Open Season by Cameron Curtis (great novels TXT) 📕

carrier. Glares at me, snatches her headscarf from my grasp.

“Breed,” Takigawa barks. He brushes the curtain aside with one hand to clear the opening.

The sound of gunfire outside gets louder.

“Let’s go.” I push the girl into the living room. Grissom is already through. Takigawa has stepped to the front door. He’s holstered his Mark 23 and unlimbered his rifle. Swapped the subsonic for a full mag of NATO ball. I do the same.

Takigawa drops to one knee and peeks around the front door. Raises his rifle and fires. The suppressor hides his muzzle flash, but I hear the distinctive supersonic crack of 7.62 mm rounds leaving the muzzle.

I look around the corner in the direction Takigawa is firing. My eyes sweep the village. The houses are dark, but muzzle flashes sparkle from rooftops and windows.

The Taliban aren’t hitting anything. Takigawa’s suppressor hides his muzzle flash and makes the sound of his gunshots difficult to locate. They guess he’s at the target house, but can’t be sure. He’s switched his photomultiplier on. A soft green glow washes through the daylight scope, bathes the orbit of his right eye.

What are the Taliban shooting at?

My eyes sweep the riverbank, the bridge, the stone escarpment.

Nothing.

Koenig and Lopez are gone.

7 SAMs

Kagur-Ghar

Tuesday, 0430

Koenig and Lopez are gone.

I pan to the right, along the edge of the village, the stone steps leading to our escape route. High on the mountain, the goat trail.

There. Muzzle flashes flare from the top of the steps. Koenig and Lopez have climbed to the terrace and are laying a base of fire. Can’t believe they got there so fast.

I push Trainor toward the stairs. The girl needs no encouragement. She bolts and takes the steps two at a time, fast as she can without falling. She hunches over, avoids looking at the flashes that would destroy her night vision. Arms outstretched, she stumbles repeatedly. Gets to her feet, keeps climbing.

I slap Grissom’s back, propel him after the girl. “Go.” Raise my rifle, engage a rooftop target. Fire. Watch the Talib fall.

“Covering,” Takigawa says.

I turn and follow Grissom. The stairs are easier for me with the NODs. Koenig and Lopez fire along the length of the terrace. They pin down the Taliban in the village. Trainor reaches the top, disappears into the darkness.

My thighs are burning with the effort of the climb. In the thin air, my breath comes in painful gasps.

A cry above me.

Grissom spins and crashes his shoulder against the steps. I lurch forward, grab him by the sleeve before he rolls off the side. No guard rail, the mountain plunges sixty feet to the escarpment. The colonel’s rifle clatters into the darkness. Had he fallen backwards against me, he might have knocked us both off.

“I’m hit.” Grissom’s hands clutch the side of his head.

With the NODs, I examine the wound. It’s like a patch of hair has been shaved from his scalp. Wet and black, blood glistens. White bone peeps from the wound. In shock, he stares at me.

“Breed!” It’s Lopez. “Come on!”

Takigawa bumps into us from behind. “Go,” he says. “I’ll take care of him.”

We reach the top. I can see the goat trail leading around the side of the mountain, toward the tree line. Trainor’s wiry form scampers over the rocks. Pointed along the goat trail, she runs blind, no idea where she’s going. I scramble after her.

Throw a glance over my shoulder. Takigawa grabs Grissom by his plate carrier. “You have to keep up,” he says. “It’s a quarter of a mile.”

More like half a mile, but it wouldn’t do to tell Grissom that. The colonel looks stronger on his feet. He nods and starts after me. I turn away, focus on the trail, and try to catch the girl.

“Trail” is a loose description of this path. The mountains of the Hindu Kush are full of tracks like this. Rough and uneven, studded with sharp rocks. I feel pointy stones through the soles of my boots. It’s the easiest, most direct path from the terrace to the tree line. Worn by years of men and animals passing the same way. Two feet across at its widest, it plunges a hundred feet to the escarpment on my left. A boulder-strewn mountainside rises sharply to my right.

I move as quickly as I can, leaning slightly toward the cliff. If I stumble, the rock face will support my shoulder. I’m gaining on Trainor. She’s tiring. The gradient and the thin air are getting to her.

Behind me, I hear Grissom and Takigawa gasping. The Delta’s labored breathing sounds like a machine, a bellows sucking great gulps of air, fueling his straining muscles.

The colonel’s breathing has turned into a high-pitched whine. Takigawa’s breathing is regular and disciplined. Grissom’s carries a hint of panic.

The crackle of rifle fire reaches a crescendo. At the bottom of the trail, Koenig and Lopez cut loose a volley of automatic fire. It’s a reliable tactic, the only time Deltas use their rifles on full auto. In a tactical withdrawal, the last two men in the file cut loose a withering fusillade to cover the retreat.

Trainor and I reach the tree line at the same time. I don’t quite tackle her, but I reach forward and grab her by the straps of her back plate. “Hold on,” I gasp. “We’ll regroup here.”

No argument. The girl is exhausted. She collapses, head-down, on all fours. I turn back to the trail, unsling my M110. Grissom and Takigawa are no more than thirty feet away. I tilt my head to the tactical radio tucked into my left chest pouch. Key the transmitter. “Five-Five Actual, this is Five-Five Sierra.”

“Five-Five Actual,” Koenig says. “Go ahead.”

“In position to cover your withdrawal.”

“Copy, Five-Five Sierra. Moving now.”

I raise the M110 to my shoulder, brace myself against a tree. Raise my NODs and turn on the photomultiplier scope.

Takigawa and Grissom stumble into the tree line. Takigawa knows the way to the LZ. “Get going,” I tell him. “Take them with you.”

The three disappear into