Prologue

Current USA ROEs demanded a spotter accompany each sniper on every mission. Kind of a two-is-better-than-one concept. A failsafe protocol. The spotter attending USMC Sergeant Shane Hayes that morning was Staff Sergeant Carl Schnitzler. Carl was an older, smarter man, with a wife and two kids waiting back home in South Carolina. Hayes, on the other hand, was younger, a couple months shy of E-6, and hadn't yet decided how badly—or if—he wanted the hash marks on his soul that came with each higher rank. With every stripe, he'd lost a part of himself. Not so much lost, as given those pieces away. Little by little, he was losing the God-given soul he'd once believed he had. Not good for a guy who'd barely had a soul to begin with. No, being a Marine ended every bit of the wishful thinker he'd been before… that day .

Talk about a day that would forever ‘live in infamy'.

Since then, he'd been nothing more than a highly trained killer. An assassin for Uncle Sam. There weren't many jarheads who were better, and therein lay the quandary. As good a sniper as he was, he wanted to belong to something more than the Corps. But the simple truth was—He had nowhere else to go. No one waited anxiously back in the States for him. For that matter, no one waited anywhere on the planet for him. Well, except for his USMC buddies. Carl might keep in touch, but most of his buddies weren't real friends. They wouldn't keep in touch, and he didn't blame them. They weren't snipers. It'd be easier for them to acclimate to life after the Corps.

Shane hadn't left anyone behind when he'd enlisted, no girlfriend, father, or mother. No brothers or sisters. No long-lost uncles, aunts, or grandparents. Not even a dog. Sure, he could make the Corps his dysfunctional family of choice and spend the rest of his natural life snapping out loud and proud "Yes, sirs!" to every CO's orders. He could kiss butt and ante up, could devote that barely-there, shred of a half-soul to gearing up and marching out to take down the next high-value target on his CO's list. If the worst happened, if he were to die on one of these assignments, on some foreign piece-of-shit soil, his Marine Corps buddies might miss him—until his replacement arrived. Maybe.

Hayes doubted they'd miss him for long though. They had someone to go home to, and that made all the difference in the life of a sweaty, stinkin' grunt. He hadn't made friends in the Corps. Hadn't tried. Why bother? Snipers were born loners, and that was all he'd wanted to be. If not born that way, they quickly turned into unwelcome, impersonal pricks, if only to save face in light of their dark skillset. They stayed clear of stuff that could get a guy hurt. Relationships. Comradery. Women who meant something.

Hell, he didn't even carry a wrinkled ‘if I don't come home' letter inside his cap, pocket, or anywhere on his person. No sense in it. There was no one to notify if he ended up KIA, certainly no one who'd step up to bury him. There'd be no woman or child standing over his grave, weeping or angry, wishing he were there or… or shit, remembering him.

And that, he'd come to realize, had been eating at him the most since he'd enlisted. Not the lives he'd taken, intentionally or by accident. But that he was so damned alone in a country that didn't seem to care that he served to protect their outspoken, sorry, entitled asses. America's politicians had failed its rarest commodity—the men and women who served them, who protected them, indirectly allowing them to lie and cheat the American public and sell influence. If not by words, then by profiting through illegal insider trading. Or worse. Honestly, the more news from home filtered into mess halls overseas, the more ashamed of America Shane became. Because of failure at the highest government echelon, the entire USMC family was dysfunctional.

But once upon a time…

A long, long time ago…

Hayes had known what a real family felt like. The Corps wasn't it.

Hell, he wasn't even sure now why he'd ever thought serving America was honorable. Yet he had, and he honestly didn't regret taking the place of the man whose life he'd destroyed. Years ago, in a dumbassed stab at honor, he'd joined the Corps to repay that debt. A blood debt. But now, with each sanctioned hit, each HVT he'd put on the ground or in it, he wondered how many more lives he'd have to take to truly make amends for the awful thing he'd done. How many HVTs would ever be enough? Would the day come when he'd finally given enough of his soul to repay, at least decrement, a portion of that eternal debt? Real question, could he ever merit forgiveness for what he'd done? Could he forgive himself?

Not likely. Not that it mattered. Going back now would be starting over from scratch, which was all he'd done these past few years. But being stateside had to be a helluva lot better than living out of a rucksack in dusty, dirty, stinkin' Afghanistan, didn't it? God, he hoped so.

Both he and Carl were scout snipers with the Marine Corps Security Force Regiment, garrisoned out of Naval Weapons Station Yorktown, Virginia. Their assignment: Guard the high-value assets below, as part of what some USMC bigshot had coined Guardian Angel Over-Watch . Today, that meant eliminating the terrorist who'd successfully passed himself off as a day laborer, when in fact, he was armed with explosives and hunting the US contractors tasked to rebuild the runway below.

Green-on-blue attacks on Coalition forces and civilian contractors had increased steadily during this protracted war, more so after the USA announced the Coalition troops withdrawal from Afghanistan. Blue being all NATO, ISAF, and USA forces. Green being anyone associated with Afghan security forces, whether Afghan National Army, Afghan Air Force, or the local police. Basically, Coalition forces suspected anyone hired or vetted by Afghan authorities.

