PART 4
A thousand yards away, under rock, heat, and a ghillie suit that smelled like dust and sweat, Chief Petty Officer Riley Harper heard every word.
She was not supposed to be there.
Officially, she was three miles north, observing a suspected weapons cache for a mission that did not appear on our board.
Unofficially, she had intercepted our radio traffic before sunrise.
And she had made a decision that would end somebody’s career.
Maybe hers.
Riley had moved alone through two miles of ugly terrain in the dark with an eighty-pound pack and a precision rifle slung across her body.
No spotter.
No backup.
No permission.
The kind of decision headquarters hates.
The kind that keeps men alive.
She settled deeper behind the rifle.
Cheek against the stock.
Eye through the glass.
She watched the enemy pause, confused by death arriving from a place they couldn’t see.
“Help is here, boys,” she said quietly.
Then she fired again.
The fourth man dropped while trying to sprint between two rocks.
The fifth went down behind what he thought was cover.
Inside our compound, the battle changed shape.
The enemy had been hunters.
Now they were looking over their shoulders.
Beckett didn’t waste the miracle.
“Evans, consolidate ammo. Doc, keep Danvers breathing. Hayes, stay on the horn. Whoever that is just bought us time, and I am not wasting a damn coupon.”
Another shot from the ridge.
Another fighter down.
The assault broke.
Not fully.
Not yet.
But the confidence left them.
Hayes whispered, “Chief, whoever’s up there is hitting from another zip code.”
Beckett looked through a jagged hole in the wall.
Hope is dangerous in combat.
It makes you want to live.
He keyed his mic.
“Ghost, if you can hear me, Romeo Two-Zero owes you a beer, a truck, and probably my firstborn.”
May you like
No answer.
Just another clean, distant crack.
