Page 2 of Traitor

When Tate joins with his team, I turn and signal that we should round up and go back to base. The mission may have been a bust, but there will be another tomorrow and the next day and the next. My guys need to rest, and I need to report our findings back to command, even if they’re shit.

There’s a two-mile hike before any rest can be had and that’s two miles we’ll be navigating in the dark, completely vulnerable to attack, so I can’t quite let down my guard yet.

I slap Tate on the back and say, “Let’s get this shit show on the road.”

We’re halfway back to camp when it all goes to hell.

The first gunshot goes off as the lights for camp begin to shine on the horizon. Everyone hits the ground, dust flies up and fills my mouth and eyes. I rub a hand over my face and choke. I don’t have time to worry about the grit under my lids and coating my tongue.

“We’re surrounded,” I hear through my radio.

I hear Tate curse from somewhere to my right, and the apprehension I’ve been feeling all night curdles in my stomach.

Fuck, but,fuckI knew this had been a bad idea. Knew it just as I knew we’re in deep shit.

Tate radios back to base, and Kill and Murdoch murmur in the background as they scout for our best option of retreat.

“To the east,” Kill announces into the radio. “There’s a break in their line.”

“Go,” I command Cal. Tate and I stay back to give the Marines and the rest our team time to find cover.

Shots pop off, little flashes in the obsidian night. Tate and I shoot at the direction of fire to give our men a chance, any chance. Screams fill what had been an eerily quiet night. My body moves by memory, as my mind races with where we’d gone wrong. This mission was supposed to be an easy in-and-out, if there is such a thing. We’d gotten a tip-off that it’d be ours for the taking. No enemies in the area.

So much for that shit.

“You go up,” Tate orders. As my senior in command, I defer to his judgement, but it chaps my ass to leave him vulnerable.

Knowing hesitation or arguments will only cost us both precious time, I sprint up the dunes with Tate close on my heels. Kill and Murdoch have taken up places on the dunes, and I hear the silent, deadly hiss of our nation’s finest shots whizzing past my ears.

I reach the crest of the dune and toss myself over the edge. Tate is seconds behind me when the blast knocks him off his feet and throws him a dozen yards away.

When the dust settles, and I peer over the dune and through my NVGs, I see Tate, well, parts of him, littered over the dusty landscape.

What remains of him peers through the darkness. Bloody froth bubbles at the corners of his mouth as he mouths, “Help me.”