George paused, one foot hanging out of the pickup truck. His boot grazed the sand below as he sought to isolate the feeling keeping him in the driver’s seat. He cracked a knuckle and dismounted. 

        It’s nothing. 

        George moved to the back of the truck and struck its red-rusted frame with a fist. A body rose from its sleep amidst backpacks and weapons cases in the back, all bundled beneath a wrinkled, blue tarp.

        “Up,” George said simply. How could anyone have slept through that bone-rocking ride? 

        German approached from the other side, swiftly yanking the coarse blanket out from John’s legs. “Wakey wakey little upiór,” he scoffed. The Russian folded the tarp and tossed it into the passenger seat. “Like spooky movie–Nosferatu? Sleeping dead back here. No more complaints of little sleep.” He wagged a finger at the boy.

        John turned about, the undersides of his pale eyes a tired blue. His back cracked, and then he stood and hopped wordlessly from the truck. 

        George had received a number of complaints about the boy’s poor sleep–tossing about, muttering–it was starting to freak people out. But shit sleep aside, John was starting to warm up to subordination. Ever since the boy had Shahzar’s dirty thumb shoved in his mouth, he’d become oddly compliant. Probably just the fresh air that did the trick, the promise of more keeping him in line. It was a start.

        “Strap these to your rigs,” George handed each of the men a sleek, rectangular device–caela counters. A digital screen and column of configuration knobs appeared new-age on its matte surface. Fresh from R&D with more on the way, the counters were looking to be a new standard-issue for his unit if what they were after proved useful to Javelin.

        Lochte green-lit the operation to pursue Shahzar’s lead and locate this jeweler of black glass. Command understood so far that these crystals and caela research were linked, and therefore of some importance to Whitaker’s weapons project. If collecting some dusty fragments from a merchant’s shelf helped push things on from their past in Tanzania, George would help her. Lochte needed only to understand that the black glass was the obsession of Dr. Nikolaev–a personal connection verified and attested by Whitaker herself. George’s own exposure to the source of the mineral and his part in accidentally creating it were beside the point. The dots connected needless of his own testimony. 

        He should be able to breathe easy, but couldn’t depart from the thought that all of Javelin was beginning to link to a chain that would drag them under an inescapable current. 

        How undisturbed life might have been if Whitaker had died in Tanzania. 

        George thumbed the red trigger on the caela counter’s side, turning the device on to verify its functionality. The screen hummed a teal hue, displaying zeroed units of measurement in blocky, black text. 

        “Captain,” John nodded to the dust cloud approaching behind a ridge of rock ahead. It was still strange hearing his proper title from the boy’s mouth.

        George looked on. Horses–it was horses bobbing towards the hillside. 

        Shahzar. 

        George narrowed his eyes–Arabian horses–tall and thick-necked. They leapt over the rocks and dashed for them, heads shaking and chewing at their colorful, beaded bits. John and German tensed as the riders nearly knocked sides in their onward charge, but George marveled at them. The rural Afghan horses were often lanky, gentle creatures. These were broad–wild. Sport horses from the north.

        They dashed apart several yards from their vehicle, splitting into an encircling wall of dust and thundering hooves. Turbans of black, pink, and gray floated above the plume. Dark faces began to show in the settling dust, marked with thick moustaches and beards like downward, steeped hands. 

        Another horse burst from the line–the rider unmistakably Shahzar, his jade garb a fluttering flag. The silk cape lapped against the sunlight like water in a shifting oasis, settling over his steed’s haunches.

        “Captain George,” Shahzar called from his line of men. He relaxed in his tasseled saddle of blue stripes, grinning with both his eyes and teeth. 

        “Brought a little more than I expected,” George approached, hands on his hips. He eyed the tribesmen and their sullen, shadowed eye sockets, treading a clear circle around their Khan. Each man was peppered with color: lapis jewelry, silk cowls, and tunics, but none dressed so like Ahmed Shahzar. 

