they came to erase the only person capable of stopping them.”

I looked at my own face on the screen.

“So,” I said, racking the bolt on the M2010 one last time to clear the chamber. “They missed.”

PART 3

“We need to move. Now.”

Bernard Walsh didn’t waste time on pleasantries. The dust from the landing medical bird hadn’t even settled before he was barking orders. “Intel says that sniper team was just the opening act. There’s chatter on the secure bands. A secondary assault element is ten minutes out. Heavy weapons.”

The Operations Center was a hive of controlled panic. Marilyn Fitzgerald, the CEO who had started this day looking like she owned the world, now sat in the corner wearing a flak jacket three sizes too big. She looked small. Mortal.

“Spencer,” Bernard turned to me. “You’re lead on the extraction. Get Fitzgerald and her people to the second bird. It’s inbound now—ETA four minutes. Pilot says he’s got room for the VIPs and four operators.”

“I’m logistics,” I said automatically, the reflex still twitching.

“Not anymore,” Bernard said, locking eyes with me. “You’re the only one here who’s done High Value Target extraction under fire. Do you want the job, or should I give it to the kid?” He pointed at Owen, whose hands were still shaking from the adrenaline dump.

I looked at Owen. I looked at Marilyn.

“I’ll take it,” I said. “Owen, Rachel, Todd—you’re with me. Close protection formation. Diamond pattern. Marilyn in the center. If we take fire, you collapse on the principal and become human armor. Understood?”

“Hoo-ah,” Owen said, his voice finding a little steel.

We moved out to the staging area. The heat was oppressive now, a physical weight pressing down on us. The second Blackhawk helicopter appeared on the horizon, a dark insect buzzing against the sun.

“Stay close,” I told Marilyn. I grabbed the strap of her vest. “Do exactly what I say. If I say drop, you eat dirt. If I say run, you sprint until your lungs burn. Do not freeze.”

“I won’t,” she said. Her face was pale, but her jaw was set. “Get me out of here, Spencer.”

The Blackhawk flared for landing, kicking up a blinding storm of sand and gravel. The rotor wash screamed, tearing at our clothes. I signaled the team to move.

“GO! GO! GO!”

We ran. The distance to the landing zone was maybe eighty meters of open concrete. It felt like a mile.

We were halfway there when the East Tower blew up.

Not a sniper shot this time. An explosion. An RPG slammed into the concrete pillbox where Carl was providing overwatch. Debris rained down on the courtyard.

“CONTACT NORTH!” Rachel screamed over the comms. “VEHICLES! GATE CRASHERS!”

Through the northern perimeter gate, three pickup trucks—technicals—smashed through the chain-link fence. They were moving fast, kicking up rooster tails of dust. And in the bed of each truck was a heavy machine gun—a DShK.

“Take cover!” I shoved Marilyn behind a concrete planter box. The rest of the team piled on top of her.

The first technical opened up. THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP.

The sound of a heavy caliber machine gun is distinctive. It’s a rhythmic, terrifying bass drum. The rounds chewed up the concrete around us, sending jagged shrapnel flying. These weren’t precision rounds; they were sledgehammers.

“Air Two! Air Two!” I screamed into my radio. “LZ is hot! Taking heavy fire from the north! Can you engage?”

“Negative, Ground,” the pilot yelled back. “I’ve got civvies in the open. I can’t fire without risking the principal! Get her on board, and we can fly!”

“We can’t move!” Owen shouted, huddled next to me. “That gun is chewing us up!”

I peeked over the concrete. The lead technical was speeding toward us, the gunner swinging the heavy barrel toward the helicopter. If he hit the bird, it was game over. The fuel tanks would go up, and Marilyn—and my team—would incinerate.

The defensive team at the gate was trying to engage, but small arms fire just pinged off the truck’s improvised armor plates.

I looked at the helicopter. The pilots were spooling up, getting ready to abort.

“No,” I hissed. “Not today.”

The logistics coordinator would have stayed down. The logistics coordinator would have waited for help.

Carolyn Spencer didn’t wait.

“Owen! Cover the principal!” I shouted.

“Carol, what are you doing?!”

I didn’t answer. I broke cover.

I didn’t run away from the fire. I ran toward it.

It was insane. It was suicide. It was the only tactical option left.

The technical was forty yards away, barreling down the center lane. The gunner saw me—a lone figure sprinting at him—and swung the heavy gun toward me.

I saw the muzzle flash. I felt the shockwave of the rounds passing inches from my head. The air pressure changed as death flew by.

I slid on my knees, gravel tearing through my pants, bringing the M4 carbine up. This wasn’t the precision dance of the sniper rifle. This was violence of action.

I didn’t aim for the gunner. I aimed for the driver.

Pop-pop-pop.

Controlled bursts. Through the windshield.

The glass spiderwebbed. The truck swerved violently to the left. The driver slumped over the wheel.

The vehicle, now out of control and doing forty miles an hour, clipped a retaining wall. It flipped.

The sound of metal screaming against concrete was deafening. The truck rolled once, twice, crushing the gunner in the bed, and slammed into the side of the generator building.

The other two trucks saw the lead vehicle disintegrate and hesitated. That hesitation was all the helicopter door gunners needed.

BRRRRRRT.

The Miniguns on the Blackhawk opened up. A stream of tracers poured into the remaining trucks, turning them into Swiss cheese. They exploded in fireballs of gasoline and ammunition.

I stood up, panting, my weapon still trained on the burning wreckage. My knees were bleeding. My hands were shaking. But I was alive.