Mojave Desert, Southern California
Lying on his belly behind an outcropping of rocks, Reid squinted into the scope of his rifle. He was sweating like a pig in his dirt-encrusted ghillie suit and didn’t even want to think about how he smelled after three days in hundred-plus temps. He shifted his body. His legs were numb from hours of observation, but he still felt the gravel chewing through the suit and into his skin.
“You got plans after this, hermano?” asked his spotter, Rafael Garcia. They’d met during basic eighteen months ago and had done two tours together. Six months after returning, they’d both earned the coveted Scout Sniper hog’s tooth they proudly wore around their necks.
“Nothing special,” Reid answered. “You?”
“Oh yeah. Big plans, considering this is our final weekend of freedom and the last chance to score some ass. You need to come along this time.”
Reid squinted through his riflescope at the village below where the USMC had re-created a near-perfect model of their mission theater, complete with hundreds of Arabic speakers who wandered the streets and haggled in the staged marketplace. It was quiet below; maybe too quiet.
“No can do, Raf. I’ve got phone calls to make and a ton of shit to take care of before we deploy.” In truth, he was still licking his wounds.
What pissed him off most wasn’t so much getting dumped, as he’d half-expected that, but her chosen method. That’s what really sucked. Rather than a letter or even a phone call, she’d sent a Dear John text on New Year’s Eve: Can’t wait for u anymore. :( So sorry Reid. Take care. Tonya.
After two years together, she hadn’t even allowed him the satisfaction of tearing up a letter. Five months later, he still wasn’t over it. After seeing so many guys dumped during deployments—and now having experienced it himself—he’d banished any thought of women from his mind.
“C’mon, hermano,” Garcia cajoled. “You’ve still got all next week to take care of that shit. You gotta get some while the getting is still good. We’re looking at eight straight months of chaqueta.”
“Chaqueta? Jacket?” Reid translated with a frown.
“No, man.” Garcia grinned, fisting his hand and mimicking jacking off.
“You speak English as well as I do. Why can’t you just use it?” Reid asked.
“You’re not in Wyoming anymore. You need to learn some Spanish. Hispanics are the fastest growing minority. Especially here in SoCal. Who knows? We may even outnumber you gringos before the end of the century. Just think of it as broadening your cultural horizons.”
“Yeah? Well, I think my cultural horizons are gonna expand real soon, considering where we’re headed.”
“And the hijos de puta madres over there will kill you for touching their women. Shit, they don’t even let you look at them. For the next eight months, we’ll all be doing punetas.”
Garcia was right. The coming months would be almost monastic. No sex. No booze. A supreme test of both celibacy and abstinence. Most of the grunts would spend the next week drinking ’til they puked and fucking anything that moved. He didn’t judge, but that didn’t mean he wanted to be part of it.
“Tell you what, esé,” Garcia continued, as he raised his binoculars, “if you go this weekend, I’ll even take you someplace where your cowboy ass will feel right at home.”
“In Southern California?”
“Yeah. We have rednecks in tejanos out here too. Mierda,” Garcia swore softly. “Insurgent sighted at two o’clock. He’s got an RPG shouldered.”
“Fuck. Can’t see him.”
This was the final test of a grueling, sleep-deprived seventy-two hours, and he was about to fail. Reid pulled back from his scope to blink the dust out of his eyes, then scanned for his target again. “Sighted,” Reid confirmed with relief. “Got the son of a bitch in the crosshairs.”
“Too slow, hombre. He’s already taking cover. Looks like he’s going to launch from behind that concrete wall.”
“The hell he is.” At twelve hundred yards, it was the longest shot Reid had ever attempted, but his bipod supported the deadliest weapon he’d ever fired. The M82A3 with fifty-caliber rounds could certainly handle the distance and even a concrete wall. Hell, it could probably take out a fucking tank from a mile away.
“Wind call?” he asked.
“Steady at seven miles per hour. No cross breeze,” Garcia replied.
Reid doped his scope.
“Push it left point two,” Garcia instructed.
“You sure about that?” Reid had estimated point three. He was rarely off, but Garcia knew his shit. He’d proven to be the best spotter in their class.
“Yeah, I’m sure. You gotta trust me.” Garcia echoed his own thoughts, but Reid was accustomed to relying on his instincts. It was hard to turn that over to someone else. “Tell you what,” Garcia continued, “if you miss the mark, you’re off the hook. If you hit, you’re the designated driver.”
To any other guy that kind of bet might provide incentive to miss, but Garcia knew him too well. Reid took pride on never missing a shot and had an entire trophy room of big game back in Wyoming to prove it.
“All right by me.” Reid made the necessary adjustment and honed in once more on his target, a silhouette behind a concrete wall that stood over half a mile away.
One shot. One kill. The scout sniper mantra. It was time to take it.
Reid inhaled slow and deep. Exhaling, his finger tightened on the trigger. He held the next breath for a three count and then slowly and deliberately squeezed. The recoil rammed his right shoulder. The discharge blasted his ears. Three seconds later, half the concrete wall disintegrated before their eyes.
“Mierda!” Garcia lowered his spotting scope with a grin. “That thing’s a fucking cannon. So, are we gonna take a taxi or do you wanna drive?”