They Threw Her From a Helicopter at 12,ooo Feet Then She Walked Back With the Evidence That Destroyed Them. – Page 2

My GPS screen was dead.

My rifle was gone.

Sidearm still holstered.

Knife still there.

Two magazines.

One compression bandage.

Half a canteen.

A busted flare.

A packet of electrolyte powder because some supply officer somewhere believed in optimism.

Good enough.

I pushed myself upright and nearly blacked out.

That annoyed me.

So I stayed awake out of spite.

The ravine was narrow, steep, and hidden under a shelf of rock. If enemy patrols swept the area, they might miss me unless I did something stupid like bleed brightly or breathe loudly.

I checked my arm.

Not cleanly broken.

Bad sprain or hairline fracture.

Usable if I hated myself enough.

I hated Whitaker more.

That helped.

My harness buckle hung from my vest.

I pulled it close and saw the cut.

Not torn.

Cut.

Clean slice through the retention strap.

Military-grade webbing doesn’t fail like a cheap Walmart backpack.

Someone had used a blade.

Someone who knew exactly where to cut.

I took the damaged strap, folded it, and shoved it into my inner pocket.

Evidence.

A stupid word to think about while lying in a mountain ravine behind enemy lines.

But I was still American enough to believe paperwork could ruin a criminal faster than a bullet.

The storm muted everything.

Gunfire popped somewhere east.

The crash site burned somewhere above.

My team would think I was dead.

Command would mark me KIA.

Whitaker would mourn me in front of everyone, probably with that careful face officers use when they want cameras nearby.

He would call me brave.

He would call my death tragic.

He would call the mission compromised and redirect blame toward weather, insurgents, mechanical failure, bad luck, maybe God if he got creative.

I stood.

My knees buckled.

I grabbed the rock wall and breathed through my teeth.

No drama.

Just inventory.

Move.

Hide.

Water.

Assess enemy.

Find team.

Expose traitor.

Do not die before making him regret his haircut.

The first patrol came twenty minutes later.

Three men moving fast through the rain, rifles up, boots slipping on the stone. They spoke quietly, not English. One held a radio. One had a flashlight covered in red film. One kept looking uphill toward the crash.

They were searching for survivors.

Not rescuing.

Searching.

I pressed myself under the rock shelf, mud soaking my sleeves, knife in my right hand.

The lead man stopped two yards from me.

His light passed over the ravine.

Once.

Twice.

My lungs demanded air.

I told them no.

He stepped closer.

A drop of my blood fell from my sleeve onto a pale stone.

He saw it.

His head turned.

I moved first.

I didn’t fight fair.

Fair is for bowling leagues and divorce court.

I pulled him down hard, drove my elbow into his throat, caught his radio before it hit stone, and dragged him into shadow.

The second man turned.

Too late.

I used the first man’s body as cover, took his sidearm, fired once into the dirt near the third man, and let the echo bounce wild through the ravine.

Panic did the rest.

The third man shouted, stumbled backward, and fired blind at shadows that weren’t me.

Rocks shattered above my head.

I crawled under the ledge, waited for him to reload, then threw a stone down the opposite slope.

He fired toward it.

I was already moving.

By the time they figured out the mountain hadn’t shot back, I had their radio, one extra magazine, and a direction.

East.

That’s where their voices kept pointing.

East was where my team had been flying.

East was where Whitaker would lead them into a box.

The radio crackled.

I caught one English phrase through static.

“Package secured.”

Not informant.

Package.

That confirmed it.

The mission was never a rescue.

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