The small ops room had gotten pretty crowded with all the officers and gunnery sergeants when Caro arrived. I could see the fuckers looking her over with appreciation. I wanted to blindfold every bastard there. Even Grant almost smiled at her.

“Right, men: this morning we’ll have four patrols moving out. Sanders, I want you and your team with me heading northeast along the river bed wadi. Romero, northwest by the edge of town. Jankowski, your men take the old market area with Holden flanking you at 100 yards.

“Hunter: you’re in charge of the terps—brief them before we go. The population here are Sunnis. Are any of your men Shiite?”

“Two, sir,” I answered quickly. “I’ve told them to stay behind today.”

“Does that leave us short?” asked Grant, frowning.

“No, sir, but one of the teams will have to have Angaar: his English is so-so.”

“Then send one of the others with him.”

“They don’t get along, sir. Could cause problems.”

“Then damn well make sure it doesn’t!” Grant snapped.

I didn’t argue the point further, but I wasn’t happy with the order.

As the meeting broke up, Caro raised her hand.

“Which team would you like me with, Captain Grant?”

He looked up, clearly irritated, but Caro’s expression stayed neutral.

“Perhaps ‘like’ was too strong a word, Captain,” she suggested coolly.

I had to try really hard not to smile at that, and I saw Jankowski and one of the other officers grin openly.

“You’d better come with me, Ms. Venzi,” Grant muttered, somewhat unwillingly. “And you, Hunter.”

“I feel like Fox Mulder,” Caro murmured loud enough for Grant to hear, but not loud enough that he’d feel the need to reply. “The Marines’ ‘most unwanted’.”

Grant frowned, but I could tell he admired her being ballsy. I was so fucking proud. I had to leave the room or I’d have given myself away.

The dawn patrols left the compound on foot: the overt mission was to scout out the area and get a hands-on idea of the terrain. The two patrols checking out the marketplace had the most dangerous job. Those old bazaar buildings provided plenty of places where IEDs could be planted. Snipers were also a concern.

But my patrol was heading up the river wadi to try and find some locals to talk to. I pulled on my body armor and helmet (40 pounds), before shouldering my day pack (35 pounds) and picked up my M16 (nine pounds loaded). Gunners and radio operators carried more. The temperature was already in the high-nineties: it was going to be brutal.

I didn’t usually get nervous on patrols—not since the very first time—just more aware. But having Caro with me, I was about ready to shit myself, even though she’d been positioned in the middle of the patrol for safety. I was up front with Grant so I couldn’t even keep an eye on her from this position. I kept telling myself that the best way to keep her safe was to do my fucking job.

Grant grunted at me.

“Hunter, you’re the terp—you take point.”

We’d walked about a mile up the trail to the wadi when we saw our first locals.

Four kids, aged about eight or nine, were sitting in a patch of dirt. They stood up in a hurry when they saw us, looking scared, but I called out a greeting to them, grinning when they stared at me in surprise.

I directed all my questions to the oldest boy. Afghans were big on hierarchy and it was easy to offend if you didn’t follow their rules.

I asked him if he’d seen any Taliban lately. I didn’t really expect him to answer truthfully, but he pointed up into the foothills.

In my peripheral vision, I saw Caro taking a photograph. I hoped like fuck the boys didn’t see her; if they knew we had a woman on patrol, the news would spread through the area like wildfire.

I asked the kid how long they’d been there, and Grant wanted to know what we were saying.

“He says there are Taliban up in the hills, sir. They moved into position during the night. He doesn’t think they’ll come out in daytime. Not sure I’d take that as an ironclad guarantee, but it could mean they’ll hit us at dusk or first thing in the morning.”

I couldn’t help glancing worriedly at Caro.

“Anything else?”

I sighed. “He said his father has promised to get him a rifle like mine when he’s ten.”

There was no chance that this fucking war would ever be over when kids were being used to carry it forward. And it was a tribal country—I wasn’t sure a dose of democracy would work here, but I left that shit to the politicians.

Then one of the kids spotted Caro and gaped, openly pointing her out to his little buddies. They immediately started asking a ton of questions, and I couldn’t help smiling as Grant asked me to translate.

“They want to know if Ms. Venzi is your wife, sir, or if you just brought her to do the cooking.”

Caro threw me a dirty look and some of the guys laughed, but Grant looked worried. I could guess why.

“Tell them she does the cooking,” he said hurriedly.

I gave them the answer and the kids nodded knowingly. I passed out some hard candy, telling them to eat it right away and to toss the wrappers. They were probably too smart to get caught with Western goods on them, but it was worth reminding them. If the Taliban found them with the candy on them, they wouldn’t care that they were kids.

They continued to watch us until we were out of sight.

Caro snapped another photo of them waving, then hurried to catch up with Grant.

“Would you like to explain that to me, Captain Grant,” she said mildly, while secretly giving me the stink-eye.

“I don’t want word getting out that we have a journalist with us,” he said shortly.

Caro looked worried, then glanced across at me. I tried to smile reassuringly, but I probably just looked sick.

We moved slowly next to the dried riverbed when I saw a tell-tale flash in the sky and the guy next to me yelled, “Incoming!”

There was a loud roaring overhead as we half-dived, half-fell into the wadi. I craned my neck up, but I couldn’t see Caro, which meant she was somewhere in the riverbed with us.

The rocket propelled grenade shook the ground as it exploded, and the percussion from the blast was almost deafening.

“RPG, sir!” shouted the gunny. “Bastards missed by 300 yards. Up in the foothills, sir. They’ll have us in range any second.”

He was right: we were in their sights. The wadi gave us good protection but we were pinned down.

Keeping low, I made my way toward Caro and crouched down next to her.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said breathlessly, her voice shaking only slightly. “Don’t worry about me. I won’t move. Promise.”

It was the best I could do: the thought made me sick. I made my way back to the radio operator in case I was needed to listen to any comms chatter.

The gunny and another guy moved forward with a mortar and fired off a couple of rounds.

“Hewitt,” shouted Grant to the radio op, “call in air support. I want the shit bombed out of those fuckers. Give them the coordinates—now!”

Two more RPGs came in, each landing closer, although not close enough to worry me too much.

Fifteen minutes passed before we heard a couple of F15 fighter jets streak past overhead.

There was a massive explosion followed immediately by a second, and the mountain shook. I looked up to see a thick cloud of dust and smoke hanging over the foothills, lazily drifting down into the valley.

Caro was already sitting up to take a quick photo. God, she was fearless. The other men noticed too, grinning at her with admiration in their eyes.

“Was that your first time under fire, ma’am?” one of them asked.

“First time it was that damn close,” she smiled. “I almost peed my pants.”

They laughed easily. “Well, you looked pretty cool, ma’am. We should make you an honorary Marine.”

“I’m sure Captain Grant would be delighted with that suggestion,” she laughed.