Chapter One

Dust shrouded the sky turning the sun into an angry red ball. Eroded pinnacles of granite protruded from the ground like hungry teeth. A few stubborn bushes sprouted from the cracked stone. From my perch on a narrow ledge, I studied the Taliban’s fortified compound through the scope of my modified Barrett M82 sniper rifle, which I called Bertha. Shit! There were at least forty militants milling about and once again Captain Harris had sent me out without a spotter or any kind of backup.

I was pretty sure Pops had something to do with it. He hated being disobeyed and this was my punishment. The fact I might die didn’t seem to bother him at all. Yep, I was feeling the love.

My father also stuck me with the swell callsign of Scorpion. Ugh. After surviving seven missions behind enemy lines, the Scorpion’s exploits suddenly became common knowledge. Captain Harris was beyond furious. Me? I knew Pops was behind the leaks. He was trying to get me kicked out of the Army, but it wasn’t working. Yet.

Unfortunately, my father is a relentless bastard and that’s when the rumors started. Like, the Scorpion was a CIA assassin who had slain over a hundred people. Nope, that was Pops.

Or the Scorpion had killed six militants with a single bullet. I hadn’t and anyone who believed that was an idiot.

My favorite? I was supposedly a six-feet-five battle-hardened Navy Seal who got tossed out for insubordination and went to work for the Army. I laughed so hard, I cried. Seriously? Where did they come up with this crap? I’ll admit few people would think I was a badass sniper. I mean, I have silvery blonde hair, I’m petite and cute as a button. Pops calls it my natural camouflage.

Things got even more interesting after that. Central Command received my father’s urgent warning that a warlord by the name of Imad Shakur was planning on beheading an American soldier on live television. Captain Harris saw an opportunity for advancement and contacted the CIA directly.

Harris learned Pops was undercover as an arms dealer and he had located the captured Marine in a remote fortress in the Koh-i-Baba Mountain range. Pops requested my services and the next thing I knew; I was on a helicopter headed deep into Taliban territory.

Before I was dropped off, Pops sent me a coded message. He would be wearing a blue turban and tunic with Afghanistan’s football logo on his shoulder. He was the warlord’s honored guest and would be front and center for the execution. My job was to keep the militants off his ass while he rescued the soldier.

Knowing my father, there was enough C4 hidden in the crates of weapons he was selling to level the compound. I stiffened when two heavily armed terrorists dragged a battered American soldier up on a wooden platform and forced him to his knees.

Where was daddy dearest? A flash of blue caught my attention. There he was, armed to the teeth and sporting his scary smile.

A fat man wearing a black turban, and robes strutted up carrying a big ass sword. He waved it around and shouted, “Allah Akbar!”

“Allah Akbar!” The Taliban idiots sprayed the air with bullets.

I grinned. What goes up, must come down. Sure enough, a couple of the militants fell to the ground and didn’t move again. I loved it when they made my job easier.

I put the crosshairs on the forehead of the fat guy and quickly adjusted my scope for the increasing wind velocity. The instant he raised the sword, I fired.

The fat guy’s head jerked back, and he crumpled to the platform.

The crowd stared at the body in stunned disbelief.

I quickly took out the guards.

Pops yanked the Marine off the platform and all hell broke loose.

Boom!

Boom!

Boom!

Boom!

Explosions rocked the compound, and fireballs rose high into the air. Burning debris rained down on the compound, starting even more fires. The freaked-out militants were shooting at anything that moved; be it friend or foe.

I shook my head in disbelief. For blood-thirsty terrorists, they sure scared easily.

Kaboom! A fuel truck went up in flames.

Shit! The smoke was so thick I couldn’t see Pops or the soldier anymore.

A motorcycle suddenly roared out of the compound. Wearing his crazed, kamikaze smile, Pops drove like a maniac. The poor soldier hung on for dear life.

The militants jumped into several battered trucks and chased after them.

I shot out the front right tire on the lead vehicle. It swerved wildly, hit a rock and rolled over. Six militants flew out of the bed of the truck.

The vehicle following it veered to the right trying to miss the bodies littering the ground and ran into a rock wall. The militants in that truck bed were thrown into a row of bee hives.

Thousands of bees erupted from the hives and attacked the militants.

Arms flailing madly, the militants ran for their lives.

I grinned. That should keep them busy. Two down, four to go. I placed the crosshairs on the driver of the third truck.

The crack of a high-powered rifle echoed off the mountains.

The driver I had in my crosshairs suddenly slumped over. The vehicle spun out-of-control and smashed into a shepherd’s hut.

What the hell?

Crack! A cargo van slammed into the wall.

Damn. There was another sniper at work. Since the captured soldier was a Marine, I bet one of their Force Recon teams was here to rescue him too. Where was Pops? My eyes widened in horror. Oh, my God, he was heading straight for a cliff. He wouldn’t, would he?

Shooting off the edge of cliff, Pops somehow managed to stay in control of the motorcycle when it landed with a teeth-jarring jolt.

The poor Marine was bug-eyed and white as a ghost. I didn’t blame him. Pops had to be doing at least sixty as he swerved around several boulders and blasted through a herd of sheep.

Some of the dumber militants chased after him. I watched as they sailed off the cliff and went airborne for about thirty seconds before crashing into a dry riverbed. Kablooey! The vehicles exploded; rocketing shards of metal flew in every direction.

Between the smoke and flames, I lost sight of Pops. He probably had another vehicle tucked away. I swung my scope back to the burning compound. Several militants were yelling into their radios. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind they were calling in reinforcements. Time to get the hell out of Dodge.