CHAPTER 1

Zoe Nichols stood in the center of the standoff, her presence the only thing that kept the twenty-two men from opening fire. One wrong move and it'd be over.

She'd already seen enough death.

Staff Sergeant Davies had his M4A1 rifle centered on a tall, bearded man whose black eyes burned with defiance.

"Nobody fucking move," Zoe commanded. "Davies! What happened?"

"Weapons crates, Ma'am. Intel suggests the Taliban's been hiding their weapons in local towns. Hayes spotted them loading a truck, asked them to open up."

He moved his aim point as another fighter arrived. "They drew down instead. You showed up just after." His knuckles shifted around the rifle grip. "Major, you're in the line of fire."

One fighter shouted in Pashto, finger drifting toward his trigger guard. The other villagers followed suit, their rifles swinging toward the Marines.

"I know exactly where I am." Zoe held up her palm as an Afghan motioned his weapon at her. She stared at him until the man's eyes dropped. "Now we dial this back before someone does something stupid and everybody dies."

A drone buzzed low overhead. The Afghans jerked their rifles skyward in fresh panic. Her Marines shouted fresh commands in response.

PFC Randy Adler rounded a mud-brick building, communications pack on his back. A small wire ran from the pack to his earpiece.

"Major Nichols!" Randy caught himself, glanced at the armed standoff. "Ma'am, sorry. Col Evans is on the horn."

"Spit it out, Adler."

"He says to seize the weapons cache," he said, extending the handset.

"Evans isn't here. I am." Zoe glared at the circling drone. "And tell him to get that fucking UAV out of here."

What Colonel Evans didn't understand with his two weeks of in-country experience and West Point pedigree, was that these villages were always an operational nightmare. It was easy to give orders from an air-conditioned tent while sipping hot coffee.

To the staff in the command center, this was just another episode of predator porn for their collection. The UAV did another pass, spooking the Afghans.

PFC Adler keyed his radio. "Request Recon pull back."

Six more Marines rounded the corner behind Lance Corporal Prado, weapons ready. All fourteen members of her MARSOC team were now present. Randy dropped the radio mic and aimed his rifle. Zoe could sense her men were ready to crack.

A figure emerged from the shadows of a doorway. The man's henna-dyed beard was a shock of red against his serious demeanor and deep lines etched around his mouth.

The Village Elder's dark eyes swept across the Marines.

Zoe studied the two lines of armed men. Her Marines held their positions. The Afghans gripped their ancient rifles. The man with the beard approached her, stopping just two feet away.

Everything balanced on her next move. This was it. The point where she made a command decision. The brass would dissect this later. Probably remove her from command. Only her Marines mattered at this moment.

Without breaking eye contact with the Elder, Zoe found her helmet's chinstrap. Click. The Kevlar hit the ground with a dull thud. The body armor came next. Forty pounds of ceramic plates lifted over her head and dropped beside her helmet.

Zoe stood exposed. The thin uniform offered no protection. A whiff of air cooled her sweaty back as she stepped forward, hands visible and empty. Just a woman gambling everything on faith in a country where trust got you killed.

"Major?" Randy's voice carried that edge young Marines got under pressure.

"PFC Adler, I have this."

Every Marine in the square watched their commander stand exposed, gambling their lives on a gesture. Davies' finger twitched near his trigger as the drone's shadow passed high overhead. Its camera was recording every second.

The Elder scrutinized her, searching for the slightest hint of a trick. His weathered face remained stone, but Zoe caught the slight tilt of his head.

"This land devours all who come," the Elder said, his English heavily accented. "You remove your armor. Are you not afraid?"

Zoe met his gaze. The sun beat down, sweat trickling between her shoulder blades. "Fear is a choice," she said. "This is about life. Yours."

The deep lines on the man's face softened just a fraction before the wariness returned. "They return with many guns. My people die if I refuse them." His gnarled fingers pointed to the horizon. "You must leave. Now. Before they come back."

"This is your home." Zoe kept her voice level. "We're here to protect you."

She lowered her extended left hand, palm down, a slow, deliberate press toward the earth. It was a signal they'd drilled a hundred times. Stand down.

She heard a rustle of gear as most of her men obeyed, though their hesitation was clear. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Corporal Davies. His hand flexed around his rifle grip, elbow shaking. His weapon remained aimed.

Zoe’s head snapped towards him. No words were necessary to convey her command. Davies' jaw tightened, then he slowly lowered his rifle. His finger, she noted, still hovered near the trigger guard.

The Elder watched, unconvinced. "They will return."

