“Sniper at nine o’clock,” Bone warned. “Keep your heads down. Over.”

  Then Bone was off and running a zigzag course toward the bus. Could the sniper see him? Fuck yes. But even the best marksmen can miss moving targets. Especially those that zig and zag.

  Bone circled the remains of a pillar, approached the bus from behind, and spotted the ladder. It led to the roof where bundles were secured to side rails.

  Bone knew the sniper could feel the motion as he climbed the ladder, spotted an open vent, and hurried forwards.

  A bullet passed up through the roof and came within an inch of hitting his right foot. Bone aimed his M4 down and fired. A voice cried out causing the noncom to fire again. Silence.

  Now Bone had what he needed. A stable platform from which to scope the battlefield. He dropped into the prone position. His M4 was equipped with an M150 Advanced Combat Optical Gun sight. And, thanks to the additional elevation provided by the bus, Bone could glass things his team couldn’t. That included the asshole holding a radio to his mouth. Their leader? Hell yes!

  Bone fired three shots. All of them struck their target. The man jerked spastically, appeared to throw the radio away, and collapsed.

  It took less than thirty seconds for the dead leader’s followers to cease fire, pull back, and run toward the surviving vehicles. That included the bus.

  Suddenly Bone had five targets running straight at him. He fired, and put two tangos down, before the M4 ran dry. It was faster to pull the nine rather than reload the carbine. And the runners were a lot closer by then. So first come, first served.

  The first man seemed to stumble, tried to recover, and collapsed.

  The second fugitive took a bullet to his left shoulder, jerked, and kept coming. Bone shot him in the head.

  The third runner took a dive, was rewarded with two bullets in the back, and lay still.

  As Bone hurried to reload his weapons, he realized that the sound of firing had stopped. Motors roared to life as the surviving tangos hurried to escape, and Bone had every reason to let them go.

  He tried to contact the two lookouts on the hill. Nothing. Dead? Probably. Damn, damn, damn.

  As Bone returned to the plaza it soon became apparent that three Rangers, two Chinook gunners, and Polat had been killed. Eight people in all.

  No, Bone thought, as he spotted the burned-out wreck on the north side of the plaza. The helo was destroyed. Make that nine people KIA.

  Bone felt a stab of guilt. They’d be alive had we returned to base. That’s on me. And Polat.

  Soto appeared. “Good work, Sergeant. I saw what you did.”

  Bone shrugged. “Thanks. But it wasn’t enough.”

  “Don’t blame yourself,” Soto replied. “You were down in the pit when the shit hit the fan.”

  With the gold, Bone thought. Would it buy me some peace? No. But it would pay for everything else. “We were about to lift the last pack of gold when they attacked,” Bone told her. “Do we have a radio that can reach Tabqa?”

  Soto shook her head. “Polat had a sat phone. But we don’t have the access code.”

  “Okay, Bone said. “I suggest that we bring the last load up, and spread it around. We’ll hike out.”

  Soto made a face. “Screw the gold.”

  The pilot was about to elaborate on that theme when Alvarez joined them.

  “Hala’s missing Captain. I saw her take off toward the southwest right after the bus arrived.”

  “Goddammit,” Soto exclaimed. “Okay, make the rounds. Pull the bodies together. Take their tags. Photograph the location. And prepare to hike out. I’ll chase Hala down.”

  ***

  Given what Hala Omar had been through, Soto didn’t blame the young woman for taking off. It was a stupid thing to do however, because Hala would be vulnerable out on her own, and it seemed reasonable to assume that ISIS was searching for her.

  As for what Soto’s superiors would want, well, that was obvious. Hala could tell them all sorts of things about Toplin—including details about his personality, his health, and his associates. All of which would make the Intel nerds deliriously happy.

  So, with nothing more than her M4, nine mil, and a bottle of water Soto took off.

  The pilot wasn’t an experienced tracker, far from it, and didn’t need to be.

  Hala’s tracks were plain to see. A light breeze was blowing from the west however. And, when Soto paused to examine a footprint, she could see that windblown grains of sand were already starting to fill in the depression. Still another reason to hurry.