        “Few are as you and I,” Shahzar said in a raised voice. He gestured to his eyes with a finger, which then fell to George. “They see only what is in front of them–my brother struggles thus too.” Shahzar lengthened his neck over his shoulder to an approaching rider of an ebony mare who halted beside him. The rider looked much like Shahzar, but older, with cracked skin and higher cheekbones. Almost as eccentric as Shahzar, the man wore golden silks and sun-colored tunic and trousers. His arms were bare and dark, wrapped in cords of twine threaded through wooden orbs. Beneath his thick arm hair were rows of muddled script in black ink. 

        “Rahim, my brother,” Shahzar trailed his hand out over George’s squad as though the introduction were a blessing. A skeptic’s frown sagged the brother’s face. 

        George made a curt bow with his chin before speaking. “They joining us?” There were some fifteen men around them, their horses jittering with energy.

        Shahzar angled back to his brother and spoke something in hushed words, pointing to John. The boy straightened under the scrutiny, a tremor hinting in his hands. Dots of sweat on his brow betrayed his composure.

        “No,” Shahzar finally answered. He leaned over onto his elbows atop his white horse, fiddling with a bell tied into the animal’s mane. “Rahim must take these men west. They will leave horses for you to ride. I will take you to Darzada.”

        It was then that George saw the weapons slung on the rebels’ backs and rumps of their horses. New, shining gunmetal of American firearms–probably the ones George delivered some weeks back. 

        So his brother’s the soldier. 

        Rahim guided his horse out in front of Shahzar, eyeing John with unblinking, black rimmed eyes. They were the eyes of a man who could stare down a miracle and find fault. And so he did, as a moment later, he yipped a cry from the corner of his mouth and unleashed his black beast into a speeding gallop. The band of warriors twisted their horses into a whirling frenzy to follow, obscuring their departure in dust. George covered his face until the haze passed.

        Three horses remained beside Shahzar, their black eyes pensive. “We have a truck. Could just drive,” George said. He waved the last tail of dust from his eyes as German handed him his rifle. They each slung their weapons and hoisted their packs onto their shoulders.

        “You cannot be seen as you are–only as what is expected,” Shahzar answered. He turned and rummaged through a sack looped against his saddle. Three large bolts of folded fabric thumped against the earth, tossed from the nomad’s hand. “Cover yourselves. You cannot be seen as soldiers.”

        They each unfurled a dark, linen cloak. Far less extravagant than Shahzar’s, the fabric was drab and wind-battered, discolored from use. George dove his arms into the opening and fought his way out of the deep hood stitched to the collar. The cape covered his body down to his ankles, with fastenings made from stained wood running from the neck to his waist. Billowing sleeves concealed his arms to the wrists, too. 

        John seemed to vanish entirely in the shadow of his hood; two shining eyes were the only indicator that the phantom robe contained anyone at all. Looking at one another, their forms appeared shapeless, their jackets, gear, and weapons undetectable.

        The truck door sounded with a bang, followed by the roar of its engine. George whirled, catching a glimpse of a turban silhouetted in the truck’s rear window. The truck spat sand as it careened away and off in the direction from which they had come.

        “Captain–!”

        “Tch–” George hissed. He spun on the nomad, eyes alight.

        “You will not need it,” Shahzar held up his hand. “Your path will not come by this way again. Come.” The nomad pulled at the reins of the three horses, leading the animals out to them. 

        “We must go.” 

        Dammit. George squeezed his knuckles, cursing himself for being so distracted. He hoped to God that John knew something of horse riding.

        All eyes looked to him, and so he stepped forward.

        George took hold of a chestnut with white snowcaps descending from its head like an inverted crown. Red beads were threaded into its braided mane, its saddle decorated with straw-colored weaves. 

        German saddled a horse with speckled, white hooves with some effort. The horse stuttered its footing as German’s weight settled on its back. John, meanwhile, stood fixated beside the remaining dapple gray. 

        George chewed his cheek, petting the neck of his wild chestnut. He watched John beneath the horse’s restless head. 

        “Rycroft,” George called. “Know how to handle her?”

