1

Ben Shepherd struggled up the hill, alone but for his jabber-mouthed demons. He glanced down at his small campsite. It seemed to have barely receded in the last hour.

A dying fire. An old tent. A pickup truck with more miles on it than Rand McNally. Home, or close enough.

You’ll never make it. You’re weak. Just lie down and die.

He was only about 75 feet above the desert floor but gulping for air like an asthmatic running a marathon. Finish line nowhere in sight. Sweat poked at his eyes, and his damaged right leg whined as he forced it to churn through the cold sand and pebbles.

Give up. The only thing in front of you is more pain.

The clear, cool night air swallowed his wheezed breaths as he inched up the slope. The stars rained down their billion-year-old photons on his back. A scrawny coyote loped by the bottom of the hill, sniffed, and jogged on.

Ben paused, his ragged panting the only sound for miles. Sweat trickled through his unkempt beard, making it itch. Most Special Forces guys grew their hair and beards long, partly to blend in with the local populations they moved through. It was also a thumb in the eye to high-and-tight regular military that looked on SpecOps with a mixture of disdain and envy. But Ben had to admit that his hair and beard had migrated past “special operations chic,” through “unemployed,” and were well on their way to “homeless.” So what. He had more immediate concerns. For example, he was no longer sure if the warm liquid trickling down his leg was sweat or blood.

“Or maybe you just pissed yourself,” he muttered. That would certainly complete my transformation into shambling derelict, he thought. And talking to myself is just the icing on the cake.

He wiped his brow with his shirt sleeve and ran his hand through his shaggy black hair in frustration. Once as fit as an Olympic decathlete, the long recovery had sapped his strength and endurance. His still-damaged leg had made it impossible to get any kind of serious exercise for weeks. He wasn’t fat, exactly, although his flat stomach now sagged just a bit, to his disgust. His arms and shoulders were still strong, but he’d spent too much time recently on his back or his ass. His legs shivered under a strain that, six months ago, they would have borne without complaint.

Most of the other wounds had healed. The shrapnel buried in his right arm had been fished out, save for a sliver curled near the bone, too close to the nerves for surgeons to dig out. He had a laminated doctor’s note to present at airport metal detectors. The spray of hot metal that had grazed the side of his head had left an impressive claw mark (“Like Wolverine took a swipe at you,” his friend and teammate Eddie Dworsky had joked during Ben’s initial treatment in Germany) and had come within a fraction of an inch of blinding him. Just scars now, though. Mementos. Like photos from a foreign vacation where you couldn’t quite remember which cathedral that was in the background.

But the leg. The leg was still a mess. Less of a mess than it had been in the hospitals. Definitely less of a mess than when Ben had been sprawled in a swampy marsh just south of Karachi, with a terrorist who smelled like a goat’s asshole in his left hand and a ruined HK416 assault rifle in his right. The mess was gone. Covered, at least, with scar tissue, unless he really had torn something again. The tired soldier leaned against a boulder on the hillside in the desert.

Everything had gone right. Right . . . until it went wrong.

Satellite surveillance and thermal scans and human informants could only eliminate so much risk. You couldn’t predict the path of every rocket-propelled grenade. All things considered, his team had been lucky to escape at all. Just depended how you defined “lucky.” Three dead friends seemed well outside that definition. Ben struggled to push the memories away. Like the voices, they refused to go, like querulous drunks ignoring last call.

—

The initial stages of the assault had gone exactly as planned.

Gliding across the dark water under cover of night, the two Special Operations Craft-Riverine gunboats slipped through the shallow mangrove swamps outside the Pakistani coastal city of Karachi. The city itself was a disorganized hellhole of some 15 million people. Ruined shacks built on top of ruined shacks, the streets choked with garbage and human waste. Telephone and electrical poles spiderwebbed with homemade wiring used to steal service leaned precariously out into the streets and over homes. Kids played soccer around zigzagging cars and scooters, and the tantalizing aroma of grilled meat from shawarma vendors mingled with the stench of open latrines.

Ben had done business there before. So had most of his teammates. Tonight, though, they were heading south of the city.

