The Shadow Patrol

open his arms, and the front of his gown was black with blood. His mouth was a hole in his beard. He would be dead in an hour unless one of the Stryker medics down the hill could stanch the bleeding.

“Yield,” Alders said. In English. Reminding Wells that he was an American. An American soldier. In his eyes, Wells saw the truth of the surrender. No trick this time. Suddenly the Makarov weighed a thousand pounds. Wells had never killed an American.

“Tell me the truth. Why you were here.”

“You know why.”

“Say it and I’ll let you live.”

“Coleman Young. Please.”

Alders had given up any claim to mercy with the false surrender. He’d given up any claim when he’d come here to murder Young. Wells raised the pistol.

“You said—”

I lied, Wells thought. He squeezed the trigger. Twice. In the chest. Alders slid against the side of the streambed and his dead eyes accused Wells.

In the silence, Wells could hear Francesca’s ragged breathing.

“Alders,” Francesca said from just beneath the ridgeline. Wells couldn’t see him or the Dragunov.

“Francesca. Tell me who you’re working for.”

“You gonna let me live, too?” Francesca giggled. “That what you’ll do for me?”

“I’ll do you a bigger favor. Kill you now. No trial, you don’t spend fifty years in Leavenworth. Go out like a man. Your parents, your buddies, they never know you’re a traitor.”

Wells reached into his gown for his second grenade. Would Francesca move left or right along the ridgeline to protect himself from more grenades? Or would he stay close to the streambed for the most direct shot with his rifle? Yes. He’d stay close, try to end this now. Wells grabbed his second grenade from the gown. His last grenade. His extra Makarov magazines were back in his bag, too. He was down to two rounds.

“Fair enough,” Francesca said.

Wells pulled the pin on the grenade. If he left it short, the ridgeline would protect Francesca. If he put too much on it, it would slide down the hill. Wells didn’t throw it. He rolled it down the dry streambed, hard. Then he jumped out of the streambed and dove down behind a rock and waited for the explosion.

It came too soon. The grenade had blown before falling off the ridgeline. Even as the echo died, Francesca yelled, “Missed.” Wells raised his head and saw Francesca standing up, spinning, holding a rifle chest-high, where he could get an angle and fire up the streambed. Francesca snapped off three quick shots before he realized Wells had moved. But Wells had no angle either, and with only two rounds left, he couldn’t afford to miss. He waited, expecting Francesca to hide under the ridgeline again.

Instead, Francesca stepped forward. He went to one knee in the streambed next to Alders’s body. He swung the Dragunov slowly left to right, covering the trees and rocks on both sides of the streambed. From where he waited, he couldn’t see Wells. But Wells still had no angle on him, and they were only about twenty-five meters from each other, and Wells would have to give up his cover to move.

“Americans dressed like Afghans killing each other with Russian guns,” Francesca said. “How about that?” Wells had the crazy thought that Francesca sounded like Keith Jackson calling college football. “I know you’ve only got a couple rounds left in that peashooter, Johnny. Make ’em count.”

Wells reached out, felt the edge of a rock with his fingertips. He reached for it, couldn’t get to it. He inched down, quietly. Let Francesca talk. The Dragunov swung side to side, never stopping. Francesca was waiting for any move, any sound.

“I heard Alders surrender. How do you shoot a man, he’s got his hands in the air, he’s begging for his life? Tell me that.”

Wells got his hand around the rock, found it was the size of a baseball. Just right.

“Tell you what, Johnny. I’ll tell you who I’m working with. And when you meet him in hell, you tell him the Shadow sent you there. And be sure to ask him about the missiles, will you?”

Moving only his arm, Wells flipped the rock high into the air. He didn’t care where it landed as long as it reached the other side of the stream, the downhill side. It bounced off a tree and landed on the scree with a crack, and Francesca swung the Dragunov around toward it—

Wells came to his knees and lifted the Makarov and squeezed the trigger twice, knowing these were his last two rounds, knowing that if he missed Francesca would finish him—

He caught Francesca once in the chest and once in the belly. The shots spun Francesca sideways and he fell against the side of the stream beside Alders. He tried to bring the Dragunov back around on Wells, but couldn’t. The muzzle dragged uselessly on the ground. Wells stood, jumped down, walked to Francesca, knelt beside him. The shots had caught him high and low. Ugly wounds, probably mortal. Francesca put a hand on his stomach and looked dumbly at the blood trickling through it.

“Who you working for?”

“You think you’re any different than me, John? That what you think?”

Yeah, somewhere on the way, you stopped caring who you killed. Wells heard American voices in the distance. When they got here, they’d see the Dragunov and the AK and three guys dressed like locals. They’d open up long before Wells could explain he was American, much less the truth of what had happened. Weston would understand, of course, but Weston was no friend. Wells had to get off this ridge now. Ride Francesca’s bike back down the hill and go from there.

“Finish it off,” Francesca said. “Don’t be a bitch.”

“Last time. What’s his name? You call him Stan, I know that, but what’s his name?”

“Wrong question, John. The right question is why? And the answer is, Why not? Why not, why not, why not.” A breath between each repetition, as if the two words held Francesca’s whole being.

Wells reached down for his knife. Then stopped himself. He wouldn’t give Francesca the pleasure.

“Do it.”

“Not without the name.”

Wells stood, stepped away. Francesca went silent. Then spoke one last time.

“Lautner.”

Wells turned back.

“Pete Lautner is Stan. Now do it.”

They locked eyes. Francesca nodded and Wells knew he’d spoken true. Wells pulled his knife and knelt in the dirt and lifted the blade high.

The voices on the hill were louder now. Wells wanted to offer some final words. But none came. He couldn’t wait. Francesca closed his eyes. And Wells grabbed his hair and pulled back his head and plunged down the knife.

EPILOGUE

DOD IDENTIFIES ARMY CASUALTIES

The Department of Defense announced today the death of two soldiers who were supporting Operation Enduring Freedom.

Chief Warrant Officer William F. Alders, 34, of Linwood, W. Va., and Chief Warrant Officer Daniel L. Francesca, 33, of Orlando, Fl., died in Zabul province, Afghanistan, of wounds suffered when their unit was attacked with small arms fire. They were assigned to the U.S. Army Special Operations Command, Fort Bragg, N.C.

The release was standard, though a careful reader might notice that it used the passive voice to describe the incident: “their unit was attacked,” not “insurgents attacked their unit.” The families of Francesca and Alders were told only that they died in hand-to-hand combat after