Despite US military expansion of counterintelligence at battalion levels, as well as requiring all US personnel in Afghanistan to carry loaded weapons on their persons at all times, Taliban infiltrators persisted. And along with those infiltrations, US soldiers and friendlies were continually being murdered.

Ironically, US contractors were only at the airport today because of a previous Taliban suicide bombing. Somehow, two idiots on their way to paradise and that age-old promise of seventy-two eternally young and beautiful virgins, managed to get their explosive-laden mini-truck onto the runway, but only close enough to die trying. Like so many ill-fated bombings, they missed their intended target, but instead, took out a large portion of concrete. They'd only ‘killed' the two vacant jetliners parked nearby. And themselves.

If Shane had his way, it'd be homegrown Afghan boys down there fixing their own damned tarmac and risking their lives for a change. Screwed up mess was what this country was. He was fed up with watching America's best die for nothing, worse for the scheming USA politics behind what had become an endless war. Hence, he and Carl were currently bellies down, scopes up, and sweating like pigs on the uppermost level of the scaffolding at this end of the terminal. It had been constructed for the Afghan workers replacing the plate-glass windows blown out in that same failed bombing. Fortunately, it was some kind of holy day today, so no Afghanis were on the job. Only those USA contractors below, Shane, and his spotter. Only the wind and the stink and…

"Got him. Shaggy dark hair, but neatly trimmed beard. Interesting combination. Pressed denim jeans. Long-sleeved, ragged, brown shirt. Olive-green shemagh around his neck. Just dropped out of sight behind the stacked bags of concrete mix to your far left."

Carl's calm words jerked Shane out of his depressing reverie and back to the job at hand. "Copy that," he replied, his attention now focused on the stacks hiding the assassin and waiting on Carl to tell him precisely when and where to fire.

Yes, bags and bags of concrete mix, a veritable mountain of it, all to be mixed, poured, and troweled the old-fashioned way—by hand. Why not? Manual labor built this country with its current forty-plus percent unemployment rate among common laborers. They needed work? They got it by way of paid slavery. But that was daily life in Afghanistan for the masses. Only the rich lived the modern, digital, refined life, and much of that was sustained by sweat labor. Just not theirs.

Flapping sheets of opaque plastic hung over the scaffolding. That was all that kept Shane and Carl out of sight. No one knew they were there, not the construction workers they cared about, the assassin they were here to eliminate, the few airport personnel working today, nor the Marines on the ground standing guard over the contractors.

While Carl repeatedly calculated trajectory factors: wind, distance, temp, etc., Shane zeroed into his sniper bubble, the state of calm that preceded the incoming chaos he'd eventually create. His cheek welded to the top stock of his bolt-action rifle. His neck muscles relaxed as he let his rifle and that cheek weld support the weight of his head. Automatically, his inner sniper took over, controlling his breathing, making everything slow and easy, his mission pure and true. His direction of aim was right then holding into the slight breeze coming south-by-southwest to his location. As soon as Carl gave the word, he'd make the shot. The assassin below would be one and done, and those American workers would be safe for another day.

Only problem was that Carl was right then fielding stupid orders by radio from their safe-in-his-office-with-his-feet-up-on-his-desk idiot CO. Which was no damned help. Seemed Captain Clinton wanted Carl to shoot actual live footage of this hit. The jerk was loud enough Shane could hear him bellowing, "Use your gawddamned cell phone to take the pictures, for fuck sake!"

Not going to happen. Not with Carl as spotter. Especially not while Shane's eyes were glued solely on his target. Ensuring they both didn't end up dead was the spotter's primary job. What was Clinton trying to do? Get them killed to make himself look good?

Shane bit his tongue and let his annoyance go with the breeze. Carl was the true genius here. He had the wider scope of vision, not Clinton and sure as hell not Shane. His entire focus was limited to what he could see through his scope, which was a lot like looking through a cardboard paper-towel tube. Clinton could go to hell.

"Understood, sir. Copy that. Got my cell up and ready, you bet." Carl ended the call. It sounded like he'd slapped the mic on his collar and turned Clinton off. "Steady, dead-eye," he murmured, his voice low and firm in the way of all good spotters. "Reference farthest edge of left cement bags—"

"Are you sure those Marines down there know not to shoot back?" Shane interrupted without shifting position or giving up his cheek weld. "Did Clinton warn them we'd be here?" Like he said he would.

"No worries, Shane. I told Rowdy myself. Think I'd rely on a fuckwit when our asses are on the line?" Carl grunted like that was a no-brainer. "Forget Clinton. This isn't Hollywood and I'm not that kind of dumb."

Shane thanked God that Carl was older, wiser, and refused to kiss ass. Shane let what almost felt like a smile curl the corners of his lips. If he had his way, he'd only ever work with Carl, no other spotter. Carl made a damned good staff sergeant, but he wasn't staying on. Even he had higher aspirations—like getting to know his wife and twin daughters again. Shane just wanted to be back on American soil.

"Thanks," he told the man who was probably his one and only friend.