  The terrain consisted of large areas of sand, interspersed with islands of hardpan, which refused to record footprints.

  But, as soon as Soto arrived at the next sandy area, she was able to find the trail again. There were ruins to circumvent, along with natural obstacles, and the combination forced Hala to veer this way and that. Where was Hala going? Did she have a plan? Soto didn’t think so.

  The ruins of what might have been a Christian church blocked Soto’s path. Hala’s footprints angled to the right.

  Rather than follow them Soto chose to climb a series of limestone blocks which delivered her to a flat overlook. Soto raised the M4, peered through the sight, and scanned the area ahead. And presto! There Hala was. A tiny figure in a huge landscape.

  I need to catch up, Soto thought, as she jumped from block to block to land on the ground. Who knows what’s going on back at the cavern? Hala and I need to return as quickly as possible.

  The sun was high in the sky and the temperature was rising. Soto allowed herself a swig of water before returning the bottle to her knapsack. The she began to run.

  Now that Soto knew where Hala was, it was no longer necessary to constantly scan for footprints, and the pilot was free to proceed at a steady jog. I’m out of shape, Soto decided. Too much seat time. I need to work out.

  Soto tried to maintain situational awareness as she ran, but that was difficult to do. After ten minutes or so she spotted Hala in the distance. The pilot was short of breath, but the sighting was enough to reenergize her.

  Hala turned to check her backtrail a minute later, spotted the oncoming figure, and attempted to run. But the baby slowed her down which allowed Soto to catch up. Her breath came in short gasps and made it difficult to speak. “Hala… Stop… Let’s talk.”

  Hala was breathing heavily as well. She sat on a rock. “What do you want?”

  “I want you to return with me. We’ll protect you… And, after we make contact with Allied forces, they will take care of you and your baby.”

  Hala frowned. “In return for what? Information about President Toplin?”

  “Yes,” Soto replied. “I understand your reluctance. But consider this: Does Toplin care about your wellbeing?”

  “No,” Hala admitted. “He sent men to kidnap me from Almakan Alaman. (The Women’s Place.) And it’s possible that they killed my parents as well.”

  “I rest my case,” Soto said. “My government can protect you from Toplin’s killers. No one else can do that.”

  Hala was silent for a moment. Then she nodded. “I will go with you.”

  “Good,” Soto replied. “Let’s get going. It’s getting late, and the sun will set in a few hours.”

  After establishing radio contact with Bone, and bringing the noncom up to date, Soto led Hala back to the cavern. Frequent rest stops were required. And the sun was just about to fall below the western horizon as they neared the cavern. “Red-Dog-Nine, this is Wizard. We’re five out. Don’t shoot us.”

  “Welcome back,” Bone said. “Weapons tight.”

  As Soto led Hala onto the debris strewn plaza, and toward the flickering light of a fire, she saw that things had changed. The surviving machine guns had been repositioned just outside the cavern. The hollow-eyed survivors were armed with a mix of enemy and Allied weapons; some were asleep. A pile of packs stood waiting.

  “We have seven people left,” Bone said. “Not counting Hala. So, if each one of us carries thirty-five pounds of gold, we’ll be able to take the coins with us.”

  Soto stared at him. “So that’s what comes first? The gold?”

  “No, of course not,” Bone said defensively. “I thought you’d want to know, that’s all.”

  In an obvious effort to change the subject, Bone said, “We pulled a mattress out of the bus. For Hala.”

  The bus, Soto thought. I forgot about the bus. We have transportation.

  “That was thoughtful of you,” Soto said. “Thanks. Do we have any food?”

  “Not much,” Bone replied. “The MREs were on the Chinook.”

  “And water?”

  “We have some,” Bone allowed. “That includes the bottles we took off the helo, and the supply we found on the bus.”

  “Who were those people?” Soto inquired. “And will they return?”

  “They’re bandits,” Bone said. “Or mercenaries. They weren’t carrying business cards, so it was hard to tell. As for coming back, no, I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure I killed their leader. But, if they do, we’re ready.”