"Then we face them, shohna ba shohna," Zoe replied with the Dari phrase learned during her pre-deployment cultural briefs.

"Shoulder to shoulder? No," he said with a dismissive wave.

"You fight," Zoe said, "I fight with you."

The square fell silent except for a goat's distant bleat and the drone's whine.

The leader's serious face searched for the trap, the betrayal that experience had taught him always came. He looked at his men, then back, scowling.

His hand extended slowly. The fingers were thick with calluses, nails cracked from decades of working the unforgiving land.

Zoe grasped it. His grip tested hers, and she gave as good as she got.

The Elder's look held the uncertainty of a man who'd seen too many promises. It held no warmth, no sudden trust. He turned toward his home, his red beard a slash of color against the tan bleakness. At his barked command, the Afghan men lowered their rifles. Davies moved in, securing the weapons crates as the villagers backed away, eyes still suspicious.

Zoe bent to retrieve her body armor and helmet, brushing off the dust. "Hayes, take position on that rooftop," she ordered, pointing to a flat-topped home. "Martinez, west corner. I want eyes on those hills in ten minutes. Have the Recon Corpsman take a three-man to the other side of town."

The Marines moved with purpose. They knew the drill. Secure the perimeter. Establish overwatch.

PFC Adler approached, sat-phone in hand. Dirt streaked his face. "Major. Sorry to interrupt."

"Tell Evans I'll call with a sitrep after we secure the perimeter."

Randy glanced around, lowering his voice. "No, ma'am. It's your husband on the sat-phone. Said it was urgent."

"What?"

The internal panic hit her. Amanda's birthday. She was supposed to call this morning before patrol. Greg must have hunted her down through the command post.

"You did the right thing," she said, putting a hand on his shoulder.

Her Marines, still within earshot, glanced over, their curiosity piqued. Some pretended not to notice, but she caught Davies watching from his position. Even in a combat zone, personal calls were sacred.

Zoe took the clunky puck. "It's my daughter's birthday. Thanks, Randy."

She turned away from the men, seeking a measure of solitude. The open door of a nearby Humvee offered the best option, its armored bulk offering a semblance of privacy. She slid into the driver’s seat.

Zoe pressed the speaker button hard, suddenly eager to hear familiar voices. "Greg. Can you hear me?"

"I have you." A rainstorm raged in the background. "You staying safe?"

Through the filthy window, Zoe watched her Marines at work. Hayes was working his way to the rooftop. Martinez moved between buildings, checking corners as Davies and Prado dragged the gun cases to a corner.

"Absolutely," she said. "Just counting paperclips in the supply closet."

Greg's laugh crackled. "You're a terrible liar."

A high voice broke in. "General Amanda reporting, Mom!"

Zoe closed her eyes. God, she missed that giggle.

"Mission update: Seattle is amazing. We just finished unpacking the kitchen. We're going out for my birthday tonight. Dad's letting me pick."

Zoe smiled, the first genuine release in a week. "At ease, General," she said. "Glad to hear you're getting settled. And Happy Birthday."

"Dad says we can paint my room any color I want," Amanda continued, words tumbling out in breathless excitement. "I want it purple. Like my giraffe. And we're going to Mount Hood tomorrow."

"Rainier," said the other voice.

"Dad says you can see everything from the top!"

"That's great, sweetie. I can't wait to see pictures." Zoe’s heart ached with longing.

"Maybe we can go again when you come home next week," Amanda chirped. "Just us three!"

An awkward silence filled the Humvee.

"Zoe? You still there?" Greg's voice had an edge. He knew her too well.

"I'm not coming home next week."

"What?" Greg's voice was tight. "Did those personnel assholes cancel another rotator home? This was only supposed to be six months. I swear…"

"No," Zoe cut him off, "it wasn't them. It's my unit, Greg… I'm extending for three more months."

The silence stretched as the admission tore at her. She could picture Greg's face, the way his jaw shifted back and forth when he fought to control his temper.

"Damn it, Zoe! Did you ever consider asking me before you just decided on this? Or is this another one of your unilateral command decisions?"

"Greg, please…"

"No. I'm sick of this. Being the only parent while you do whatever halfway around the world. We're trying to build a life here, and you're choosing them over us."

"These are my men. I owe them."

"They're not your daughter!" Greg's voice rose. "Amanda cries herself to sleep every night. She needs her mother, not some ghost who calls once a week if we're lucky."

Amanda's small voice broke through. "Why, Mom? Why aren't you coming home? What about my birthday party?"

