1. James “Rook” Callahan #3
Every step felt wrong.
Every instinct screamed at him to turn around.
To go back.
To bring his brothers home.
Another explosion ripped through the ridge.
Then he heard it.
Weak.
Broken.
Familiar.
“Commander…”
Rook froze.
Slowly, he turned.
A hundred yards behind them, half buried beneath shattered rock and debris, Noah “Viking” Kane lay pinned against the mountainside.
Alive.
Barely.
Blood soaked his uniform.
One leg was trapped beneath a slab of stone.
His rifle rested across his lap, its barrel still smoking.
“Viking!”
Rook started toward him.
Sniper caught his arm. “Don’t.”
“He’s alive.”
“We don’t have time.”
“We make time.”
Enemy voices echoed above them.
The fighters were closing fast.
Rook tore himself free and took another step.
Viking raised one hand.
Stopping him.
“No.”
The word was weak.
But firm.
“Noah—”
Viking shook his head.
Blood ran from a cut above his eye. His breathing sounded wet and painful.
The kind of breathing experienced soldiers understood.
Viking knew it too.
He looked toward the ridge where dozens of enemy fighters were emerging through the smoke.
Then he looked back at Rook and smiled.
The same crooked grin he had worn in the helicopter.
“You look terrible.”
Rook almost laughed.
Instead, his chest hurt.
Viking chuckled, then coughed. Blood stained his lips.
“See? Told you.”
Sniper looked away.
Fathom lowered his head.
Viking wasn’t leaving that mountain.
Rook took another step. “I’ll get you out.”
“No.”
“Dammit, Noah?—”
“No.”
The grin faded enough for the truth to show.
For one brief moment, Rook saw the fear beneath it.
Not fear of dying.
Fear of unfinished goodbyes.
Viking looked toward the sky.
“My mom’s gonna be pissed.”
The words hit like a knife.
“She’s always telling me to stay away from dangerous places.”
The enemy moved closer.
Less than two hundred yards.
Viking saw them.
Then he looked back at his brothers.
“Listen to me. Somebody sold us out. The bastard thinks he won.”
Rook’s jaw tightened.
“Prove him wrong,” Viking said. “Find him.”
Rook nodded once.
The promise felt carved from stone.
“I will.”
Viking looked at Sniper. “Try not to be ugly at my funeral.”
Sniper’s face cracked.
A sound escaped him.
Half laugh.
Half sob.
“Shut up.”
“Just trying to help.”
Viking looked at Fathom next.
“You were right.”
Fathom blinked. “About what?”
“Everything. You usually are.”
A faint smile touched Fathom’s face.
Viking nodded. “There it is.”
A bullet struck the rock beside him.
Stone exploded across his shoulder.
He barely noticed.
Instead, he picked up his rifle.
Checked the magazine.
Chambered a round.
One final time.
Rook felt his throat close.
Viking looked at all three of them.
His brothers.
His family.
Then he smiled.
A real smile.
Warm.
Proud.
Peaceful.
“Go.”
Nobody moved.
“That’s an order.”
A broken laugh escaped Rook. “Since when do you give orders?”
“Since you started making bad decisions.”
For one brief second, they were back in the helicopter.
Back before the mountain.
Back before the betrayal.
Just brothers.
Then the moment passed.
Enemy fighters reached the ridgeline.
Viking looked back at Rook.
A final nod.
A warrior’s farewell.
Rook returned it because he couldn’t trust himself to speak.
“Tell Tex’s little girl he talked about her the whole flight.”
Then Viking winked.
Actually winked.
And opened fire.
The first fighter dropped.
Then another.
Then another.
His rifle thundered across the mountains.
The enemy surged toward him.
Viking met them head-on.
Laughing.
Fighting.
Defiant to the end.
Rook stood frozen for one terrible second.
Then Sniper grabbed him.
“We have to go.”
Rook turned away.
It was the hardest thing he had ever done.
Behind them, Viking’s rifle continued firing.
One shot.
Then another.
Then another.
The sound followed them into the darkness.
Until eventually?—
It stopped.
The silence that followed would haunt James Callahan for the rest of his life.
Rook ran.
Hammer’s laughter echoed inside his head.
Then Tex’s smile.
Bishop standing behind his machine gun.
Ridge disappearing in an explosion.
Viking’s final nod.
Faces.
Names.
Brothers.
The mountain kept taking them.
Rook’s chest burned.
His legs screamed.
Still, he ran.
Because survival wasn’t about him anymore.
It wasn’t about Sniper.
It wasn’t about Fathom.
It was about the truth.
Someone had betrayed them.
Someone had murdered six Navy SEALs.
Rook intended to find them.
The ground suddenly shook.
His instincts screamed.
Too late.
A missile struck the mountainside ahead of them.
The explosion split the night apart.
Fire erupted.
Rock shattered.
The slope gave way.
“DOWN!”
The mountain collapsed.
Stone.
Dirt.
Fire.
Everything moved at once.
Rook saw Sniper thrown sideways.
Saw Fathom disappear beneath a wave of debris.
Then the ground vanished beneath his boots.
Pain exploded through his body.
Something struck his helmet.
Then another impact came.
Darkness swallowed him.
Complete darkness.
Nothing.
Cold wind moved across the battlefield hours later.
Smoke drifted through the ruins. Small fires burned among the shattered rocks.
Bodies lay scattered across the mountain.
Enemy fighters moved through the wreckage, checking each one and finishing anyone who remained alive.
No survivors.
No witnesses.
One fighter stopped beside Rook’s motionless body.
Blood covered half his face. Dust coated his gear.
The fighter nudged him with a boot.
Rook didn’t move.
Satisfied, the man raised his rifle.
A suppressed shot cracked through the darkness.
The fighter dropped.
Dead before he struck the ground.
Another man spun toward the sound.
A second suppressed shot.
Another body.
Then another.
Silent.
Precise.
Merciless.
The darkness itself seemed to be killing them.
A figure emerged through the smoke.
Black tactical gear.
Black gloves.
Black rifle.
No patches.
No insignia.
No name.
The woman moved as though she belonged on battlefields. As though she had spent her life walking among the dead.
She reached Rook and dropped to one knee.
For a long moment, she studied him.
Then she pressed two fingers against his neck.
Nothing.
She shifted them slightly.
A pulse answered.
Weak.
But there.
Alive.
Something changed in her eyes.
Not relief.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
Almost as if she had come to the mountain looking for him.
She rose and searched the battlefield.
Minutes later, she found another survivor.
Caleb McDougal.
Barely breathing.
Then another.
Michael Sarrilla, still clutching his shattered tablet despite being unconscious.
Three survivors.
Exactly three.
The woman stood among the wreckage and looked toward the bodies of six fallen SEALs.
Her jaw tightened.
Anger flashed across her face.
Cold.
Controlled.
Deadly.
Then it vanished.
She slung her rifle over her shoulder and returned to Rook.
As she leaned over him, her gloved hand brushed the blood and dirt from the side of his face.
It wasn’t a caress.
There was nothing gentle or romantic about it.
She was checking his wounds.
Nothing more.
Still, her hand paused when Rook released a faint breath against her wrist.
He was alive.
She intended to keep him that way.
The woman grabbed him beneath the arms and dragged him into the darkness.
Somewhere beyond the mountains, a traitor believed every member of Rook’s team was dead.
For now, the woman intended to let him keep believing it.