Then he saw the streambed and the mulberry bushes.
THE STRYKERS were so big that only two could park in the central plaza. The third and fourth stopped at the edge of the village, a hundred meters away. Francesca focused on the two in the center of town.
“You ready for this?” he said to Alders. “Blue on blue?”
“It is what it is.”
The Dragunov’s scope was marked with chevrons and graphs that formed a primitive but effective range- finding system. Francesca marked distance to target at 525 meters. The black burqas were limp on their clothesline. The breeze had stopped.
The lead Stryker’s ramp inched down. One by one, men stepped out. Francesca watched through the scope.
Weston was fifth man out of the Stryker. Soon as his feet touched dirt, he started directing traffic. He sent two men to the eastern edge of the square, spread the rest around the Stryker. They were loose and relaxed, Francesca saw. No one expected trouble. For just a moment, Weston looked up the ridgeline, like he was trying to spot the nest. But his eyes slid by Francesca and kept right on going.
Francesca moved to the second Stryker. The ramp had dropped. Two men out already. A third emerging. Rodriguez. So Young was in there, too. Young was in Rodriguez’s squad. He’d be out in a matter of seconds.
Even better, here came Weston, walking over to Rodriguez. “Three for the price of one,” Francesca said.
“It is what it is,” Alders said again.
Francesca wondered whether Alders thought he had some profound wisdom there. Because he didn’t. But Francesca didn’t argue. They’d come to the silent moment before the lightning. Francesca steadied his hands, slowed his heart. He thumbed down the safety, put his eye to the scope, slipped his index finger through the trigger guard.
And he waited.
Young walked down the ramp, took a half step onto the muddy ground. Francesca’s finger tightened on the trigger—
Young turned and walked back into the Stryker like he’d forgotten something. Rodriguez stepped toward the ramp. He seemed to be yelling. Probably asking Young what the heck he was doing, telling him to get his butt out of the truck.
Then Francesca felt as much as heard a presence behind them. A scuffling on the dirt, leaves crackling. He couldn’t explain exactly how he knew. But he
“Check the six,” he whispered to Alders.
“What?”
“Now.”
Alders didn’t argue. He reached for his AK, pushed himself to his knees, turned—
And then everything happened at once.
WELLS CLIMBED to the streambed and angled down. Following the draw would give him the best chance of spotting the nest without being seen. Forty meters from the bushes, the streambed dipped between two refrigerator-size rocks. Wells walked between them. Another step and he could see almost to the ridgeline. A brown blanket. And two pairs of sandaled feet side by side. His first glimpse of Francesca and Alders, not face-to-face but face-to-foot.
Wells took another step, raised his pistol. And suddenly the man on the right sat up and turned.
Wells pulled the trigger, a quick one-handed shot. He didn’t have time to aim. The bullet caught Alders high in the chest, close to the shoulder, and pushed him down. Wells fired again, missing. A geyser of dirt exploded up from the streambed. Alders grunted in pain and kicked himself backward toward the ridgeline, cutting off Wells’s angle.
Wells stepped forward, but Alders put up a couple wild shots so Wells couldn’t charge. Wells shifted his aim to Francesca as Francesca pulled in his legs. Wells fired twice and missed both times. Only one for four now. Alders returned with the AK. This time the shots were close, and Wells threw himself down to the streambed. At this range, even a half-aimed burst could connect.
“Drop it!” Wells yelled.
Alders answered with another three-shot burst. Wells raised the Makarov, fired two shots blindly. Six gone now from the pistol’s ten-shot clip. But he needed to keep Alders and Francesca down. Wells had them pinned and facing the wrong way. They wouldn’t want to go over the ridgeline and expose themselves to the soldiers in the village unless they had to. But if Francesca could get himself and his rifle turned around, he’d have a serious firepower edge.
“Last chance!”
No answer. Wells raised himself to his knees, shifted the Makarov to his left hand. With his right, he reached into his gown for a grenade.
ALDERS WAS HIT BAD, Francesca saw. The right side of his gown was already inked with blood. His big front teeth were chomping at his lower lip as he tried to keep quiet. Francesca had no idea how Wells had tracked them here. The answer hardly mattered, not now.
Down in the village, the Strykers had taken cover. If Weston had any sense, he would delay as long as he could, give Francesca a chance to work this mess out for himself. But eventually he would have to send a couple squads up here to search the ridgeline. Francesca needed to be gone by then. He would have a tough time explaining why he was up here carrying a Russian sniper rifle.
He had to take out Wells and get back into the Arghandab. Let Weston and Rodriguez run his corpse over with a Stryker until it was unrecognizable. Meanwhile Francesca would get back to the grape hut and call in a medevac for Alders, tell some story about how he’d gotten pegged while he was out taking a piss. It wasn’t a great plan. It left Young alive. But Young had no evidence and wouldn’t be big on talking anyway, not after he saw his buddy Wells get creamed.
“You win,” Francesca said. He squeezed Alders’s hand. “We surrender.” Wells was too close for Francesca to tell Alders what he planned. Even a whisper would carry. He’d just have to hope Alders got it. Alders winked. Good enough. Alders turned and pushed himself up with his good hand. Francesca grabbed the Dragunov and got ready to launch himself over the ridgeline. He would spin and stand and fire through the mulberry bushes. He wouldn’t have much of an angle and he’d be shooting uphill. But he had a sniper rifle against a pistol and that should be enough.
ALDERS STOOD UP unsteadily from the streambed, every breath a struggle. His right arm dangled uselessly. He wasn’t holding the AK. Francesca was still hidden. Wells was on his knees, holding the grenade low and close against his body so Alders couldn’t see it. As grenades went, the RGO-78 wasn’t great, a modern version of an old Russian design. It weighed about a pound and looked like an oversize green egg with a ridge in the middle. If Wells could drop it within five meters of Francesca, it would be lethal.
“Francesca!” Wells yelled.
“He’s coming,” Alders said. “I promise—”
Alders was talking too much, covering, and then Wells heard Francesca scrambling at the edge of the streambed. Wells put the grenade to his teeth and pulled the pin and released the handle and tossed it up, aiming for the ridgeline. The grenade arced high, end over end, desperate and beautiful as a field goal try with no time left. Wells knew as soon as he threw it that he’d left it short.
“Grenade,” Alders yelled. “Grenade!”
Alders dove. Wells went down, too. These RGOs kicked fragments thirty meters.
