Delta Force Six
Afghanistan. Two years ago.
I’m dead.
That was all Captain Kameron Monroe had time to process. Two words. Twenty-eight years reduced to a singular numbing thought as everything exploded into blinding white light.
Outside. Inside. Filling her head, her chest. Expanding outwards as a thousand tiny pinpoints that shattered like the armored truck.
Pieces flying everywhere. Metal. Glass. Bone.
Grinding against rock, tumbling over. Sand.
Sky. More sand. Blasting a cloud of dust into the air.
Clogging her lungs. Coating her skin. It rumbled like thunder, making the air vibrate, the ground shake—then vanished.
Cut off. Nothing but eerie stillness against the light hum of the tires as they kept spinning.
Black rubber against the pale-blue sky, endlessly turning.
Pain. Through her temples. Blurring her vision.
Spinning it counter-clockwise. Washing everything into a dull gray smeared against black smoke.
Kameron blinked, gagged, then blinked, again.
She was on her back, still in her seat. Half the roof above her gone.
She managed to focus on her lap—three hands. One bloody. Charred.
She stared at it—confused. Trying to process the information before it hit her. Hard.
One wasn’t hers.
She dropped it, screamed, but it got lost in the sound of gunfire.
The pounding of feet in the distance. Running over the hard-packed ground.
More explosions raining down rocks and sand.
Enemy forces. Baring down on them. Eager to eliminate any non-fatal casualties.
Maybe capture a few prisoners to execute, later. Ransom off.
Kameron rolled out of the seat—hit a mixture of metal and rock. Bits of glass bit into her palms, as she crawled out of the wreckage—stumbled to her feet. Flames flickered where the cab had been. The front end reduced to a twist of tan-colored steel glinting off the setting sun.
Shouting. Not too far off. They were coming.
Training, or maybe just her survival instincts, had her scouting the area—looking for survivors. It was hard to tell most of the men apart. Burned remains with extra limbs. Or none at all. Just a mass of flesh and bone and blood.
A groan. On the dirt several feet off to her right.
She stumbled her way over, tripping on debris.
He was lying on the ground. Blood coating part of his shirt.
A small burn on the side of his face. His eyes opened.
Glazed. Slightly unfocused. Kameron went to her knees, working through a quick sweep of his body.
His leg was injured. Maybe broken, but no bone jutting out through his fatigues.
Cuts and scrapes—that one burn. Probably a class three concussion but alive.
Just the two of them left.
She knew his name. Had traveled with his team before.
Nothing came. Just a blank slate. Like the desert stretching out on all sides.
Empty brown sand and rock. Dark hills against the horizon.
Silhouettes moved within the shimmering heat off to the right, the shapes wavering in the water-like reflections against the ground.
No time to worry about names. Whether moving the guy would exacerbate his injuries. Because he was dead if she didn’t get him up—didn’t disappear before those forces arrived.
Kam darted over to the wreckage, retrieved a few weapons and what looked like a somewhat intact first aid kit, then raced back to the guy.
She braced her feet near his waist then grabbed both his forearms. Levered forward then backward—got him upright.
A shuffle back and more levering, and he was on his feet.
Unsteady and grunting but up. Only took a couple of seconds to wrap his arm around her shoulder, get them stumbling forward.
She knew the area, at least from maps. Photographs.
Her one saving grace as an MI soldier. Military Intelligence hadn’t given her extreme hand-to-hand combat skills.
Hadn’t beaten fear and emotions out of her like Special Forces would have.
But she had a mental image of this sector.
Knew where villages were. Which ones had sympathizers.
Were less likely to turn them over to extremist factions.
Where the closest outpost was located—the one not readily known. Not indicated on any map.
Not that it was close. Probably forty miles, especially if they had to weave their way across the landscape—stick to the limited forms of cover dotted along the route. The first being a small outcrop straight ahead.
With any luck, the smoke and flames hid them from view as they trudged forward, tripping more than she’d like.
The guy—what the hell was his name—didn’t question her.
Just tried to keep his feet moving. She’d patch him up the best she could once they had some distance—when they were confident they weren’t being followed.
If they lived that long.
Positive thinking. They would make it. She’d see to it. She might not know how to fight, but she was a damn good shot. Had been going to the range with her father long before she’d ever joined the service. Could handle a range of guns.
She only had three. And a single knife.
She hadn’t learned how to fight with the knife.
A damn oversight she’d rectify if—when—they got out of this.
She didn’t care what it took, how long it took—she’d learn how to become a lethal weapon.
Why hadn’t she done that already? She’d had time.
Could have spent an hour each night in a ring, learning how to punch, to maim, to kill, rather than pouring over more maps. Gathering more intel.
She knew how to do that. Was insanely good at it. Was a decent hacker. Why had she focused solely on improving skills she already possessed instead of broadening her horizons? This was war, and she was ill-prepared for it.
The guy groaned, head drooping forward as they stumbled into a small alcove against the rock.
He didn’t resist when she lowered him to the sand, leaning his back against the wall.
A quick dart out to grab some brush, and she was able to sweep away their tracks—leave others heading in a different direction—then hid their presence behind the greenery.
She placed the rifle at her shoulder—watching the path they’d been walking along.
The hole was slightly raised, giving her a decent vantage point.
Sweat dripped down her forehead, stinging the shallow wounds as it tracked to her jaw then fell to the sand.
They’d stay just long enough for this first unit to pass, then they’d move.
Cover as much ground as possible. Stop only when needed.
They’d get out of this. And she’d never allow herself to feel this helpless, again.