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blood of the felled elk and in his mind he ran to it, elated at his first kill. Soon, he and his father would slaughter the beast, then butcher it, making mouthwatering steaks three inches thick. In the here and now, he continued to fire, but now, on his knees, he could see nothing of the others. Then a third shot took apart his skull, rendering him oblivious to their fate.
    *   *   *
    â€œWe’ve got to fall back!” Flix shouted, giving Whitman cover fire as he raced toward Sandofur. “Whit, get back here! We’ve no chance to nab the target! Whit! Let’s haul ass!”
    â€œI’m not leaving him behind!” Whitman shouted. “Keep me covered!”
    Flix heaved a grenade at the nexus of enemy fire, ducked down at the resulting burst of stone, cement, and body parts. By this time, Whitman had grabbed Sandofur, hoisted him over one shoulder, and turned back toward the compound’s wall.
    Flix led them directly into the smoke and pink dust at the center of the blast, which had created a kind of sickening corridor for them, strewn not with rocks, but with bodies and bloodied limbs and, at one point, a head ripped clear off its neck.
    Enemy fire continued, but it was lighter and more sporadic. Flix launched another grenade behind them, and they were over the wall by the time it went off. They raced through the rain, which seemed heavier now, coming in bursts like machine-gun fire. The sky seemed lower, the clouds roiling, as if being stirred by a giant’s hand. Neither Flix nor Whitman had time to worry about whether the helo could make it through the low ceiling; they were too busy running for their lives.
    Over the rocky terrain they fled, following their GPS path home. Behind them they heard what might have been another explosion. Or it could have been the throaty roar of an armored vehicle starting its pursuit of them. If that was the case, their chances of reaching their exit position would be severely lowered.
    As they ran, Flix attempted to raise the helo on his emergency comm band. He tripped and fell into a shallow puddle. His left knee struck something sharp, and when he rose and carried on, it was with a distinct limp. He felt a hot trickle run down his shin, pool inside his left boot, but he did his best to ignore his loss of blood. They would be at the exit point soon; he’d worry about the wound then. At last, he raised the helo, gave the pilot their current SITREP.
    â€œHang tight,” the pilot said in his earwig. “Coming to getcha.”
    An eighth of a mile to go, by Whitman’s GPS reckoning. They were making good time, despite the worsening weather and his burden, which seemed to become heavier with each step.
    He thought he could hear the helo’s rotors chopping through the rain, and he glanced up. At that moment, shots were fired, and Flix went down.
    The two outriders they had bypassed on their inward trek. Whitman cursed himself; in the flurry of the snafu he had forgotten all about them.
    Taking shelter behind a boulder, he lay down Sandofur’s corpse and crawled out to where Flix half-lay, one hand clutching his right shoulder. The enemy fire started up again. Grabbing the back of Flix’s collar, he dragged him backward toward the protection of the boulder. The ground around them burst apart, sending a buckshot of dirt into their chests and faces. Turning his head away, Whitman redoubled his efforts and, with Flix helping him, scrambled back to the boulder.
    â€œHow bad is it?” he asked his comms man.
    â€œNever mind me. How’s Jonas?”
    â€œHe’s not.” Whitman took up his AR-15. “Stay here.”
    â€œYou can’t do this on your own, Whit.”
    â€œHear that?” He pointed upward. “The helo’s almost on top of us.”
    â€œThen let the gunner handle the motherfuckers.”
    â€œDo you know what they’re armed with besides the AKs, Flix? ’Cause I