        The boy hesitated, his eyes travelling about the earth. His lips moved soundlessly, and he seemed to vanish somewhere else, then his jaw hardened. He looked at George and nodded. John lifted himself, and catching on the saddle for only a moment, found his place in his seat. 

        With a well-rehearsed move, George leapt into his own saddle. Impulse gathered up the reins in his hands as he adjusted his posture. The rich scent of animal hide lifted high in his nostrils. It seemed a lifetime ago he rode as a boy through a hundred summer days. 

        Okay, George. You're in control.

        “Take it easy and keep pace,” George called to his men, though his words were aimed mostly at John. “She’s an extension of your body. I’ll take up the rear–keep you from straying.”

        German nodded. John seemed energetic, his fingers wringing his reins. Shahzar trotted around the boy and leaned in to speak to him–the boy’s eyes flashed.

        “How long of a ride are we looking at?” George rode up to the nomad, attempting to combat Shahzar’s restlessness with a sturdy presence.

        “Not long,” Shahzar said. He angled his head low to George. “If we fly!”

        Shahzar swung a hand and slapped the rump of John’s horse. The boy rose in his saddle as the animal lifted and burst into a bolt of speed. Sand flung back, and he and the nomad were tearing downhill.

        “John!” George poised himself and set his steed hard into their path, ramping speed. Wind wailed along his face, bringing tears streaking out into his hair. He was a hundred feet behind, catching spitting grain in the breeze on his face and teeth.

        German’s shadow struggled in his peripherals. He wouldn’t keep up–only George could catch them. He pressed harder and pushed his chestnut hard into the wind–gaining the distance. John’s cloak flapped open and revealed a determined–aggressive posture.

        George snarled. He lifted himself from his saddle and leaned into the charge, using his legs to keep balance. 

        They rode into a dry riverbed winding into the valley. John nearly tumbled as his horse hopped down from a ledge onto the river’s hard mud floor. The nomad rose through the air with grace and kept pace with the boy. Pebbles now spat in George’s path as he too dove into the riverbed.

        A bend in the dead river neared, signaling his chance. He prompted his chestnut to leap for the other side of the stony troff, meaning to cut ahead. But these were the nomad’s horses, and they knew the land. As if they’d practiced this route a thousand times, the two horses ahead pivoted without loss of speed and renewed their gallop beyond the turn. George only managed to cut the distance between them in half as he jumped back into their path.

        Shahzar’s emerald cape soon came within reach, and then George was beside him. The nomad cackled over the roar of the drumming earth and pointed ahead to the boy.

        John was a few feet away–two arms’ length. He would have him soon. George split between the nomad and John, daring to lean forward. Just a little farther. John’s reins were almost in reach. But a look on the boy’s face kept his hand back.

        A big, childish grin lifted the boy’s face. In an instant, George found himself in a memory–deep in a Virginian trail, riding in a wild rush with his own fleeting glee. There was nothing to run from then–there was only the chase of a feeling, and the wind.

        He rode alongside him, befuddled by his own restraint. The boy whooped over the sound of mud shattering beneath their horses’ hooves, and smiled over at him. He’s just a kid. George rolled his head between his shoulders, easing the frustration boiling in his blood. He lifted his gaze and gasped, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. Ahead, a wall in the riverbend was fast approaching–too fast. 

        He snatched up his reins and grit his teeth. 

        At the final moment, their horses leapt, grazing sagebrush lining the rocky terrace. Their horses jostled and slowed without direction, canting into confused circles with their heads torquing about. John clung to the neck of his dappled mare, half terrified as he chuckled the rest of his smile away.

        “Focus,” George said sternly. He brought his horse around to curb John’s giddy waltz. “Check your gear. Not a dime goes missing from your pocket, or I’ll have you reassigned as a janitor.”

        George stared down the boy’s frantic switch of behavior. There could be no room for loss of composure. The boy had to learn; either act like a soldier, or remain a prisoner. Shahzar may have been the cause, but it was no excuse. At least the boy didn’t truly make a break for it; he stopped in the end. George worked his moustache to the side. He’s not dumb enough to try. 

