He tried to move his arms.

Nothing from the left side except a dull and nonspecific ache. Finn's arm moved, though. Just a little. He tried to will it to respond with

speed and strength and dexterity, but there was nothing like that. He couldn't actually feel the limb as he raised it. Only its weight, where it pulled on his shoulder muscles.

His wrist b.u.mped against something, and despite the overall numbness he could feel that. Some of it. Enough to know what it was.

Rock. Or maybe tumbled stone from when this cave was part of a market stall in some ancient time. Either way it was cold and unyielding.

In the shadows, Finn tried to remember the terrain of this place.Whoever lived here once had smoothed the floor and chipped back the walls, but it had all been abandoned long ago. Now the walls were cracked and debris lay scattered.

He'd been running through darkness; he remembered that easily enough. Running to get in position so his team could launch the ambush. All he had to do was reach the end of the tunnel, kneel behind a pile of old rough-cut sandstone blocks, and use his first shot to signal the attack.That was all. Simple. He'd done it so many times before, on battlefields around the world.

So easy a child could have done it. Something his experience and training should have guaranteed was smooth and without a hitch.

Except . . .

Except.

"G.o.d . . . I'm sorry. Please, please, please . . ."

Running. Stumbling.Tripping over obstacles that weren't where he remembered them being. He should have used his night vision. Finn knew that now. Knew that it was his fault that he'd tripped and fallen.

And accidentally fired that shot.

It was so stupid a move that if they walked off this, his men would never trust him again. If any of his team got killed because of it . . . ? His best hope would be court martial and discharge.That thought was a ladder that climbed down into some very dark places.

When he'd tripped, he'd hit something and lay stunned, sprawled and groaning, while his men died.

The darkness around him still seemed to echo with that single f.u.c.king shot.

And the screams that followed as all h.e.l.l broke loose outside.

When Finn closed his eyes, he could still hear it.

The deep ba.s.s of Bear's voice strangled into a piercing shriek.

Jazzman's voice, begging and pleading and crying.

Cheech Wizard's unbroken, inarticulate gargle of wet agony.

Were they still screaming now? Was that real or was he going out of his mind?

Finn stopped moving and listened to the darkness.

All he heard was his own shallow breathing. He held his breath, listened harder.

Then he heard the screams again. All three of them. Bear, Jazzman, and Cheech Wizard. Screaming with raw misery.

But the screams were far away. Down the corridor, or outside, or somewhere else.

How could they still be real? How could his men still be screaming?

Finn had no way of knowing. He was sure that he'd badly hurt himself. This could all have been a dream.The product of shock and injury and blood loss.

His men couldn't still be screaming.

Not after all this time. Not after all these hours.

No one could yell that loud for this long.

"I'm coming!" Finn cried.

Or thought he did.

But his throat felt dry and dusty. Had he managed to even make a sound?