Line of Departure (Pathfinders #4)

Prologue

The farmhouse was burning.

Not the roof. Not the walls. The air itself. It stank of cordite and ash and blood, and Dale Ricoh’s ears rang from too many close shots and the sound of Marsh yelling something over the roar of gunfire.

One nod. One chance.

Dale surged up, firing controlled bursts at the far tree line where muzzle flashes blinked like hellfire. Van broke cover, sprinting across the open yard, weaving through debris. Bullets tore up the dirt behind him.

A mercenary burst from the side of the farmhouse, shouting in Russian, rifle raised. Dale didn’t hesitate. He threw his weapon on its sling, surged forward, and met the man head-on.

Elbow to jaw, bone crunched under the impact. He spun, caught the rifle barrel and twisted, driving his knee into the man’s gut. As the merc staggered, Dale slammed the butt of his palm into his nose, then used the momentum to hurl him into the side of the building. The man collapsed, unmoving.

Another figure darted from the shadows—close quarters. Too close.

Dale pivoted just in time to duck the arc of a blade, the whoosh of steel slicing the air above his head. He caught the attacker’s wrist, twisted, and slammed his head forward. Skull cracked against skull. The smaller form stumbled back, dazed.

Too small.

Dale hesitated for half a second as the figure staggered under the blow.

The kid—he couldn’t have been more than sixteen—blinked at him, swaying.

Dirt smeared his cheek, and blood trickled from a cut above his brow.

He wore patched gear too large for him and gripped the knife with both hands like it was a lifeline.

His lips were drawn into a snarl of fear and determination.

Dale raised his blade but didn’t strike.

“Boy,” he said hoarsely in Russian. “You don’t have to do this. Go. Leave!”

The boy’s breath came in ragged gasps. He looked over his shoulder, toward the tree line, then back at Dale. There was a second—a heartbeat—where Dale thought he might drop the weapon. Might run.

But the kid screamed instead and lunged forward, blade flashing.

Dale’s reflexes took over.

Steel met bone, and the knife plunged into the boy’s ribs with a sickening crunch. The kid choked on a cry, eyes going wide, surprise and agony etched into his face. Dale caught him as he collapsed, lowering him gently to the ground.

Blood pooled quickly beneath them.

The boy’s mouth moved, but no sound came. Dale leaned closer.

“Goddamn it, kid,” he whispered. “Why the fuck didn’t you leave?” The kid blinked once. Then he was still. “Fuck.”

Dale stared at the boy’s face. Pale. So damn young. He looked like he should have been in school, not on a battlefield. He stood up and moved, trying to shake that boy’s face from his memory, but knew it was futile. He carried the face of many he had killed in the line of duty.

The air vibrated with chaos. Ricochets sparked against the stone wall beside him.

He moved instinctively, tracking each teammate’s position.

Marsh was laying down suppressing fire with calm, vicious accuracy.

Ricky shifted to flank right, picking off a shadow moving through the brush with a tight double-tap.

Then Dale spotted Hogan—mid-charge, barreling toward a group trying to flank Van. He roared something unintelligible, firing as he ran. Dale sprinted after him to cover his six.

Too late.

Hogan staggered mid-stride, his weapon dropping as a sharp crack rang out. Blood sprayed from his temple and he went down hard, momentum flipping him to his back. He didn’t move.

“Hogan’s down!” Dale shouted, but the report of gunfire swallowed his voice.

Dale dropped to a knee, returning fire toward the trees, trying to pin the shooter. His shots clipped bark and shattered a branch, forcing one merc to duck back. Another rushed out, aiming for Marsh.

Dale was already moving.

He hit the man like a freight train. They tumbled to the ground, fists and elbows flying. The merc landed a blow to Dale’s ribs, but Dale twisted, grunted, and drove his forearm under the chin. The snap of cartilage was muffled by the mud. He rose with a snarl, blood on his knuckles.

The team was faltering. Ricky was limping, dragging his leg now, Bateman was almost out on his feet, and Marsh had a gash over one eye, blood streaming down his face. Dale’s heart hammered as he ran to Hogan, dropping down beside Marsh.

Marsh flinched and dropped low. “Fuck, Hogan.”

“We’re not losing anyone.” Dale’s voice was steel. Hogan was ghost-pale, lips blue, a makeshift bandage at his side soaked through. “He’s still breathing.”

Just barely.

Van skidded to a stop beside them. “Truck. Around the back. I can hotwire it.”

Dale looked up, blood still dripping from his own arm. “I’ll get it running. You drive.”

Marsh and Van started dragging Ricky and Hogan toward the back of the farmhouse as Bateman covered their rear with a shaky hold on his rifle.

Dale bolted across the ruined kitchen, shoulder slamming through the half-hinged back door.

Outside, a rusted Russian military transport truck sat crookedly behind the barn.

He scrambled into the cab, yanked down the fuse panel, and stripped wires with his knife. Sparks flew. Engine caught. It roared to life.

“Move!” he bellowed, leaping out, circling around the back.

Van leaped into the driver’s seat and reversed the truck with one hand, door open, shouting to Marsh. Dale climbed into the bed, helping hoist Hogan’s limp form in, then Bateman, then Ricky. Marsh jumped in beside Van, blood streaking his face.

Gunfire still cracked in the distance. The trees were alive with it.

Van gunned the engine, and the truck lurched forward, tires screaming over dirt and blood.

Dale knelt beside Hogan, one hand gripping the roll bar, the other pressing against the worst of the bleeding. “Stay with me,” he muttered. Hogan’s pulse was thread-thin under his fingertips. “You hear me, man? We’re not done. You do not get to die in this hell hole.”

The truck rattled under them like a dying beast. In the corner of his vision, amid the smoke and bullet-streaked shadows near the tree line, he caught a flash of movement—a figure dragging something heavy.

Dale couldn’t make out a face, just the silhouette of someone in local militia fatigues, eyes locked on their fleeing truck.

The man didn’t raise a weapon. He just stopped and watched them, dropping whatever he had been dragging behind him.

The truck roared through the smoke, wheels chewing gravel, but Dale turned to keep the man in his sights.

He was unmoving at first, and then he raised his hand—not in salute, but in a slow, deliberate gesture—he pointed a finger at Dale, then pulled it back to draw a finger across his neck. Like he was slitting someone’s throat.

Hogan’s breath hitched, rattling, drawing his attention back to the problem at hand.

Marsh looked back from where he braced Bateman’s head. “How bad?”

“Bad,” Dale said. “Too much blood. We need to get him to extraction, now.”

Van shouted from the cab, “Fifteen clicks if this truck holds!”

“Then make it hold,” Dale growled.

The truck careened down the makeshift path, fire lighting the horizon behind them.

Dale didn’t take his eyes off Hogan. Not once.

And when his breathing stuttered again, Dale whispered, “I got you. I won’t lose you.”

Three of them down. One of them barely hanging on. If they lost Hogan—if the Pathfinders lost one of their own—it wouldn’t just break the team.

It would shatter them.