  “Good,” Soto said. “Let’s give Hala some food, and grab some shuteye. Did you set a watch schedule?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Add me to it. And I have a suggestion if I may.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Bring the bus into the cavern.”

  Bone made a face. “Sorry, ma’am. My bad.”

  “No prob,” Soto replied. “It’s been a long, ugly day.”

  ***

  The Syrian Desert, southeastern Syria

  Caliph Saleh ibn Tariq ibn Khalid al-Fulan was an ascetic. As such he liked to spend time in the desert, any desert, where modern conveniences were stripped away—and Allah’s voice could be heard more clearly.

  The fact that there was no cell service for the Allies to tap into, no hills for spies to watch from, and no rooftops for snipers to use were adjunct factors. And important ones.

  Al-Fulan’s encampment consisted of a large tent for his party, surrounded by smaller tents occupied by staff, and minor functionaries like Commander Ferran Mostafa.

  It was al-Fulan’s habit to work late into the night. So, when the summons came, it was well past 9 p.m.—and delivered by a teenage boy. “The Caliph will see you now.”

  Mostafa was sitting on a rug with legs crossed, reading Men in the Sun, on his Kindle. He closed the cover and stood. Mostafa felt a painful emptiness at the pit of his stomach.

  Not because he lacked food, but because Hala Omar had been taken from him in the city of Afrin. A loss that al-Fulan was well aware of. As were members of the caliph’s staff who treated Mostafa with open contempt. “I’m ready.”

  “Follow me,” the boy instructed, and turned to go. There was no need for a guide. The caliph’s tent was lit from within and shadows could be seen moving about inside.

  No, the messenger was a formality, a part of the complex protocols that al-Fulan insisted on.

  Glittering stars were scattered across the sky, the air was cold, and a generator purred somewhere nearby. A heavily armed guard searched Mostafa before he was allowed to enter the tent where a staff member was waiting. “Assalamu alaikum.” (Peace be upon you.)

  “Alaikum salaam.” (And unto you, peace.)

  The man waved Mostafa forward. “You may approach the Caliph.”

  Al-Fulan was seated at the center of the tent within a U-shaped assemblage of low tables. They were stacked high with piles of letters, binders full of organizational records, and hand-kept ledgers. None of which could be accessed by foreign governments via the internet.

  Mostafa came to a stop in front of al-Fulan. “Greetings eminence.”

  The caliph was writing a letter. A minute passed before he signed it and looked up. “Tell me something, Ferran Mostafa. Twenty-six of our brave ghazis (warriors) died in the city of Afrin. Yet you are alive. Why?”

  Mostafa struggled to maintain his composure. “I would like to believe that it was Allah’s will.”

  “And why would Allah deign to protect a nothing such as yourself?” al-Fulan inquired.

  Mostafa swallowed. “The woman Hala Omar was taken from me. I admit that. And I regret it. But, thanks to the electronic tracker hidden in her clothing, I know exactly where she is. With Allah’s blessing, and with your permission, I will recapture her.”

  Al-Fulan suffered from back pain, and was sitting in a chair from which the legs had been removed. It creaked as the caliph allowed himself to lean back. His eyes were dark, like pools of ink, and Mostafa struggled to meet them.

  Finally, after what seemed like an hour, but was only a minute or so—al-Fulan spoke. “You claim that you can recapture Hala Omar. Do so, and all will be forgiven. Fail, and you will be proclaimed as a Takfir (an apostate). Will a member of the faithful kill you? I don’t know. That will be up to them. Now go.”

  Mostafa felt a surge of fear. If he succeeded then good. But if he failed every hand would be turned against him. “Thank you, Eminence,” Mostafa said as he backed away. “I will find Hala Omar, contact the Russian, and sell her. I will bring the money to you.”

  Al-Fulan nodded. “May Allah guide and protect you.”