Each SOC-R boat was loaded with an eight-man fire team of Navy SEALs based out of Dam Neck, Virginia, home to the Naval Special Warfare Development Group. Piloting each ship were four Special Warfare Combatant-craft Crewmen based out of Stennis, Mississippi. A midnight run a long way from home. That was the job, and they were good at it.

The 33-foot boats were weapons, too. Ben’s craft, SOC-R 1, was decked out with twin GAU-17/A six-barrel miniguns on the forward mounts, M240B light machine guns at the mid-mounts, and a thunderous aft-mounted M2HB .50 caliber heavy machine gun capable of vaporizing a rhino at 2,000 yards. SOC-R 2 was nearly identical, but with 40mm grenade launchers instead of machine guns at the port and starboard, about halfway down the hull. It was enough firepower to turn a city block into rubble and then grind the rubble to dust.

For now, though, silence was golden. The water jet propulsion system kept the boats free of the roots and rocks just inches below the surface (too shallow for a submersible insertion), and newly installed electric motors whispered softer than the ocean breeze. The original 440-horsepower diesel engines were there if needed, ready to drop back down into the water at the flip of a switch. Everyone on the team had chuckled when Ben had pointed out that they now drove hybrids to the office.

After twenty-three minutes of navigating the winding littoral maze, a spark of campfire appeared on one of the tiny, temporary islands scattered in the mangroves. The island was the shape of a lima bean and about the size of a football field. It came and went at the pleasure of the tides and storms.

Months of scouting and surveillance had brought Ben and his team to this backwater.

Asir flitted through this part of the world like a rumor of a ghost. The CIA had never before been able to calculate his location in real time; they were always weeks or months behind. He set his bombs or, worse, trained more bomb-makers, and disappeared into the shadows. A paid informant had finally paid off, and the terrorist had been traced to this spit of land.

Ben had no qualms about the nature of the men he hunted. They were terrorists. The sentiment back home that the US needed to pull back, stay home, power down the drones, and retreat into its fortress was wishful thinking. A fantasy. He’d picked up too many shredded body parts and catalogued too many mass graves to think of the men he hunted as anything but evil. They weren’t cowards. They’d stand and fight when cornered, and Ben and his men had been in some knock-down slugfests that had only ended when every man on the other side had stopped breathing. Physical courage or not, they were a scourge. Every member of Ben’s team was itching to finally bring Asir in.

The reports said Asir would spend the night on this slice of sand and vines before moving on in the morning. Ben’s team stationed in the region had received just a 30-minute briefing after being transported out to the nearest Navy ship via V-22 tilt rotor aircraft. That had been plenty of time, though. They all knew Asir’s face.

The SEALs lowered their night-vision goggles into place with a soft click as their craft approached the island. They could see six fighters huddled around the fire. Ben scanned the tangled greenery with the thermal detection technology of his goggles to check for additional targets loitering out of visible range, then toggled to live surveillance video being beamed from an RQ-170 Sentinel drone 20,000 feet above. The same video was visible on a six-inch flexible OLED screen on his wrist, but that screen turned off during insertion. Too bright. Six fighters it was. He gave a thumbs-up to his teammates, who were all doing similar surveillance. Thumbs-up back.

Thirty seconds to landfall.

The firelight from the camp was dim enough that both gunboats could land at the opposite end of the beach without being seen. The boats eased onto the sand with a sigh, and the SEALs slithered off, rifles raised with sound-suppressors and laser sights attached. The infrared laser beams, invisible to the naked eye, were clear through the SEALs’ eyepieces. The sharp lines cut through the warm air toward the target. They could easily have killed Asir from here, but orders were to take him alive.

The sixteen commandos crept forward on the thin slice of sand. They were more exposed on the beach, but the marshy interior was a slow, noisy slog under even the best of conditions; landing on the opposite side of the island had been ruled out almost as soon as it was suggested.

Asir was easy to pick out among the five other ragged fighters with AK-47s scattered at their feet. He was taller, with a shorter beard. The smell of cooking fish wafted from the fire, and the men laughed at something Asir said as he waved his hands in the air.

Ten feet to the edge of the light and attack. Ben gripped his rifle tight.

