Page 35 of Black Sheep

Rumored to be in his sixties, Ahmed Fahim is nevertheless lean and agile. He tries to scramble to his feet, but I’m younger. Faster. And by taking my friend’s life, he’s just added another grim purpose to my mission.

I kick out his legs before he can regain them even as my hands close over my knives. I scramble across the floor and jump on his chest, pinning his arms to his body. Once he’s immobile, I jerk my gaze around the room, make sure there are no more surprises ready to spoil my two-minute party.

We’re alone.

“You will not get out of this alive!” he spits at me.

“Maybe I will, maybe I won’t. But one thing’s for certain. You will most definitely not live through the next minute.”

Piercing gray stare back at me, his fate stoically accepted.

Perhaps it’s the trick of the light. Or perhaps it’s my raw subconscious willing it into being. But I see my father’s face as I stare down at the terrorist.

I feel a smile curve my lips.

His eyes widen, the first true sign of terror marring his features.

“See you in hell, asshole,” I snarl.

The knife I plunge into his heart is deeply satisfying. Deeply personal. And in that moment, I accept that I’m damned for all eternity.

I cannot recall the details of my escape or the days that pass until I’m rescued from the caves nine clicks south of Taranahar.

But I know I help to retrieve Crunch’s body from where I hid it outside the compound, along with the camera that recorded most of the operation.

As predicted, Colonel Clarkson rips me several new ones for going off script, but it’s tinged with the solemnity of a comrade lost. I stand at attention in his office and take my dressing down through the low roar that has taken up residence between my ears.

He talks about me laying low for the next few missions. Then he talks about a possible medal of honor, my second in three years. I want to argue against the first and refuse the second. But I don’t speak for fear the roar will disappear, letting even more harrowing images flood back in.

“Did you hear what I just said?” The question is fired at me from my left.

I turn my head to where Clarkson has paused in his pissed-off pacing. “I’m sorry, sir, no.”

He sighs and rubs a hand over his three-day old stubble. “I said, we got to the bottom of what happened to fuck up the operation.”

I nod and wait for him to continue. He stares back at me, his gaze holding more than just questions. “Is there something you want to tell me, son?”

Tension of a whole different kind seizes my nape. The camera didn’t record Fahim’s last moments so the Colonel can’t know how much I enjoyed killing him. “No, sir.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

Clarkson retraces his steps, his face pensive. “The explosion that alerted the compound to your presence came from that private army I told you about. As expected, they half-assed their operation, or maybe they were fed false intel. Who the fuck knows?” He shakes his head, his expression tightening with fury and a hint of pain for a second before his professionalism slides back into place. “They bombed Taranahar village thinking it was the compound where Fahim and his brothers were hiding out.”

Jesus. “Casualty count?” I rasp.

“So far…eighty-seven, half of those women and children. They’re still counting body parts. We may never know how many died.”

My breath shudders out. A peculiar discomfort lances my chest. I’m not sure whether to be glad I have a little humanity left or mourn its presence.

My CO turns and strolls back to his desk. He picks up his tablet and activates the screen. “As you can expect, this is causing all sorts of bonfires back in Washington. A shitload of keyboard bashers have thrown a lot of man hours into tracking down just who the hell is behind this particular private military contract. A few names popped up. One in particular grabbed my attention.”

“Yes, sir?”

“MMFR International.”

The brutal rush of blood threatens to drown the roar in my head. The initials make sense.

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