Finn loved them more than anyone he'd ever known. More than his wife. More than his two kids back home. More than his actual brother, who was a fat accountant in Des Moines and would never have believed what Finn did for a living. Did for his country, for the world.

Bear, Jazzman, and Cheech Wizard understood.

Bitter tears filled his eyes.

The kind of love a soldier has for his battlefield brothers can't really be defined. Maybe "love" is the wrong word. Maybe there's too much romance and bulls.h.i.t hanging off that word, and there's none of that here. It's not about that kind of s.h.i.t.This was a fundamental thing; it went down to the DNA. Down to the soul.

Finn knew that if he could have dialed the clock back, he would have done anything in his power to keep from failing his men. He'd have done anything- any d.a.m.n thing in the world-to save them.

To spare them.

To take their place.

He blinked his eyes clear and stared at the landscape.There were people on the road. A man and two boys leading a string of goats. Beyond them was an old truck, wheezing along the road away from him, and with dull astonishment, Finn realized that it must have pa.s.sed him while he was walking.

Finn stopped and stared at it. Far beyond the truck was a cl.u.s.ter of huts, and beyond that . . .

A town.

A hot wind blew past him and he held a hand up to shield his eyes. Buried deep inside the wind was a voice.

Her voice.

What will you give me for what you want?

8.

echo teAm Guys like Bunny,Top, and me, we live in a landscape of war. Our lives are defined by it.As a result, we are almost always in a highalert state. It's a b.i.t.c.h, it wears at you after a while, but it is what's required of us and we know that we have the option of turning in our badges and hanging up our guns.

As if. We ran straight along the valley for two klicks, then split and began climbing the slopes on either side, running from one cover position to the next. We had no idea if the Taliban had scouts or spotters out here and we didn't want to find out the wrong way.

With every step, the noise sounded less like thunder and more like what it was. Heavy-caliber weapons. Grenades.

As we pa.s.sed the three-kilometer mark, the sound of the battle suddenly changed.

Fewer gunshots.

More screams.

And soon, all screams.

We poured it on for another half klick and then slowed to a predatory crawl, weapons ready, minds and hearts ready.

The screams continued.

Then the last scream dwindled down to a wet gurgle and faded.

Black towers of oil smoke curled up over the lip of the ridge directly ahead of us. And there, strewn among the rocks, I saw sunlight glinting on bra.s.s.

I signaled that I was going ahead and that Bunny and Top should cover me.

The path climbed a short hill that was shaded by the shattered remains of a fig tree whose trunks had been comprehensively chewed apart by gunfire. I ran to the trunk, crouched momentarily behind it, then went over the rise.

And stopped.

The scene below was a tableau in a museum of h.e.l.l.

Two of the three trucks were burning. From the driver's window of the lead vehicle, a charred arm protruded, the fingers slowly curling into a fist as heat contracted the tendons.

Men lay everywhere, like islands in a lake of blood. Blood was everywhere. On the ground, on the surrounding boulders, even splashed high on the walls.

Fourteen of them.

The ground was littered with thousands of sh.e.l.l casings and spent magazines. All of the magazines were the banana clips of the AK-47. As I moved down the far side of the ridge, I bent and picked up a sh.e.l.l casing. It was a 7.62 round. From their guns. I didn't see any sh.e.l.l casings from M14s or M16s.

Nothing moved except smoke wandering on a sluggish breeze.