        “The hell was that?” George snapped as the nomad trotted towards them. “Trying to break our necks? Could have killed the kid.”

        “Could I have?” Shahzar laughed. He looked knowingly at John, whose demeanor sank with sobriety. The boy clenched his jaw and shot his eyes to the horizon.

        “No more tricks,” George hardened his voice. “I want a direct route to this jeweler, and then you’re taking us to the rendezvous point–guessing you know where that is.” 

        Rocks tumbled as German’s horse clambered up the wall. The Russian swayed like a water balloon in his saddle, cursing and spitting and sweating streams down his reddened face. His horse seemed just as flustered, huffing and shaking as it struggled forward. German said nothing when he joined them, but gave the knife’s edge of a darkened glare at George.

        “Not a trick,” Shahzar said. He waved a hand about. “The boy must be shown the path and choose to follow–not dragged by rope.” He gestured to John. The boy’s face visibly warmed and turned farther from them. “See, he has a desire to–”

        “Right, Rycroft isn’t the mission–I want the jeweler. Take us now, or we radio out and break contact,” George cut the air with his voice. “No more tricks.”

        Their little camaraderie was cute, but a wild, dangerous distraction. That much became clear. A boyhood adventure did not come before their task and his leadership. George returned the dark glare to German, settling the matter–he hoped.

        The nomad’s brow pinched upwards, and he licked his lip, obviously unused to such brash demands from a foreigner. Shahzar chewed his spindled moustache and nodded, flicking his reins to spur his steed on. Each of them followed.

        Shahzar cleared his throat and spoke listlessly as he swayed to either side of the current of his horse’s jaunt, “Jagdal resides close to the city’s edge. We will take a North Eastern route into those hills and through farmland to reach him. Pull up your hoods–it will not be long before eyes find us.”

        They gathered into a cluster, walking for a time as their steeds regained composure. It was the Russian’s horse that most needed the steady pace, but soon they all set into a canter, and once the landscape evened out from the hills, they pushed into a gallop. 

        The valley became an inverted sky of green. The trees resembled formations of small, nimbostratus clouds as they passed by, overflowing with tiny branches that scratched the earth. The soil turned dark as they entered the farming fields and slowed into a narrow path between irrigation lines. Farmers watched like sunflowers turning to the sun. Maybe it was the glittering nomad, but they gave no sign of bother to their trespassing. They simply stood from their work and observed with narrow faces. 

        George tugged at his hood.

        The square of farmland ran directly into the city, and though a wall of trees separated them from the bustle of city life, two-story buildings and minarets emerged to peer down on them. George quietly appreciated Shahzar’s cloaks as they trudged on. They all hunched a bit more as they neared the other side.

        Parting through a wooden fence at the end of the path, they stepped into an alley surrounded by the backs of several mud-plastered buildings. Drainage pipes and plastic-covered wiring ran up walls of rough brick. Shadowed windows loomed higher, concealing any curious faces that might be watching. 

        The nomad dismounted, as did George and his squad. Shahzar took them along the fence to a single-story home nearby. An old man sat on the step of a yellow door with a crudely painted black star in its corner, watching two birds chirp in the treeline. Shahzar approached a tarnished bowl at the elder’s feet and removed one of his silver rings. It clattered loudly into the bowl. The old man looked up, then placed his hand over his chest and soundlessly rose to take the nomad’s reins. 

        George felt German’s befuddled gaze, but went along before John could hand his horse over first.

        Another of Shahzar’s magic rabbits, George surmised. The nomad certainly had an endless supply to pull from his hat.

        Leaving their horses in the care of the knobby-kneed man, they continued down the alley. Locals bobbed by in shades of white and blue. Some gave them long looks, but most only a passing glance. Their disguises must be for show, a sigil a safe passage under their peacock escort. Shahzar and his riders must be a common spectacle. The people might find the nomad to be a part of the local fabric, but a Soviet patrol would not be so indifferent if they spotted them. He hoped the Reds were few and far between by the way Shahzar led them so casually. 

