I take down one of the semiautomatic rifles. A Ruger Mini-14. Not bad. I used them in training. They’re pretty old now, and I much preferred the M4 carbine, or even the M16, but the Mini is okay. Looks like they come with thirty-round magazines.
I turn my attention to the shotguns: Remington 870 Magnums with magazine extension tubes mounted below the barrel to give you an extra two or three rounds. The handguns are Beretta M9s, guns I’ve used my whole adult life.
Ramirez yanks open the ammo cage and we start loading bullets into the Ruger magazines. He finds a couple of heavy-duty canvas bags and packs the rifles away, one after another, as we load each magazine to capacity.
We keep going until he can barely lift the bag, then start loading the second with shotguns, sliding the cartridges in, one after another, before packing them away.
I keep back a couple of guns, ready to load up around my person. I don’t know if Ramirez will have a problem with it, but I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. I keep a Ruger and shove an M9 in my pocket. It’s not comfortable, but knowing what’s waiting on the other side of the door, comfort is the last thing I need to worry about.
We’re finally ready. Ramirez lifts the heaviest bag himself and leaves the one crammed with shotguns and M9s to me. I slip the two carry handles over my shoulders, carrying it like a backpack. Then I put the strap of one of the shotguns over my right shoulder, letting the gun rest up against the bag, and pick up the Ruger.
I can feel the adrenaline surging through my system now. My whole body is buzzing.
“You ready?” asks Ramirez.
“Ready.”
I move to the door and crouch down.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Staying low so you don’t shoot me in the back of the head.”
“Oh. Right.”
I quietly unlock the door and take the keys out, slipping them into my pocket. Ramirez counts to three using his fingers and then yanks the door open.
I tense, but there’s nobody waiting on the other side. I wait, breathing slow and calm, every sense straining to pinpoint the enemy. I can feel Ramirez’s hulking form behind me. Can hear his erratic breathing, impatient, hungry for blood.
I move forward, still squatting. I edge the shotgun out and around the doorway.
The corridor is empty.
“Clear,” I say.
Ramirez knees me in the back. Not too hard, but enough to push me off balance.
“Keys.”
I stand up. He’s holding out his hand. I hand them over and he locks the door behind us, dropping the keys into his pocket.
He brings his Ruger up to his shoulder. “Let’s go kill some Bible-bashers.”
Thirteen2:00 a.m.
It feels like I’m back in Marjah.
The gun feels familiar, reassuring. It even smells comforting. Oil, metal, the faint tinge of gunpowder. I can almost hear the shouts of my unit, moving from burnt-out building to burnt-out building, villages hiding enemies around every corner. Shoot on sight, don’t pause, keep moving. Don’t look. That’s the trick. Don’t stop and look at what you’ve done. Who you shot. Because there are mistakes. There are always mistakes. But that’s war. You can’t stop. You do, you die.
Ramirez and I move slowly along the corridor outside the armory. I’m to the left, Ramirez to the right. I let my training take over. I’ve not felt this calm since Amy’s death. Move slowly. Long, even strides, swing around the corner, eyes moving with the barrel. An extension of who I am. Slow breathing. Eyes focused.
Another empty corridor.
No. I can hear something. I raise my arm, palm out toward Ramirez. He stops walking. I glance sidelong at him, gesture with two fingers toward the next turn in the corridor and start to move. Slowly. Breathe in, breathe out. Calm.
I can just see Ramirez in my periphery, but I concentrate on the turn up ahead. As I get closer, I crouch down. It’s a simple thing, but people expect you to be at head height. The split second it takes for them to adjust to a new target can be the difference between taking the enemy down and being shot in the face.
I pause three feet from the turn. I wait. Listening. I hear the sound of slow footsteps moving through the water. One person, trying to stay quiet.
I move to the wall, then quickly swing around the corner.
I instantly lower the gun and straighten up from my crouch.
It’s Henry.
“Henry? What the fuck are you doing?”
Ramirez appears around the corner, his gun still raised. I push the barrel down so it’s pointed away from the old man.
“Where did you get guns?” he asks in amazement.
“Never mind that. What are you doing here?”
“Are you following us?” growls Ramirez.
“No. I’m just trying to find a good place to hole up. Like you said I should.”
“Fuck this guy,” says Ramirez. “Come on. We need to get back to Castillo.”
He turns and moves down the corridor, heading back in the direction of the gym.
“Look, just find a room and stay hidden, okay?” I say, keeping one eye on Ramirez as he wades toward the end of the corridor.
“I will. Soon as I find…”
I’m not listening anymore. I’m staring at Ramirez.
He’s stopped just before the corridor turns to the left. His head is tilted slightly. Listening.
Shit.
I start moving. Henry says something, but I don’t hear it. Ramirez sprints around the corner—
—and the shooting starts.
The noise is deafening, the explosive crack of the Ruger rounds echoing back along the corridor. I pause at the corner, then quickly peer into the passage beyond.
I’m looking into a scene of chaos.
Most of Preacher’s crew lie dead in the water. There’s blood spatter all across the walls. Smoke drifts through the air, the smell of cordite strong in my
