Page 33 of Black Sheep

Colonel Jack Clarkson looks up, waves away my stiff salute and nods to the chair in front of his desk. A moment later, his head jerks back, and he grimaces. “Jesus Christ, son, are you allergic to soap or something?”

“No, sir.”

The middle-aged man who can ran faster, fight harder than any other man in the camp except me, wrinkles his nose in disgust. “Then why the fuck do you stink worse than my ex-wife’s incontinent mutt?”

“Tough workout, sir,” I reply.

He snorts. “The day a workout is anywhere near tough for you is the day we drag your ass out of here in a body bag.”

I clasp my fists between my knees, barely able to keep my foot from bouncing. “Yes, sir.”

He stares me down for half a minute before he drags his hand through his inch-long ginger buzz cut. “Word is you’ve been in the exercise tent for two days straight. Is there a new brand of…issues I need to be concerned about?”

My jaw ticks with nervous energy. Whatever assignment I’m about to receive can’t be retracted because of psychological concerns. I won’t allow it. “No, sir. You have my word that I’m in top shape.”

He stares at me for another minute before he slides across a single sheet of paper. “This is a two-man mission, particularly sensitive not just in circumstances but also time-wise.” I speed read, absorbing the details.

Three war lords. Private family celebration. Vicinity of a small village. Opportunity to kill three birds with one strike. Cripple the enemy.

Anticipation flows, thick and fast, pushing away the memories. “I can do it solo, sir.” Company means conversation. It also means responsibility for another life.

“I’m sure you can, but I’m sending Crunch with you anyway. You take point; he reports in every four hours.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Another thing. The reason it’s time sensitive is because there’s intel that the same job has been handed over to a private military contractor.” His jaw clenches, and a wave of fury flashes across his face. “I have no idea what the jerk buckets in DC are thinking, auctioning off sensitive operations like these to the highest bidder.” He raps his knuckles on his desk before he points a finger at me. “But this is one coup I’m not going to hand them.”

“I understand. I’ll…we’ll bag this one, sir.”

“Damn fucking straight, we will. Go get some sleep—hell, go do…whatever you need to do to be bright eyed and bushy tailed and ready to head out at zero three hundred.” He pauses for a beat before he adds, “When you get back, if you’re still in that frame of mind, we’ll discuss future solo missions.”

I stand and hand back the paper. “Very good, sir.” I turn to leave.

“Oh, and Rutherford?”

“Sir?”

“Take a fucking shower before you head out. It’ll be a damn shame if you blow this op wide open because the enemy catches a whiff of whatever the hell it is that’s oozing out of your pores.”

I pass Captain Crunch on the way out. He nods to me but keeps uncharacteristically silent. This time I look him in the eye and nod back.

Exiting the command center, I pause and take a breath. For now, the hell that haunts my days and nights is locked away behind the surge of adrenaline and anticipation of mayhem.

We head out at exactly zero three hundred, the Huey’s rotors cutting almost soundlessly through the night air as we head west. Across from me in the silent cabin, the sergeant monitoring the drone sent ahead of us watches a five-inch screen with grim intensity. Next to him Crunch is checking the camera mounted on top of his helmet.

That camera is the main reason he’s here, besides watching my back. We need video evidence of what’s about to go down. Confirmation of the kills will make the suits back home incredibly happy. It will also hopefully fast-track my request to join the covert team my CO doesn’t think I know about.

“Drop-off point coming up in T-minus five mikes,” the pilot’s voice feeds through the headphones attached to my helmet.

“Everything looks good,” the sergeant says, his gaze fixed on the screen. “I’m picking up three armed sentries at the entrance to the compound. No other signs of movement.”

I have no doubt more men will be awake and guarding the inside of the compound but I nod and double-check my ammo. If everything goes according to plan, I won’t need to fire a single bullet. The three knives strapped against my thigh will be all I need. The Filipino knife play I perfected a year ago isn’t strictly army regulation, but it’s served me well in the past, and I intend to do whatever it takes to get this job done.

The Huey drops us off two miles from the compound, located just outside the small village of Taranahar. In the pitch-black night, the only way I make out Crunch is through my night vision goggles.

“Stay sharp,” he says, his voice controlled and calm.

I don’t respond. My feet are already moving over the rough sand and stone terrain toward my target. The compound is situated on a small incline set back against a much steeper hill, a clever location that provides the perfect vantage point for spotting imminent threats.

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