The highway unspooled before us like a dark thread in a vast swath of khaki. The unforgiving sun ritually punished the land, raising ghostly, shimmering waves above the endless sand and thick blooms of sweat under Toby Keith's arms.
"Jesus Christ," he drawled, slumping onto his seat in the back of the Humvee and fanning himself with his cowboy hat. "It's hotter'n a goat's butt in a pepper patch."
"Ain't that the truth," rumbled Larry the Cable Guy from the other rear seat. He too had dark half-moons under the arms of his cutoff shirt, and sweat beaded on his round face like dew on a lumpy cantaloupe. "Mat'r fact, it's hotter'n two rats humpin' in a wool sock."
I ignored the banter, too distracted by the passenger side mirror and the unfamiliar visage it reflected back at me. Thick, angry runnels of ravaged flesh covered half my face, giving it an unnerving melted appearance. The disguise was perfect; the face would be instantly memorable but no one would ever suspect who I really was. No one else knew I was here; no records would ever trace me to this place. I would be a ghost, a rumor shared in the mess hall and the barracks, a deadly whisper in the dark of night. Just the way I liked it.
Ahead, a rock formation rose from the sand, bracketing the road on either side. As we drove into it, a familiar tension settled into my guts. "Watch for-" I began, just as a low, dark shape darted in front of us.
The young private driving the Humvee yanked the wheel to the side to avoid it, but he was a fraction of an instant too late. A thump rattled the floorboard under my feet, accompanied by a high-pitched yelp.
"Shit," the private said, giving me an apologetic look. "I'm used to driving Bradleys. You can't run over a dog with one of those even if you try."
"They wouldn't have sent it out if we were in a Bradley," I muttered darkly. On cue, the Humvee jerked and a low grinding noise rose from the undercarriage. "Pull over."
As we bucked and sputtered to an uneasy stop at the side of the road, I did a quick once-over of my weapons. As part of the disguise, I was wearing heavy canvas cargo pants, a long-sleeve shirt and a flak jacket, all black; I felt oddly naked going into battle without my pantsuit, but it was too late to worry about that now.
"This wasn't an accident," I spat. "Someone was waiting for us. Toby, get on the .50 cal. Larry, you're with me on the corners. You -" I jerked a thumb at the private, "get under the vehicle and clear that carcass from the drive train. Move!"
We piled out, the private rolling smoothly under the Humvee as I made my way to the front bumper and Larry to the rear. I heard Toby begin to yell something from the turret, then all other sound was lost under the comforting chatter of the .50 cal. Bullets chewed the rockface opposite us, kicking up a cloud of fine dust. There was no visible target but I caught an all-too-familiar glint from the corner of my eye.
I cursed, ducked behind the fender, started searching for the sniper through the scope of my M4 -
- too late, the hiss of a bullet, Toby's head jerking back, his limp body sliding down and landing with a thump inside the Humvee.
How many singers had I lost over the years? Too many to count. So many their faces blurred together in my memory.
Regrets would have to wait. I turned back, began searching for the sniper again -
... and then, incredibly, the Humvee's rear passenger door slammed open and Toby lurched out. Aside from a bloody crease marking one side of his heavy brow, he seemed unhurt. I held out a hand to steady him; he pushed it away and stomped out around the vehicle into the open, unholstering his sidearm and waving it around wildly.
"Y'all think that's gonna stop me?" he roared. With his free hand he rapped his forehead, the thick knuckles making a sound like a iron doorknocker thumping against oak. "Gonna take more'n that to get through this here, you sonsabitches!"
"Damn straight!" whooped Larry, lumbering out of cover to join Toby and firing bursts from his M240B straight up into the air. The top of a human skull, a grisly trophy from a mass grave we had discovered earlier, was perched on top of his seedcap. "You fuckers done opened up a jumbo-size can of whoop-ass now! Bend over so my buddy here can shove his boot up your-"
A muffled whump and a corkscrew of smoke from the rocks cut him off.
I threw myself to the ground behind the Humvee as the earth rumbled with the force of the explosion. Charred bits of plaid flannel floated serenely in the air, unhurried by the wet slaps of gruesome rain pattering down around me.
I peered under the Humvee; on the other side, a single, blackened cowboy boot stood lonely vigil, smoke rising up around it.
I shifted my gaze to the private, still working feverishly to remove the mangled body of the dog. "Almost got it," he gritted, sweat pouring off his face.
"I'll keep them off you," I promised. "Just get 'er done."
I rolled to my feet and dashed around the front of the vehicle, heading toward the sniper's position. Rounds whistled past me but I knew none would connect; the sinuous serpentine gait was second nature now, burned into muscle memory by long years of experience. My hand reached down, gripped the familiar weight of my M11 service pistol.
Once the sniper was dead, I'd deal with his friends with the RPG and any other jihadi scum lurking in the rocks. If any lived long enough to tell me which cowardly cleric or clan leader sent them, I'd pay them a visit too.
The sniper rose to flee as I reached his position. I hobbled him with one shot to the kneecap and holstered the pistol; my ka-bar seemed to spring into my palm on its own volition.
Some people say sanctions don't work. I say they're using the wrong definition of 'sanctions.'
I smiled, lifted my blade, and got to work.
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