Open Season by Cameron Curtis (great novels TXT) 📕

Sobered, we move out.

“You okay?” I ask Trainor.

“Do you get used to seeing people dead?”

“Depends. You’ll have a lifetime to think about it,” I tell her. “If we get out of this alive.”

The sight of the dead heaped on a battlefield affects you forever. The sight of one man, like Hubble, crumpled in death, affects you more. That man who was once full of life now lies like a broken doll. There is something terribly human about a warrior alone in death.

“You’ve killed a lot of people, haven’t you?”

People avoid asking me that question. Those in the business know the answer. People at home don’t ask. There’s an inhibition that kicks in whenever the uniform, the job, and your posting are discussed. Those people are dying to know, but they don’t know how to ask.

Trainor does not suffer from such inhibitions.

“I’ve killed enemies of the United States.”

Trainor digests my answer. “What’s it like to kill someone?”

“You writing a book?”

“Breed, I want to know.”

Trainor’s sincere. I suppose a sincere question deserves a sincere answer.

“I don’t think much about it. In the moment, you do what you have to do. Up close, you look at the bad guy’s hands. If he’s got a gun, you have a split second to decide. If he’s a threat, you kill him. At a distance, you have time to think. The nature of the threat, the rules of engagement. The process is clinical.”

“It’s business as usual for you.”

“When you’re in the moment, yes. You think about it afterwards. Sometimes years later.”

For a long time, Trainor walks in silence. “Why did you leave the army?”

That’s striking too close to home.

“I might tell you, one day. This isn’t the place.”

“I don’t mean to be nosy.”

Trainor’s like a little girl, drawn to this most savage part of the world for all the wrong reasons.

“That’s alright.”

I watch the lithe sway of Trainor’s hips as we cover ground. The shine of her blonde ponytail. Her hair would have been cut much shorter when she was taken. I like her... that odd mix of tomboy innocence and an adventurous spirit.

She’s not ready to hear what caused me to leave the army.

We hike in silence for hours. Halfway across the north col, I imagine us reaching the bridge. The Deltas are moving well, and Robyn has little trouble keeping up. She’s in good physical condition, altitude-adapted, and isn’t carrying sixty pounds of weapons and gear.

Grissom is the problem. He’s already stumbled twice, and Lopez has had to support him over the most treacherous sections of trail.

“Take five,” Koenig says.

I join the captain, Lopez, and Grissom.

“I’m fine,” the colonel insists. “A bit of rest, good as new.”

“I’m not a doctor,” Lopez says, “but your concussion is getting worse.”

“How does a concussion get worse?” Grissom sounds skeptical.

“The brain is swelling. After an injury, it swells some, then it swells more. It has to finish swelling before it gets better.” Lopez shakes his head. “Colonel, your balance is off. I’m not sure your eyes are focusing properly.”

Koenig leans on his rifle. “Okay. The colonel stays next to Lopez. I mean, right be-fucking-side him.”

Grissom lifts his face to Koenig. “Captain, I’m going to be fine.”

“Colonel, we’re going to take you home.”

I’m not a doctor either, but it’s obvious the colonel’s getting worse. He’s putting on a brave face. Thirty feet away, her back to a tree, Trainor watches us like she knows what is being said.

“Captain. Breed.” Grissom’s tone is commanding.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Whatever happens to me... you must get Sergeant Trainor back.”

“Understood, Colonel,” Koenig says. “She knows the deal.”

“Trainor is the deal.”

What an odd thing to say. Has the game changed?

Koenig grits his teeth. “You’ll make it, Colonel.”

We turn away from Lopez and the colonel. Under my breath, I address Koenig. “He can’t go on much longer. He’s slowing us down, and the Talis are gaining on us. We’d better think about a stretcher.”

“Can he make it to the bridge?”

“None of us can answer that.”

“We play the hand we’re dealt,” Koenig says.

For once, I agree with him.

We set off. I look back along the trail, watching for signs of pursuit. I see nothing, but they are there. The problem is Shahzad’s main body may have reinforced Taliban from the village.

“How is he?” Trainor asks.

“Grissom? His concussion is getting worse.”

I take Trainor’s thin shoulders in my hands to steady her. Squeeze past, and go to Koenig.

“We need intel.”

“What are you talking about, Breed?”

“We need to know if Shahzad’s main body has joined those Talis behind us.”

“How do you propose to do that?”

“I’ll hang back and scope them out. Meet you at the bridge.”

“Can you make it in time?”

“I move faster alone than in column.”

Koenig looks thoughtful. “Okay. But if we cross that bridge and you’re late, we’ll blow it without you.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything else.”

We’re traversing a forested stretch of the slope. I step off the trail and climb twenty feet, careful not to leave signs of my passage. I look back through the trees. Trainor stares at me before turning away. Lopez remains focused on the colonel. Ballard smiles and flashes me a peace sign.

The little column moves on. I lie flat, cover myself with branches and leaves. Lie still, barely breathing.

I’d kill for a ghillie suit.

A column moving in good order should have flank guards. I would set them if I had the men. The terrain isn’t suitable, but that doesn’t mean an effort shouldn’t be made. If Shahzad has set flank guards, there’s a chance they’ll stumble across me. If I’m as good as I think I am, they’ll pass within five feet and not notice.

Ten minutes pass, twenty. Half an hour, and I sense movement on the trail. The disturbance of loose shale.

I peer through the leaves and watch the first Taliban pass, hugging the tree line. A prudent compromise. They’re not marching inside the forest because they have nothing to fear from snipers on the opposite slope. Nor are they marching in the open, because they don’t want to develop bad habits.

These are tough,