Prologue

My body sways in my seat as the Humvee bumps slowly along the dirt road, making its way toward our camp. The sweltering summer heat presses in on us through the windows.

I turn to the journalist sitting next to me and ask, "Where are you from?"

"Virginia." He smiles proudly.

"And I take it this is your wife?"

The woman in question leans across her husband to shake my hand. "Yes. Nice to meet you, soldier."

"You can call me Sheppard, ma'am," I reply, intercepting her small palm in mine and then readjusting myself in my seat, holding my gun to my chest. "So what brought you two over here?"

The man huffs out a laugh. "We're here to capture the human side of this conflict. It's one thing to report on strategies and politics, but we want to tell the stories of the people affected, the soldiers on the ground." I nod in acknowledgement. "I can understand that. There are many untold stories in times like these."

"I'm still very nervous though," the wife chimes in. "And we're so far away from our daughter."

"How old is she?"

"Two." She reaches into her pocket and extracts a Polaroid picture. Eyes so full of happiness stare back at me, the beautiful little girl with two blonde pigtails holding a stuffed duck in her hands standing proudly for the picture.

"She's beautiful," I reply as the woman brings the photo back to her lap, her eyes locked onto it. "Who is she with while you're gone?"

"A good friend of mine from college and her husband," the woman answers, fondly trailing her finger over the picture. "Our parents live too far away to watch her, and truth be told, aren't that involved as far as grandparents go."

The vehicle continues to roll along the rugged and uneven roads, forcing us to rock with the movements.

"Do you have children?" The woman asks me.

"Yes, I do, ma'am."

"It's hard to leave them, but sometimes we have to make that choice."

"I understand that more than you know."

Commotion outside of my window catches my attention and puts my senses on high alert as a man begins to approach the vehicle, his arms flailing high above his head, screaming something in the native language that I can't quite make out. He looks panicked, fear stricken, and desperate.

"Reddington, stop the vehicle," I order the soldier driving the car.

"We're not supposed to stop, sir."

"I'm ordering you to stop."

The vehicle slowly rolls until the tires are firmly planted in place, and I watch as the civilian freezes about thirty feet away. As I step out of the vehicle, a sense of dread crawls up my spine with each step I take toward him. But before I can even speak, he reaches behind his back and grabs a small device.

The deafening sounds of the explosion hit me before anything else registers. And then there's the overpowering stench of gasoline mixed with the musky scent of dirt, a smell that is unmistakable—and unforgettable.

Clouds of dust and debris are all I can see when I first open my eyes and try to blink away the disorientation of what just happened, along with the ringing in my ears. I struggle to grasp how much time has passed since the man activated his device, and then every one of my senses comes alive as the shock subsides and reality crashes in.

"Fuck!" I scream, rolling onto my side on the ground, frantically looking for the two journalists and Reddington, the driver.

What the fuck happened?

And that's when I see it to my right—what's left of the Humvee, what's left of the husband and wife and my fellow soldier. And there, next to me on the ground, perfectly intact except for its singed edges, lies the Polaroid. The little girl with blonde pigtails and soulful eyes stares back at me, her life forever changed.

And it's all my fault.