"No thanks necessary. Okay, again, reference the farthest bag to your left. Bottom of the stack. That rounded, black bump at ground level is the tip of our friendly assassin's boot. From that point, adjust a half meter to your two o'clock. Wait for it."

"Waiting," Shane breathed evenly, the adjustment made, the tip of the boot accounted for, and his universe narrowed down to whatever Carl said next. For now, Shane was looking at a round circle of empty space a half meter at his two o'clock, which put his aim barely above the stacks of concrete. He counted his heartbeats, and let his mind relax in what snipers called ‘bubble compartmentalization' , the ability to block everything in the world but his spotter's next command.

He didn't wait long. When the barest edge of that olive-green shemagh rippled above the stack, Carl ordered, "Send it."

Shane's right index finger depressed the ribbed curl of his rifle's trigger, and sent a .308 Lapua round on its way. "Sent."

"Direct hit," Carl confirmed through his rangefinder. "Assassin down. Let's move."

Shane didn't look for the body of the man he'd just tagged or the red mist a head shot incurred. Didn't want to know. Didn't care. Sniping wasn't sexy or cool like Hollywood made it seem. It was hard, dirty work, simply a necessary evil that hard men did in a world full of depraved and unnecessary cruelty. Whatever role that Taliban soldier had played in his family, home, or mosque was now just another bloody footnote in the story of Shane's life.

With this kill, his role of ‘guardian angel' was officially over. He'd decided. A smart man didn't need to see blood on the tarmac to know what he'd done. And Shane had done enough.

Together he and Carl stowed their weapons, gathered what little gear they'd brought with them, and dropped like shadowy wraiths behind the opaque, wind-buffeted plastic to ground level. Shane's boots had no sooner hit the concrete when Carl's radio squawked an incoming.

"Good shooting, boys," USMC Sergeant James ‘Rowdy' Wayne relayed. "Had my eye on that asshat all morning. Just a bad vibe, you know, but damn, you were right. The fucker had three weapons on him, two pistols under his shirt, one in his belt. He'd just taken aim when you ended him. He was gunning for the foreman, who's a father of three little kids, damn it!"

"Glad we could help," Carl replied, his tone as emotionless as Rowdy's was amped.

"That Hayes working with you? Was this his work?" Rowdy wanted to know. "Fuck, I'd like to meet that man someday."

"Could be." Carl gave nothing away. Sniping wasn't about setting records or one-upmanship. Shane never wanted to be another Chris Kyle. He didn't want the notoriety. He'd joined the Corps simply to replace the man whose USMC career he'd cut short. This was his way of paying back. Or forward. Whatever.

"Well, hell. Tell whichever USMC bastard took that shot thanks from all us guys!" Rowdy exclaimed. "Whoever he is, he's one helluva guardian angel. Glad he's on our side."

"Copy that," Carl replied smoothly as he stuffed the radio into his gear bag. "You got time for a beer before you take off?"

"Sure." Shane had no more than answered when Carl's radio squawked again.

"Shit. Clinton," Carl cussed. His chest heaved as he tugged the entire radio out of its Velcro pouch on his hip, hauled back, and smashed it into the concrete. "Oops," he growled as plastic pieces flew. "Guess they don't make Velcro like they used to."

"Yeah, but that radio'll still work," Shane told him. "It's ruggedized. Better pick up the pieces and face the music."

"Not as far as it fell, it won't. Didn't you notice? It dropped all the way down, from the top of the scaffolding. Dropped like a rock, and shit if I'm apologizing to that pompous prick for not filming you kill that jerk." Carl landed a solid kick that sent the battered radio into one of the many concrete barricades erected to ensure airport security. "You saw it slip. I'll swear to it, and so will you, but no way I'm picking up those pieces."

Grabbing Shane by the back of his neck, he pointed back the way they'd come. "Besides, live-action shots would identify you to anyone who'd view that clip. What if the Taliban got hold of it? They'd be hot on your ass, and you don't need shit like that."

Hard to argue with an intelligent man. "Clinton's a prick. I'm done. My contract expires today, and I'm not re-upping."

By then, they were at their MATV, their MRAP All-Terrain Vehicle. "I'm gonna miss you, kid," Carl admitted. "But I'm sure glad you're leaving this shithole behind. About time."

"Yeah," Shane replied, his eyes forward but his heart already in the air somewhere over the Atlantic. "How many days for you?"

"Twenty-one, and trust me, I'm counting the hours. I'll look you up as soon as I'm home. After I spend a couple months with my wife and kids, that is."

"See that you do. I should be settled in by then." Somewhere. I hope.

"You got a good job lined up?"

Shane shook his head. He knew a guy but asking this particular man for a job wouldn't come easy. Not this job. Not that guy.

"Any plans? Any leads?"

Shane opted for diversion. "Yeah. Not to be here."

Wasn't that the truth? He had nothing to look forward to but leaving Afghanistan behind, and the only thing on his to-do list was finally facing the man whose life he'd ruined. Because that was what he'd done all those years ago. It was time to go back and face the music that had been playing since that day in Alexandria, Virginia.