The question tore through her. How could she explain to a nine-year-old that some promises were impossible to keep? "It's complicated, sweetheart."

"But you promised!" Amanda accused.

The Humvee's windshield exploded inward in a shower of safety glass. The sat-phone flew from her hand as Zoe instinctively ducked, her body reacting before her mind could process. Glass fragments peppered her face and hands. Blood welled from a dozen tiny cuts.

A second shot. A vicious crack-thump, ripped through the seat where her head had been a second before. Foam padding erupted in a synthetic cloud.

"Mommy!" Amanda’s terrified voice screamed.

Zoe slammed her hand down on the sat phone, clicking it off. The last thing she heard was Amanda's frightened cry. Her other hand grabbed a rifle on the seat. One family for another.

"Contact right! Contact right!" she shouted, kicking open the door. "Defensive positions!"

The village square erupted. Muzzle flashes winked from behind rock outcroppings on the west hillside. Her team responded instantly, returning fire.

Zoe emerged from the Humvee, firing two short bursts from her M4, using the door for cover. Two large-caliber rounds hit the door. One punched through, bringing with it a shard of metal that embedded in her leg.

"Davies, suppress that incoming!" She ignored the injury as she spoke. "Martinez, bound left, provide cover fire!"

Zoe rolled away from the Humvee, keeping low as she sprinted to cover. Another round tore through the door where she had been just a few seconds earlier.

"Adler, give me numbers!" she said into her short-range radio.

"Two shooters, western ridge!"

Zoe pointed two fingers at the rise, then held up a fist. Her team read the signals instantly. Davies shifted his fire, rounds sparking off rocks. Martinez raced forward, using a mud wall for cover.

Randy pressed himself against the pitted stone wall, controlling his breathing. Three-round bursts, just like training. Brass casings clinked at his feet. Rounds chewed holes in the wall near his position as return fire sought him out. The kid was steadier than he probably felt.

Villagers scrambled for cover. An old man stumbled, fell, crawling behind a pile of stacked rocks.

"Flank left!" Zoe barked. "Suppress and advance!"

She used a narrow alleyway between two mud-brick buildings for cover. The rhythm of outgoing M4 fire and the sharper crack of incoming rounds created a deadly cadence.

A bullet struck the wall beside her ear. She didn’t flinch. No time.

Movement on the ridge. A figure shifting position, rifle barrel glinting. Her weapon tracked upward. Three rounds. The figure disappeared behind the rocks.

Lance Corporal Thompson bucked backward like a mule had kicked him. Blood spewed from his chest, coating the tan fabric as his weapon fell useless from his grasp. Thompson stood for a second regaining his balance, then collapsed hard, arms splayed across the filthy street.

"Thompson!"

Zoe bounded to his side, her knee sliding across the dirt. “Corpsman! Corpsman! Corpsman!” she bellowed.

No medic. Damn it. The corpsman was with the team she'd sent to secure the other side of town. Thompson would bleed out in the next thirty seconds if she didn't act. A couple of bullets whizzed nearby, but she remained at her soldier's side.

Zoe's palm slammed over the hole in Thompson's chest. Blood pulsed between her fingers, in pace with his heartbeat. His breath came in shallow pants, eyes wide with shock.

"I got you," Zoe grunted. "Stay still and let me do this. Won't lie, gonna hurt like hell."

He nodded, gripping her arm for comfort. She ripped open his IFAK pouch, put one QuikClot packet between her teeth, and tore open the other. The gauze went deep into the wound. Thompson's back arched, but the bleeding stopped.

"Look at me." She packed more in, pressing hard. "My Marines don't quit."

Thompson focused on her. "No, Ma'am."

"Good," she told him. "Got it stopped. You'll be home in no time."

His lips moved. No sound came out.

"We can't stay here. Gotta move you," she said.

Zoe grabbed his drag handle, hauling him behind a stone barrier. His boots left twin furrows in the dirt.

"Davies, status!" Major Nichols called, rejoining the fight.

"Just the two shooters, Ma'am! But they have good position."

Zoe snatched up her rifle. "Ramirez. Take Alpha, flank right! I'll take Bravo, go right up the belly."

She gathered her three men and sprinted to the edge of town.

The flanking maneuver was textbook. Alpha team, led by Sergeant Ramirez, caught the first sniper in a crossfire. He dropped without a sound. The team searched the area for any additional shooters.

Bravo team, under Zoe's direct command, moved methodically up the hill. They soon found the second shooter huddled behind a boulder, out of ammunition.

