Page 122 of Deadly Strain

Goddamnit, she wasn’t going to lose another friend, anotherbrother, to these insane people. She didn’t know what she could do exactly to expedite the situation, but she was going to do something.

The familiar weight of her Beretta brought with it a strange sort of calm. A surreal peace the eye of a hurricane brings, though you can see the frenzied conflict all around you, and you know it has the power to kill you.

She checked the magazine. Full. Slid the safety off and walked with soft knees toward daylight.

A metallicpop, followed by a hailstorm of more, had her crouching down and searching for the source. No one was in sight. No echo. Not in the cave. Outside.

The gunfire continued on and off with small bursts every few seconds. Sharp and Smoke might be moving around, trying to pinpoint where the enemy was. Or the enemy might be trying to pinpoint where they were. Either way, this search-and-destroy was taking up too much time.

She eased over to the narrow mouth of the cave. This entrance wasn’t wide, only enough space for a single person to squeeze through sideways. She peered out cautiously, taking her time, letting her gaze check every nook and cranny of the surrounding rocky terrain. No one. Not even her own guys.

She eased out and crouched down to listen.

More gunfire bounced around and she froze in place as it echoed through her brain. Images of the firefight from the IED flashed past and superimposed themselves over her sight.

She wasn’t crouched near the mouth of the cave, but behind the open door of an armored vehicle, the bodies of her nurses beside her on the ground. Her patient yelled for help, but she was immobile, terrified by what she knew was coming.

The boy soldier.

Killing him had injured her in ways she never expected. A constant acid drip of guilt and self-loathing burning a hole in her soul. She was living it again, powerless to stop it, unless she acted first. Her mind recalled the first moment she saw Joseph Cranston, but instead of his young unlined face, she saw his father’s weathered skin and ornery expression.

“You’re going to find the fucker who’s fucking with us and kill him,” he yelled at her, and the mental shout shot adrenaline into her system.

“Yes, sir.”

A pebble bounced off the rocks above her and off her shoulder. She glanced up and didn’t see anything at first. After a moment, she realized that an outcropping about twenty feet above her was too straight. It was a rifle muzzle and the shooter was firing every few seconds or so, in bursts echoing weirdly, making them sound like they came from somewhere else.

She knew Sharp’s weapon. She knew Smoke’s too. They looked nothing like the long straight barrel above her.

She had to be sure. She couldn’t kill a man without making certain he was the enemy.

Could she get up there without alerting whoever was firing that weapon?

Grace took a few moments and plotted out the likeliest route up and found there were a couple of options. Neither was easy nor safe, but she didn’t have a choice. If she left the shooter up there and he was an extremist, he was just going to shoot her in the back anyway.

Climbing the rocks was harder than she expected. Her boots were fine, it was her hands that needed protection. She picked up several cuts before she arrived at the top of the outcropping. No time to bandage them.

Out came her Beretta again and she advanced on the man lying prone about fifteen feet away. He was focused on shooting at a target below him.

He wore the traditional clothing of an Afghan male, and the skin of his hands was the color of caramelized sugar.

She needed to see his face. Be certain he wasn’t a friend, but foe. “Hey.”

The man turned, looked at her, rolled to his side, lifted his weapon and...

She fired. One to the head. One to the heart. Her feet carried her to him and she checked his carotid pulse. Nothing. She’d killed. Again.

Below her in the valley beneath the outcropping, more gunfire echoed.

The extremist had binoculars. She grabbed them and found Sharp. She couldn’t see Smoke, but that was no surprise. Sharp was probably drawing fire, so Smoke could circle around and attack from the rear.

Sharp was drawing more fire than he knew. There was a group of three men attempting to come at his position from the rear.

The Afghan man’s rifle looked even older than she first thought, but it was firing, so why not use it?

She grabbed the weapon, lay down, checked for ammo, and sighted down the scope. It hardly made a difference, but then again, this wasn’t a precision instrument like the weapons Special Forces soldiers use. All she really wanted to do was cause some consternation for the men hunting her man.

If she killed one, well, that would be a bonus.