  ***

  The Dead City of Abaz

  Corporal Levy turned the key. The engine coughed, caught, and died. He had better luck the second time. “Okay,” Bone said. “All aboard! Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  Soto was fifty feet away, taking one last look at the temporary graves, while thinking about those who had been lost. Jones, Polat, a gunner named Hines and all the rest.

  Tears trickled down Soto’s cheeks, and she was careful to wipe them away, before heading for the bus. She was the last to board.

  Finally, Soto thought, as she sat next to Hala. The nightmare is over. All we have to do is head west, find a main highway, and stop an Allied vehicle. The rest will be easy.

  The seldom used dirt road had lots of potholes, and was anything but straight, but soon delivered the bus to the remains of a wooden bridge. Judging by appearances the structure had been destroyed by a seasonal flood and left unrepaired. And that was to be expected in a war-torn country.

  Had they been traveling in something like an MRAP (Mine-Resistant Ambush Protected vehicle), it would have been possible to cross the dry wash. But that was impossible due to the bus’s forty-foot-long wheelbase and lack of all-wheel drive.

  That meant the passengers had two choices. They could get out and walk, or follow the gully to another bridge, and hope it was intact. Due to Hala’s condition, and how heavy the gold was, it was an easy decision to make.

  Bone thought the team should head north, and away from the heavy combat in the south, and Soto saw no reason to disagree.

  So, Levy turned to the right. The terrain was mostly flat, which made it possible to proceed with rear wheel drive, but there were a lot of obstacles. Rocks for the most part, but ruins too, which forced Levy to swerve back and forth.

  Then it appeared. An east-west dirt road that led across a steel frame bridge. Tires rumbled on wooden planks as the bus crossed to the west side of the river bed. The passengers cheered. Shortly thereafter the engine quit and refused to start.

  Soto declared a bio break while Alvarez opened the engine compartment in hopes of making a repair. The crew chief delivered her report fifteen minutes later. “The starter is shot,” she announced. “We’ll have to walk.”

  That was when the argument began. Soto wanted to leave the gold. “It’s heavy,” Soto complained. “And not counting Hala, each of us would have to carry something like thirty-five pounds of coins plus weapons, ammo and water. That’s absurd.”

  “No,” Bone argued. “It’s our duty to take the gold with us. Who knows what will happen to it if we leave it behind? This place is lousy with tangos, bandits, and scavengers.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Bone added. “We’ll try to take the gold out. And if that turns out to be impractical, we’ll hide it. What do you say?”

  Soto could have said, “No.” She outranked the rest of the survivors, and could theoretically order them to bury the gold. But Soto feared that Bone’s hold on the Rangers was so strong that they might rebel.

  So, Soto agreed to the compromise, confident in the knowledge that the team would soon grow tired of carrying the gold, and agree to leave it behind.

  “All right,” Soto said. “But we’ll do it my way. We’ll walk until 1100 hours, find some shade, and take a break until 1600. Then we’ll walk till 2000 hours.”

  Bone opened his mouth as if to object, appeared to reconsider, and closed it again.

  It took an hour to divide the gold, water and ammo into seven packs, each weighing approximately fifty pounds. Perhaps the Rangers were used to carrying that kind of load, but Soto wasn’t, and hoped the insanity would soon end.

  Bone was on point as the trek began. Levy was walking drag, and the rest of the party was strung out in between. Bone set a brisk pace at first. But Hala couldn’t keep up. So, the noncom found himself too far out in front.

  Soto could tell that Bone wanted to complain, wanted to order Hala to walk faster, but couldn’t. That forced the Ranger to reduce his speed accordingly.

  But if Hala was slow, she was also steady, and the team was roughly two miles from the stalled bus when 1100 rolled around. A large outcropping of rock threw a deep shadow, and judging from the detritus scattered around, had been of use to other travelers as well.

  Soto’s shoulders were sore by then, her back hurt, and she wanted to drink an entire bottle of water all at once. Rather than do so she took three sips before making the rounds.

  Levy and Alvarez had cleared rocks away to create a small clearing for Hala. The fugitive thanked them, promptly curled up into the fetal position, and went to sleep.