        They turned off a busy road of lumbering trade mules and a merchant selling green parakeets in red birdcages. An L-shaped building sat at the end of the path, a black door appearing to yawn at their presence. Two more ancient colors peeled beneath the paint, blue and red.

        “This it?” George asked in a low voice. They halted alongside Shahzar, who looked on silently. George noticed the door ahead was slightly ajar.

        “Yes,” said the nomad. He appeared lost in his mind. 

        “This Jagdal–he expecting us?” George asked. He hoisted his pack beneath his cloak, checking the placement of his gear. “He’s one of your friends.” It didn’t seem like the nomad was going any farther, and George would like to know if three soldiers knocking at the door would be a welcome surprise or not. 

        “Expecting…yes. Go. I will get the horses. We leave in one hour.” Trance-like, Shahzar swooped around on his heels and sped back the way they came. The few rays of light that peeked over the roofs above bounced from his cloak in green waves onto the walls. In another instant, the color was gone, and they were alone in the shadowed alley. 

        “Don’t like this,” German muttered. “Can’t trust a dushman.”

        “Yep,” George pivoted, eyeing the structure of the jeweler’s home. The dwelling sat in the back of the alley, quiet and dark. It was an inky, black thumbprint in an otherwise vibrant, living city. 

        “Why not?” John spoke up. “He’s probably not home.”

        “How often do you leave the door open when you’re not in?” George said. “I figured you’d know the risk–good thing we’re not Soviets, huh?”

        John frowned and turned away.

        From this distance, the door didn’t appear to have been forced in. It only peeked at them, darkly inviting. George sniffed, “German, weapons low–safety on–I don’t want a scene. Contact’s meant to expect us. Rycroft–might need you to translate. We’re getting what we came for, and I don’t haggle. Keep us on time.”

        “I will,” John bristled. The boy’s brow was pressed into a scowl, and he pursed his lips, turning his focus to the jeweler’s home. 

        “I’ll make contact,” George pressed. “Keep to the rear and don’t move–”

        “Unless you say so,” John said bitterly. The boy pulled at his hood, disappearing beneath it.

        George scrunched his nose, but pushed ahead. He unfastened all but two of the top clasps on his cloak and lifted his rifle to a low-ready position above his waist. He half turned and motioned for them to follow. Together, their footsteps fell softly towards the painted door.

        Cold darkness pooled in the crack of the doorway. George stopped and listened. A dog whined in another alley. To their right, a conversation prattled on behind a wall. High above, a bit of laughter crowed and a window shut. But nothing emerged from the gloom of the jeweler’s home.

        He set himself against the wall and placed a hand on the door, preparing to push inward. German planted on the opposite side, rifle in hand, eager for George’s signal.

        “Keep quiet until we’re inside,” George whispered. “Rycroft–behind German. Stay out of the way.”

        The boy darted behind the Russian, his gray eyes peering over his bulky form. George exhaled and pushed. The end of his rifle scanned the interior in an arc. German followed, mirroring George’s steps to scan the opposite corners, followed by John. 

        Nobody. Not a soul to greet us. Had Shahzar stood them up? A sinking feeling weighed in George’s stomach.

        “Shut the door,” he said to John, and the boy did as he was told.

        A light begged their eyes to the end of the room over maroon rugs and slumped, patterned pillows spanning the floor. It came from an open doorway where a stairwell was revealed in the sunlight of an unseen window. The steps must turn down and to the right into a basement, George surmised. But two more doors sat closed in the dark along the way. 

        “Batoor Jagdal?” George called. He counted three seconds, then called again. More silence. “Jagdal? Ahmed Shahzar sent us.” 

        John stepped up and, following George’s unspoken command, called out in Pashto. 

        Nothing.

        “Watch the stairs,” George ordered. John slipped by, and keeping to the wall, angled a cautious look into the stairwell.

        George nodded to German, and the two formed up on the first of the closed doors. The home would have to be searched. No risks could be afforded. Once the two men were set in place, George reached for the doorknob and wiggled it gently, only for it to rattle.