Five feet.

Half a dozen flares shot into the sky from the mangrove forest and surrounding swamp. Automatic weapons fire burst from the tree line and Asir bolted into the jungle as his remaining men dove for their guns.

Trap, Ben’s mind registered, even as his body reacted. He dropped one of the guards with a pair of shots. They only needed Asir alive. The other SEALs were also moving and firing. They cut down the remaining guards before they could open fire and then swiveled to the barrage coming from the jungle.

Ben, Dworsky, and the rest of his team peppered the forest with machine-gun fire and grenades, marching forward in trained unison into the sprung trap without a word. Hunkering on the open beach would be suicide, and retreating back to the boats would be failure. They caught only occasional glimpses of figures appearing and disappearing behind the roots and leaves, but Ben and his team knew from experience that the wall of lead they were dumping into the underbrush was having both a physical and psychological effect. They’d keep their heads down or they’d lose them. But Asir was running, and they didn’t have much time before he slipped away again.

The gunboats roared as their pilots brought them online, their big diesel engines taking over, the need for stealth gone. Enemy boats were also coming to life on nearby islands, floodlights stabbing the darkness, searching for Ben’s team, passengers firing wildly, hoping to get lucky.

In seconds, it was complete chaos.

“SOC-R 1, cover north,” Ben barked into his headset. The boat zoomed off to the north side of the island, the direction in which Asir had fled. Its guns roared and belched as it sped off, and one of the enemy skiffs was torn apart like it had driven into an industrial shredder.

Ben and his squad fanned out into the dense jungle while the remaining SEALs doused the campfire with a quick scoop of sand and set up defensive positions against the incoming boats. It wasn’t a long-term solution. They had minutes, maybe, before the makeshift armada of rickety dinghies and fishing vessels overwhelmed them. They had to find Asir, and fast. Ben’s green vision was now teaming with incandescent activity.

The CIA and ONI—the Office of Naval Intelligence—had been scoping this island for almost two days. The terrorists must have taken cover before then, hiding under insulating blankets under the hot sun. In a corner of his mind, Ben admired the dedication. They were certainly patient and ruthless. They were still poorly trained, sloppy fighters, though, and that time crouched in the hot muck had probably slowed their reflexes further. The SEALs were efficient, calm, and deadly, picking off the terrorists as they popped up, conserving their ammo and anticipating each other’s actions, the product of thousands of hours together on training grounds and battlefields.

Ben shoved through the vines and roots, his rifle sweeping with his gaze back and forth, knowing without looking that his men were doing the same.

The opposite side of the minuscule island was soon in sight and Ben knew he’d have to abandon the search. If Asir beat the SEALs to the water, the canals in many places were no more than 20 yards wide. He could be dog-paddling to freedom right now. All their training. All their million-dollar equipment. All for nothing.

Fuck.

His radio crackled in his ear.

“What do you think, boss?” Dworsky, a Master Chief Petty Officer, whispered.

“Fuck, that’s what I think.”

A patch of vines about five meters ahead swayed slightly against the breeze. Ben took two large steps forward, raising the butt of his rifle in stride. He brought it down on the jumble with a crunch, and a man’s voice cried out. Ben swung his rifle on his back and drew a machete from a scabbard at his side. He sliced through the vines, reached in, and yanked out the bleeding, yelling Asir from the small bog in which he’d been trying to conceal his body heat.

He flipped Asir on his stomach, bound his wrists with plastic zip ties, yanked a strip of duct tape over his mouth, pulled a hood over his head, and lifted him to his feet. “All teams, Caliban is secure. Rally home.”

Dworsky grinned in the darkness. Ben nodded back.

He sheathed his machete and swung his rifle back into his hand. There was no beach on the north side of the island from which to quickly board the gunboats, so the SEALs turned around and double-timed it back south.

A figure popped out from behind a tree, the barrel of an AK-47 rising. None of the Americans carried that weapon, so anyone toting it was an enemy.

