Heat waves rose from the baked, hard earth of the dry river bed the bad guys took. The empty ravine reminded Mike of a lot of other places in Afghanistan, dirty, dusty, and empty of life. This time the circumstances couldn’t have been worse, they couldn’t call for support, they were barely armed, and they were outnumbered. And they were tired, dehydrated, and the sun was doing its best to beat them down even more.

Mike remained on his feet as looked around the corner and into the wadi the bad guys had taken. He knew he should have gotten down on his belly to look. Anyone watching would have their eyes directed at head height, but he was too damn tired to lay down. They were out of sight for now, soon he would need all of his energy reserves. Without looking back for Tom, he began to run. It quickly turned into an airborne shuffle, a slow one at that. They’d still be faster than the Afghanis ahead of them. If they were smart, they would be looking for any kind of ambush.

At the next bend, Tom passed him and dropped to look around the corner. He was up almost immediately moving forward. Mike followed, listening for any tell-tale noises of troops on the advance ahead of them. Scattered among the tracks, Mike saw blood in the sand and dirt. Whoever was bleeding in front of them wasn’t suffering enough to lie down. But was it enough he needed help to move? He snapped his fingers and pointed down. Tom looked back, traced the arm, and saw the dark drops of blood. He nodded and kept up the pace slowing only as they approached the next bend.

Mike passed him and sneaked a look down the next section of the wadi. Two men were rounding the next corner. One man leaned on the other as they walked. He was limping, his man dress bloody. Mike faced around. Sweat streamed down Tom’s brow in dirty rivulets.

“Two men, one wounded.”

They picked up the pace to the next bend. The two Afghani’s were halfway down to the next curve. Mike pulled back and put his finger to his lips. With his hand, he signaled he would go right toward the wounded man Tom would go left toward the man helping.

Rifles at the ready, they slipped around onto the sandy surface of the river bed. The men ahead of them were oblivious to what was coming. Mike knew it couldn’t last. The two were talking, one encouraging the other. They would recognize something was coming soon enough that sixth sense everyone has when they feel someone's eyes on them would kick in. That feeling always made a person look, and the wounded man did.

The wounded man yelled a warning and pushed off the other man. Mike didn’t aim his weapon. He didn’t want the sound of his rifle to alert the men ahead. He grabbed the end of the barrel with both hands, lifted it over his head, and heaved it at the injured man. The Afghani's flinched and ducked. The rifle sailed end over end between the separating Afghani’s. Out of the corner of his eye, Mike saw Tom come up fast on his man as he faltered for his weapon.

Tom’s man was one of the RPG gunners. He raised the rocket launcher a few inches, then dropped it realizing it would be useless at this range. His other hand reached down, struggling to pull his knife from his belt. He wasn’t fast enough. Tom speared the man in the face with the muzzle of his rifle and crashed into him. The man tried to scream until Tom’s body fell on top of him, knocking the wind out of him. He tried to fight the quick short hammer blows to his neck, his hand taking the brunt of Tom’s strikes. Rifle flipped around, Tom crushed the man’s skull with several hard blows with the butt of his weapon.

Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

Mike heard the shriek and the struggle next to him. The man in front of him stumbled on his wounded leg as he tried to stand. That didn’t stop him from tearing the slung AK-47 off his shoulder. The barrel sliced upward. Mike dropped his hand and slapped the front of the wounded Afghani’s weapon away. He ran dead into the man, toppled him, and fell over him. The man tried to pull the gun out from between them, but it was too long, and he couldn’t get the end of the barrel pointed at Mike. Desperate, he let it go and hit Mike in the ribs. The first fist landed on Mike’s right side, then another to his left ribcage. The wounded man was strong and ready. Mike was ready too.

There was no freaking way he was going to allow these men to catch up to Al and Julia. Mike outweighed the Afghani, but that hardly mattered. There are no weight classes in a fight to the death. Rules and sportsmanship were for the ring. He struggled on top of the Afghani for a better position. He let the man hit him in the ribs while he slid his hands past the man’s chest and locked them around his throat. The Afghani kept hitting him, and it hurt like hell. The man's neck was hot and sweaty in Mike’s hands. The black beard scratched his hands as he cliched down.

The Afghani realized he was in trouble and stopped punching. He grabbed Mike’s wrists and tried to pull them away from his neck. The injured man pulled Mike’s hands off with a burst of strength. Mike jerked his grip back into place, catching a part of the man’s beard as he tightened his grip. Face red, the wounded Afghani again pulled Mike’s hands off his neck. Mike used his body to drive his hands down and wrap his fingers around the man’s windpipe. They made eye contact. The beginnings of desperation crept into his opponent’s face. The man tried again to get the hands off his neck but couldn’t. He bucked left and right, trying to upset Mike's balance. The Afghani’s grip on his wrists loosened. With the rest of his strength, Mike cinched down to finish the man. The Afghani continued to struggle, but he had nothing left. Drops of sweat fell off Mike’s nose onto the man’s cheek, Mike focused on that as he choked the life out of the wounded man.

The Army had taught him many things, to kill one of them. They’d trained him to call in bombs on people, shoot them from a distance or up close, use a knife, and even some hand-to-hand. Shooting a man was one thing. You almost got to the point where you became hardened to it. But watching the emotions cross the Afghani’s face as he died was something else. He’d never killed with his bare hands before. Maybe he’d become hardened to that too.

He breathed deep and hard as Tom slowly walked over. Mike pushed off the Afghan, straightened his back, and straddled the corpse. His boots were half buried in the sand.

Tom reached over, and Mike took the offered hand. He stepped over and away from the body. His gaze found the man Tom had finished.

“Fuck,” Mike said. He bent over, hands on knees, and took a couple more deep gasps.

“Yeah.”

With one last deep inhale, he held it, then let it out. “Let’s get going. Hopefully, they didn’t hear.” That had better be the case, he thought. With the AK and RPG, they were better armed than they had been a minute ago. They still were outnumbered and outgunned.

Tom stripped the bandoleer from the RPG gunner and looped the vest over his back. It had one round left in it and a rocket in the RPG. He held the RPG launcher in one hand and his rifle in the other. Mike slung his M-4 across his back, picked up the AK, and took a spare magazine off the person he’d killed. The spare magazine went into his back pocket.

“We’re a little better off now.”

They ran to the next bend of the wadi, and neither glanced back.