        “Locked,” said George. “Next door.”

        George tried the handle. It turned with a click.

        Slowly, he pushed inside and was met with a stewing smell of iron and putrefaction. He looked to his boot, which had caught on something heavy. Bits of brass twinkled beside the girl’s dampened ankle, hooked on his foot.. George stood and entered the small bedroom.

        Bodies–they were crumpled together in a pile. The colors of the room were disfigured by blood, cast against the walls and swept over the floors. No footprints disturbed the scene other than George’s own, which shifted delicately into the room. His boots peeled from the floor with every step. 

        “Jagdal?” German said from the doorway.

        “Can’t say. It’s a family–maybe his. There are two adult males here. Two children–a woman.” George ran his fingers through a curtain on the far wall, glancing through the window. Blurry shapes of life moved about, unaware of the murder that had been committed behind this single layer of brick and plaster.

        “This is 5.56 caliber,” German said. George turned, his boots creaking. For a moment, they shared a look. Heat rose from George’s collar.

        “Check the bodies–look for anything. Let’s not linger.” George rounded the corner and took John by the arm. “We’re checking the basement, then leaving. We won’t be waiting for Shahzar. Keep close.”

        George thumbed the safety off of his rifle and angled into the stairwell. It was narrow, with tall, stone steps leading down to another corner. He could not see the basement. It would be tight below. 

        "Batoor Jagdal," George called once more from the doorway. “I’m Captain Davy. Give us a sign if you’re down there. Shahzar sent us.” He looked back at John, a worried look blooming on his face. “We’re coming down.”

        George aimed down the stairs. Dust drifted in his vision from the sunlight above like tawny snow, and a smell of rock and metal drifted into his nose. His heart pounded, but only a sound of dripping water grew louder the farther he descended. Once at the bottom, he breathed evenly for a moment, then turned the corner.

        A jeweler’s trove revealed itself. Soft sunlight cast from street-level windows over the disordered collection. Fold-out tables were set against the walls, covered in newspapers, worn tools, and hunks of unworked stone and raw gems. A large magnifying glass at the end of an adjustable arm was latched to a table’s edge, overlooking a ring held in a vice. A miniature anvil rested beside rows of quartz pillars, each a different hue. Boxes and mismatched, wooden drawers pulled from dressers were stacked in every available space, covered in layers of thin paper. If any black glass was here, it was littered in the disarray. 

        But were they the only ones after it? Someone beat them here.

        Only one way to find out. George thumbed the red trigger of his caela-counter, igniting the inside of his cloak with a flash of cyan light. The device responded with a slow beat of clicks.

        A twin rhythm began as John activated his own counter, having retrieved it from his rig. George did the same, unfastening his device and extending it out with his arm. The two began a slow walk along either side of the clutter, swaying their counters in wide curves.

        What if these readings are just interference, he thought, or a lingering signal of a treasure now stolen? 

        He and John met at the end of the room and frowned with disappointment. They turned and paced back the way they’d come, waving their counters. Once more, they met with the same leisurely clicks singing all the while.

        “Must be a weak signal,” George said, turning his counter over. Something had to be here; the probability that both their brand-new counters were faulty was too low. 

        “Captain,” John’s voice was small.

        George looked up to where the boy was pointing. The ceiling was marked in a deep red. What had sounded like dripping water before was indeed blood. Thick orbs of it gathered along the wood poles bearing the weight of corpses in the room above. Another drop plopped between him and John.

        “Russians.” The boy grit his teeth, watching the dark liquid trace against his boot. He knelt and dipped his fingers into it.

        “Doesn’t matter,” George said. He turned about and tried to crack his knuckle to no effect but a dull ache. They needed to get out of this mess–fast. “Check–”

        “–under the tables,” said John. “I’m getting something.” He was leaning over a stack of boxes, straining his arm out behind them. The clicks sputtered more frequently for a moment.

