CHAPTER 92 Sampson
Sampson
I’M ON MY BELLY, hugging the ground in the tall grass. Aiden Phillips is a few yards away. As soon as the volley raked over our heads, I wanted to return fire—but Phillips said to hold up. “Let him think he hit us.”
We advance like crabs through the grass toward the house. I’ve got my pistol in one hand as I dig in with my elbows to pull myself forward. I can see the grass moving alongside me as Phillips crawls along on a parallel path.
Twenty yards from the house, the tall grass gives way to a roughly mowed yard. No more cover. No way to rush the place without being exposed on open ground. A frontal assault on a fixed position would be insane. Especially for a two-man infantry unit.
I dig in and sight along my pistol barrel from window to window. Then …
Boom!
The house explodes in a ball of flame and smoke!
I cover my head against the blast. Shingles and siding rain down around me in flaming chunks. When I look up, black smoke is belching out through a hole in the roof.
Phillips shouts, “Let’s go,” and heads toward the house, gun raised.
“Aiden! Stop! No way he survived that!”
Phillips turns and shouts back over the roar of the fire, “I know J.T.! That wasn’t suicide! That was a diversion!”