PART 7
In the TOC, someone cheered.
Miller shut them up.
“Not yet.”
He was right.
The Engineer had not built his reputation by failing once.
Through the smoke, I caught movement on the upper ridge.
A man in a white scarf.
Not running.
Watching.
Protected by two fighters and a tunnel cut into the rock.
Tariq Al-Hassan.
The Engineer himself.
He turned as if he felt me looking at him.
Then he smiled.
He knew the shot would expose me.
He wanted my name on the air.
He wanted the Ghost of Yemen confirmed alive.
The fighters around him lifted a black flag.
Not for victory.
For a camera.
They were broadcasting.
My cover was already burning.
Miller came over the radio, quieter now.
“Riley, you can pull back.”
My jaw tightened.
Below me, four hundred men were still trapped.
“No,” I said. “Not while he walks.”
Al-Hassan moved toward the tunnel.
I shifted, but dust kicked against my optic.
The canyon wind twisted hard.
My breathing slowed.
One chance.
That was all.
Walsh’s voice broke in.
“Callahan.”
I almost ignored him.
Then he said,
“Riley. Please.”
There it was.
Not sweetheart.
Not lunch lady.
My name.
I fired.
Al-Hassan dropped at the mouth of the tunnel.
The flag fell with him.
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For a moment, Devil’s Anvil stopped being a trap.
It became a battlefield the Americans owned again.