Ben kicked Asir’s legs out, dropping him to the ground. As he dropped to one knee, three 7.62mm bullets tore over his head. Asir squirmed, trying to scramble away. Ben lunged sideways, landing on the terrorist’s back and pancaking him into the mud. Asir was stunned for a moment and Ben drew a bead on the fighter who had just ambushed him. The silenced rifle barked twice and the attacker fell dead. Ben reloaded, stood up, pulled his prisoner to his feet, and resumed their march to the beach.

The beach was a maelstrom, like the most violent rave party ever staged. The second fire team was already loaded on SOC-R 2 and was now pouring a wall of lead into the approaching enemy ships. The pop-pop-pop of small arms fire was punctuated by the concussive boom of grenades. Smoke swirled across the scorched and cratered sand. The explosives had also set off a few small fires in the trees, and two or three enemy boats were on fire as well. It was too wet for anything here to burn for long, but for the moment, it was hell on earth. The thermal goggles were useless now, and Ben yanked his up. More flares snapped into the air. Shadows leaped like dancing devils, spawned from gunpowder and phosphorus.

Ben dropped Asir again, knelt on his back, and from behind a tree snapped off several shots against incoming enemy boats. Almost impossible to think, to plan, in the chaos. Bullets whizzed and snapped through the trees. The flashing light from the explosions and fires was as confusing as it was illuminating. There wasn’t much time left to get out of this. He had to get control of the situation, direct his men, if they had any hope of getting out alive.

Two other SEALs, Jimmy Bradford and Dexter Bryant, emerged from the thick tangle of vines about 20 feet to Ben’s left.

“Jimmy, Dex, set up a position on the beach so we can exfil Caliban.”

The two men obeyed without hesitation, sprinting to the cover of a pile of driftwood on the shore that the terrorists had been using as benches before the team had arrived. They fired as they moved, their rapid, controlled shots punching at the flurry of ships buzzing through the small bay.

Once they were in position and SOC-R 1 was heading toward the beach, Ben stood up, hoisted Asir, and stepped from the tree line. As he did, two enemy ships zoomed in. One of the ships held half a dozen men, all carrying AK-47 rifles. The other boat looked empty.

A flare shot up out of the full boat, and Ben was exposed in the white glare. The fighters spotted him and his hooded prisoner and immediately opened fire, trying to kill Asir rather than have him taken alive.

Bullets flicked at the sand around their feet. One round nicked Asir’s shoulder and ripped out a chunk of blood and meat. The terrorist yelped and fell to the ground as Bradford and Bryant peppered the light skiff with lead. Ben struggled to get Asir back on his feet but his blood made him slippery and holding on to the thin, struggling man was like trying to wrestle an eel.

Bradford turned to yell something at Ben, and just then a bullet caught him directly in the mouth. He tumbled backward in a spray of teeth, blood, and bone. He was close enough that Ben could hear him still trying to gurgle whatever he had intended to shout, his mangled jaw seeming to move in multiple directions at once. Bryant was distracted for a moment, and three bullets slammed into his torso in a neat diagonal line. His body armor stopped the bullets, but the force spun him around and he went down on one knee.

Ben, still struggling with Asir, fired off three quick shots that he knew went wide. It took all his training not to abandon his prisoner and bolt out to the aid of his injured comrade. Another SEAL, Terry Smith, a bulldozer with biceps, had arrived back on the beach as SOC-R 1 was cutting apart the boat with the fighters who had shot Bradford and Bryant.

“Terry, get Jimmy and Dex on SOC-R 1,” Ben yelled. “We’re leaving now.”

The big man moved without a sound toward his fallen comrades.

Ben glanced out at the seemingly empty enemy boat just in time to see a figure pop up from where it had been lying flat, out of sight. The man hoisted a long slender tube to his shoulder—a rocket-propelled grenade—and fired.

Even as the rocket was cutting through the air, the gunners on SOC-R 1 demolished the ship. Ben opened his mouth to scream a warning at Smith and tensed to jump away, but the hooded Asir stumbled into Ben, his legs wrapping around the American’s ankles, knocking him toward the grenade.