        “Good,” George moved beside him and squatted down. He ripped and pulled out stacks of boxes, letting them tumble back into shambles. In swift motions, he ran his counter over each stack, determined if it was ‘dead’, then tossed it aside. John abandoned his attempts at care, too, and began pushing boxes behind him, hunting the signal. Pebbles and cubes of silver showered out with a clatter as they closed in on the clicking growl. John crawled ahead under the table and waved his caela-counter again. The reading grew stronger.

        “There–”

        Boots thundered above. George snapped his head back. The noise that man is making–

        “Captain,” German sounded from the top of the stairs. “Found something.”

        “What is it?” George stood and unclasped the last fastening on his cloak, letting it fall from his shoulders. Damn thing was getting on his nerves. 

        “Come see.”

        He didn’t like that. Each borrowed minute passed with its pound of flesh. They needed to leave.

        “John,” George faced the boy. “Take my pack–throw everything in there that remotely gives a reading.”         George set his rifle on the table and shouldered off his backpack, throwing it to the boy. “Meet us at the top of the stairs in a minute. We’re leaving.”

        John’s face lit up, and he snagged the pack, diving back under the table. George pivoted and made for the stairs. 

        German stood in the doorway before the corpses, a step back so George could pass. He’d moved some of the bodies so that they lay evenly on the floor together. Each body was drenched in blood, their glassy eyes staring upwards with shock. 

        Still no way to identify the bodies. George scanned over them, searching.

        “The girl,” German said.

        George’s boot creaked beneath him as he knelt. 

        The girl’s mouth was swollen, her jaw awkwardly set. He reached out and touched the dead girl’s face, angling her lips into the light. Something was crammed into her mouth. 

        He shifted his weight, tightening his stomach against the curling smells, then used a gloved hand to gently pry the girl’s mouth open. Orange, blue, and white flashed in the gape of her mouth. He pulled a woven Javelin patch from her teeth, turning it in the light.

        Okay. Enough. 

        George stood. “John! Get up here.”

        The boy rounded the steps and tilted in the doorway, George’s pack in hand, jingling with loot. 

        “All this?”

        “Two boxes worth,” John nodded. A faint smile died on his lips as he saw the scene that George stood in. “All of it was crackling.”

        “Mhm,” George nodded. He pushed out of the room, resolved in his decision. They weren’t going to wait for Shahzar. “We’re heading out. Clear that field, and we’ll radio for extract. Whoever killed these people wanted us to find them, wanted to scare us–probably after all this–couldn’t find it–”

        “Captain?” Concern pinched German’s thick brow.

        John evaded him and moved towards the front door, stopping by one of the windows. He shuffled in place, looking out. Shapes glinted to either side of his silhouette.

        “These attacks,” George continued. “It’s not sitting right with me. All this has been too easy. No enemy engagement, no traps–simple clean-ups. These people, why go to this length–”

        “Captain!” German dove for him. 

        The wind was knocked from his lungs, and he landed hard on his back. His chest heaved for air as the room tore into chaos.

        Gunshots exploded through the front door and shattered the windows. Shards of glass dashed over them and unleashed piercing sunlight through the remaining teeth in the window sills and the punctured, black door. 

        George coughed and gasped, running his hands over himself in search of his rifle. German rolled away, his M16 belching white fire in George’s peripherals. 

        Where’s John?

        His fingers locked over a thick piece of metal–his rifle. On his back, George shouldered the weapon from the floor and fired. Wood panels of the door split and sundered into black, blue, and red splinters, blowing in all directions. Shouts rose and fell. The ends of rifles pointed blindly through the windows and unleashed a hail of metal into the room. George, on his side, fired piercing shots through the base of the windows until the gunmen either fell or retreated.

        A moment of emptiness stilled the room. George clenched his lungs for control. Somewhere nearby, German huffed, and another breathed with staggered breaths.

        Indiscernible yelling erupted outside. Feet pounded the earth and gunfire split the air once more–but not at them. George swung his feet under himself and raised to a crouched stance beside the wall, fixed on the open debris of the building’s facade. The sunny haze was harsh, but he could make out shapes of men darting in the alley. George chewed his lip and released the magazine from his rifle.