Major Nichols took a step back as her men hauled the insurgent over the rock, throwing him to the ground. He was all sharp angles and jutting bones, dressed in rags that might once have been white. Twelve years old, maybe. But the hatred burning in his face was ancient.

It didn't take long for her Marines to drag the shooter back into the square of the village, tossing the malnourished soldier at the foot of a wall. The squad formed a loose circle. The men of the village gathered behind them.

Davies looked at Zoe. She was a bloody mess. Crimson streaks leaked from the cuts on her face, and a dark stain spread from the metal still embedded in her leg. "Jesus ma'am. You okay?"

"Fine," she said curtly. She stared at the young man. The evacuation helo would be here any minute, and she needed to make a decision before it arrived.

"What do we do?" Adler asked.

"We should waste him right here," Davies said. "Little bastard shot Thompson. Can't let him live."

The Elder reappeared nearby, showing no surprise at the boy's age. "Your man is right," he said in careful English. "He will bring more men."

The boy spat at Zoe's feet. When had such hatred consumed him? Was it put there, or created?

Ramirez rushed forward and struck his head. He fell and then pushed himself up immediately, face half covered in sand.

"Hey, Ramirez! Back off," she scolded. The soldier backed away.

Zoe saw both truths. The weapon he would become. And the child he still was. That stubborn jaw reminded her of Amanda's defiance when told she couldn't have more than ten stuffies in bed.

Everyone wanted blood. They just needed her permission.

If she let the boy go, he could report their position and numbers. Bring back more fighters, just as the Elder predicted. But if they killed him here, in the street, were they any better than the evil that they sought to eliminate?

"Let him go."

The Marines stared at her with open hostility.

"Major?" Randy asked. "Won't he just bring back more fighters?"

"I said release him." Her voice was flat, final. "We don't kill children. We're Marines."

She met the boy's hate-filled gaze, then looked at the two Marines holding rifles on him. They grimaced and stepped back.

The boy didn’t bolt. He stood there, chest heaving, glaring.

Confusion warred with the anger. Then, he took a hesitant step. When nothing happened, he took another step, then three more. Still alive, he turned and ran, bare feet slapping against the sand as he sprinted into the hills.

The Elder watched until the boy vanished. He stared at Zoe. "Mercy to your enemy is cruelty to yourself." His red beard waggled as he spoke.

"Ma'am," Randy interjected.

"What is it?" Zoe asked.

"Colonel Evans is on the radio. He wants you on that life flight. Two mikes out."

Zoe’s stomach clenched. "Why?"

"He says they can see your injuries on the feed," Randy replied. "He sounded…unhappy. The GO's watching the feed with him. Wants a SITREP… in person."

The familiar whump-whump of rotor blades was on the horizon. Zoe shielded her eyes, tracking the dark specks that grew larger against the bleached sky. A pair of Air Force HH-60 Pave Hawks.

One descended rapidly, its shadow racing across the village. Its twin circled overhead. A door gunner swiveled his mini-gun along the ridgeline, looking for a target.

The first helo flared hard, nose high as the tail wheel hit first. The front slammed down in a storm of dust and gravel. A brown curtain of rotor wash sent debris flying, forcing everyone to turn away.

Davies and Prado hustled Corporal Thompson toward the open door. His boots dragged. A pair of PJs jumped out to meet them halfway, already assessing their patient.

They loaded him within seconds. Just another wounded Marine. The flight medic started attaching IV lines as the gunner waved at Zoe to board.

Major Nichols stood motionless, rifle hanging loose in her grip. The sat-phone call rushed back. Amanda would be crying. Greg would be pacing in a kitchen she'd never seen, calling every number he had, trying to reach her.

"Thompson's gonna be fine, Ma'am." Randy appeared beside her, trying to project confidence. "Right?"

Behind him, the Marines moved with purpose, reinforcing their positions, checking sectors of fire. The locals watched with a mixture of gratitude and suspicion.

The Pave Hawk's gunner leaned out, making urgent gestures.

"Curious thing," she shouted over the rotors.

Randy looked confused. "What's that?"

"Duty." She offered no further explanation.

Zoe strode towards the waiting helicopter. The crew pulled her aboard as the turbines whined, pitching higher. A PJ immediately started taking her vitals.

The Pave Hawk lifted, banking sharply. She watched Randy shrink below, his figure already blurring in the swirling dust. The escort helicopter fell into formation beside them as they nosed over toward the forward operating base.

The village contracted, just another cluster on the horizon. Soon it vanished entirely, swallowed by an endless desolate landscape.