The RPG smashed and detonated in the middle of the three men. Sand, shrapnel, and blood sprayed across the beach, and the concussive force knocked Ben’s breath from his lungs. SOC-R 1 opened fire again, its miniguns spinning a hellish whirlwind. Tens of thousands of rounds spun off into the night, chewing up the enemy fleet.

Ben’s right eye had gone red and then blind with blood, and a dull ring was the only sound he heard, despite the ongoing fury around him. His entire face was slick with blood. How much belonged to him, Asir, or the other SEALs, he had no idea. Spilled milk, Ben thought blankly. No use crying over it. He tried to stand and fell back, his leg shredded and wet.

Through his one good eye he gazed at his useless rifle, flecked with metal shards, and wondered how much worse the damage to his leg would have been if he hadn’t been holding the rifle along his side. There was surprisingly little pain but his muscles felt slow, almost drugged. The sand was red. Then black, as the light from the flares faded. Then red again. It was hypnotic. Black and red and back again. More boats were coming in, too many for the small SEAL craft.

But he hadn’t let go of Asir, who seemed unharmed. Bradford, Bryant, and Smith were crumpled in a pile, twisted at inhuman angles and half buried in sand. Bone jutted from skin, and Ben wasn’t sure whose it was. The three men had been in that spot on orders. On his orders. They’d done what they were told, and now they were jammed into this alien dirt in a sort of grotesque and instant funeral. The terrorist squirmed, nicked but still alive.

Bomber’s luck. Bomber’s luck.

There was too much blood seeping from his body to stay conscious much longer. Perhaps they’d all be buried on this black beach together. He blinked, weakening. Bullets flicked sand. A pair of enemy boats whirred toward the island.

The OLED touchscreen on his wrist was still intact. Maybe he still had enough strength for that. He tapped it with his finger, feeling the shrapnel in his right arm shred the muscle into ground beef. The RQ-170 Sentinel drone’s surveillance screen switched to the attack screen of a pair of armed MQ-8B Fire Scout drones.

The bulbous, unmanned helicopters each sported a pair of Advanced Precision Kill Weapon System guided missiles. With blood now oozing across his face into his one good eye, Ben watched the thermal images of the approaching boats on his screen, then tapped each outline once. The last of his strength gone, he slumped back in the sand, waiting for whatever end would come. He’d hold down Asir as long as he could.

Searchlights stabbed outward from the boats toward the contingent of SEALs now firing in almost every direction. Ben heard the heavy machine guns on the enemy boats begin to rattle, kicking up sand in a furious march up the beach toward the Americans. Then the Fire Scouts were there, buzzing in over the trees and unleashing their missiles. They screamed through the air, each pair plowing into one of the boats, dismantling them in a staccato series of bone-rattling detonations that left temporary craters in the water.

His teammates appeared from the red haze, roughly grabbing Asir and Ben, lifting both into SOC-R 1. He watched dimly as Bradford, Bryant, and Smith were also dragged into the boat.

They left behind weapons, fragments of their gear, and dark streaks in the sand. Pieces of themselves. Leave no man behind—at least, not all of him. I’m sorry. Ben was embarrassed at the emptiness of the emotion even as it filled his mind.

I’m sorry.

The ships roared into the night, dodging and cutting and unloading their firepower, shattered fragments of enemy boats tossed in their wake. Machine guns chattering like rain.

Ben slumped down, staring at the hooded terrorist. On the other side of the boat, three dead soldiers, three dead friends. They’d trusted him and now their open but sightless eyes stared at him, seeming to ask what else they could do . . . as if they hadn’t done enough. He couldn’t stand to return their gaze, but was too weak to break it. Their bodies bounced with every wave, their heads nodding. What else? What else? The .50 cals pounded away, covering their escape with thunder and lightning. The ships finally emerged from the dense cluster of islands and sprinted for the open Arabian Sea and the amphibious assault ship USS Wasp.

The sun was coming up.

From far away, he heard Nick Parson, another teammate and longtime friend, calling his name, yelling at him to stay awake.

The three dead men finally flopped to the side, seeming to look back the way they’d come . . . at the black, churning water and distant fires still burning. At least they were in the boat. Not left behind. Not lost in the water, sinking beneath the waves. Not like long ago.

Ben closed his eyes.