        The locked door burst open beside him.

        There a man stood, pistol in his hand and a twisted, sweaty grimace on his face. George shot his tongue to the back of his teeth. Shit. He was dead in the gunman’s sights.

        The stone split with ear-reeling thwacks next to George’s head as the attacker opened fire, and missed. Boots crashed over the floor, and a figure dashed from the shadows and tackled the gunman. German flinched aside, and George snapped from his paralysis to finish slamming another magazine into his rifle.

        Men growled and struggled in the dark. A draped silhouette shifted on top of the other. In a guttural fit, the hooded figure plunged his fists down and down again. Piercing through his curtained back, gunfire blew orange flame through him into the ceiling from below, but the man only screamed more fiercely and tore more violently with hands and nails. A futile, terrified sound howled from the floor. 

        George lunged forward. 

        He wrenched John up from the sobbing, bleeding man and half-startled at the sight of him. Two pools of darkness welled in the bastard’s eye sockets, and his lip was torn from his chin.

        German stepped over the wailing screams and fired into the man’s skull twice, ending the cries. They looked at each other, dripping sweat, hair in George’s face–their breath hard.

        A cheer rose outside.

        John shook loose from George’s grip and stomped off, a forced groan bubbling from behind his teeth. The boy’s wet fists dripped over the floor.

        “John,” George hissed. He swallowed, his throat dry. “Stand down.”

        Blood pooled against George’s boot. Jesus. 

        Only seconds ago, the red mass at the end of the gunman’s neck had George in his sights. It would have been over right then. Death had been a few feet away–his scythe angled an inch from his jaw.

        “An informant. Moodak was hiding,” German said, leaning into the room from where the man had emerged. “Radio, supplies–pillow! Days spent here at least.”

        George moved to stand in a shattered window by the front door, peering outside where a different scene had unfolded. Colorful turbans moved about, rifles paraded in the air and clapped celebratory gunfire into the sky. Horses pranced at the alley’s edge.

        Shahzar.

        George led them out of the building. Bodies lined the exterior, thrown against the wall and debris during the fighting. White faces and khaki uniforms. A death squad meant for them. 

        Yeger. Has to be.

        A black mare rode out from the crowd of silk-garbed rebels, a rider in gold in its saddle.

        “You’re alive,” Rahim said to the three of them. His face betrayed no amusement in their baffled and tired state. 

        “Yeah,” said George, shifting his attention. He nudged the arm of one of the dead soldiers, looking for any identification, but found none. “You were tracking them, weren’t you? Who are they? Is this…Yeger?”

        “Hm,” was all Rahim gave. Then he flicked his chin over George’s head. “The boy–he’s hurt.”

        John fumbled his balance with a tired look in his eye. Holes riddled his cloak and jacket, soaked red. Though George’s eye still adjusted to the sunlight, he swore he caught a glow beneath the boy’s cloak. John bucked forward and fell to his knees, vomiting black liquid into the sand.

        Rahim raised an eyebrow. He snapped his finger, and two bearded men moved towards John. George flexed his hand instinctively. 

        They knelt beside the sand that was now stained black and gathered what they could into blue bottles pulled from pouches worn beneath their shrouds, apathetic to John’s presence. They did not touch or look at the boy. George frowned.

        John shifted back on his knees with a stunned look on his face. He wiped his mouth and pushed himself to his feet. His eyes were alight, snapping to George as if he’d have some explanation for what they’d just witnessed.

        “Jagdal is dead,” George turned to Rahim. “My guess, at least. A whole family was killed. These men left them for us to find–part of their ambush.”

        Curiously, a flinch of emotion twitched on Rahim’s craggy face, but faded in an instant. The nomad’s hazel eyes flicked to him, “Go. Leave. Head for your camp–my brother will take you.”

        “The rendezvous point? I’d like our truck back first,” said George. “One of yours took it, if I remember right.”

        Rahim shook his head. “Go on horseback. My men will lead you from the city. You are still being watched.”