Chapter 3: How had they known
Home, Tom and Al
Present
How had the bad guys known? It was a question he asked himself every day. Every day when he'd been a drunken mess and every day after when he'd pulled himself halfway together. The anguish he'd felt over Paul's death was compounded by the constant thought there shouldn't have been an ambush. There was no way the bad guys could have known his Team was coming, but they had. What should have been a sure thing had turned into a goat screw.
The Tal Bez Valley had been as peaceful a place as Mike Mason had ever seen when his Team's gun trucks entered the Valley three abreast and traveled up into the center of the Valley.
The HVT's tents were right where they were supposed to be. Weeks of planning and rehearsals culminated into perfect execution from the start. The Team's schedule to raid the enemy camp was only a little off. Except. No people, no equipment, just empty tents. That's the moment it turned into a shit show.
Obligated to attend the debrief after the battle, he detailed everything before, after, and all that took place in the Tal Bez Valley. They held Paul's body back until the accusations and counter-accusations were over so he could accompany the casket back to the States.
No one stayed up sleepless nights agonizing for Paul's return back home. Divorced with no kids, Paul’s only family was the brother who got him killed.
After the service at Arlington National Cemetery, Mike gave up on himself. One more white tombstone among the thousands, but that one meant everything. He alienated his wife, kids, and friends. Alcohol became his refuge. Finally, wallowing in self-pity, he chose to move out into the country like a fucking hermit. All because he couldn't stop thinking of that question. How had they known his A-Team was coming?
The reality of it was he might never know. It didn't stop him from agonizing over how the High Value Targets and their soldiers knew and laid in wait for his Team. Paul's death ruined him. After he redeployed from Afghanistan, the divorce was inevitable. He wasn't the same man. Humor, kindness, patience, all of it replaced with anger. His wife and kids didn't deserve what they got, no one did, but Mike's explosive anger was all he had to offer. He knew he shouldn't have treated them the way he had. They only wanted to help. In his messed up head, no one who hadn't met the kind of loss he suffered should be given to opportunity to help. And certainly, no one who had got his own flesh and blood killed should get help.
That was the past. Seated at a bar at Regan International, he held a slight glimmer of hope. He was going back to Afghanistan. It didn't matter that the Taliban were back in charge. The time had finally come to find the people who killed Paul and ambushed his Team. In his heart, he knew if it didn't happen this trip, it never would. The old feeling pressed tight into his chest. The thought of never avenging Paul made him gasp for breath. Whenever it happened, it got to the point he had to sit down and force calmness. He would close his eyes and follow his breath, follow the air in and out. Some called this meditation. It was far from constructive for him unless hate and pain were good for the psyche. That's where the alcohol came in. It took the sting away.
Finally, after years of asking people he knew in the intel world, they passed him some information. They now knew the names of Afghani's who planned and initiated the ambush. The report also indicated these men were in northeast Afghanistan. And, finally, they were somehow involved in the drug trade. It wasn't much to go on, but it was all he needed to spur him to ask for a job overseas. He had made a name for himself by that point, not a good one. There were no takers.
After the ambush, his Team had searched for a week, but nothing had come of it. The men who'd run into the bamboo all disappeared. His brother was dead, and there would be no retribution.
Inseparable after their parent's death, Mike took the lead as was his right as big brother. Paul took their deaths hard, so had he, and they grew far closer than what their relationship had been before. When it happened, Mike was nine, and Paul had just the week before turned eight. Mike didn't remember who started it or how it happened, but from then on, they were always together, refusing to be apart. They finished each other's sentences, even into adulthood. To some, it might have seemed odd. It only made the two brothers laugh harder at the confusion of others. School had been difficult, but they always found a way to be together, if not during, then before, and after. They double-dated. They dated each other's ex's more times them Mike could remember. Trouble found them, they found trouble, but they always did it together. There were ups and downs, but they always found a way to remain best friends. When Paul found out his brother was joining the Army, he immediately decided to join up. Only, as he told Mike, he wanted to join the Marines to be with the best of the best. A little dig on his older brother, but that's what brothers are for, to one-up each other if they can so they can lord it over the other. Seated in the metal stands at Paris Island, Mike had never been prouder as his brother marched past, no longer a recruit but a Marine.
Reminiscing was useless and stupid, and he did it anyway, every damn day. He hated it, and under the right circumstances, alcohol, he hated himself. His brother had been his biggest fan. Paul always attended whenever Mike graduated from a military school like Airborne or the Special Forces Qualification Course or was promoted in rank. Once Paul joined the Marines, Mike did the same for him. The distance from Fort Bragg to Camp Lejeune was only a few hours’ drive. On weekends Mike would drive down to Lejeuene, or Paul would make the trip up to Bragg. They would always be up in each other's business. When they settled down with houses, wives, and children, in Mike's case, they still found the time.
And now Mike sat alone in a bar at Regan International, staring at his beer, loathing himself for his lack of self-control. He would have just one, he'd told himself. Condensation ran down the tall glass, soaking the coaster and the bar around it. The foam that had edged over the rim was long gone from the warm beer. He knew himself. He lacked the discipline to drink one to enjoy the moment of delight in a bitter IPA. He'd taken too many falls from the proverbial wagon with the reasoning of, I'll have one for Paul's memory, and only one. He didn't have the restraint to drink only one, another reason he hated himself. He built his whole career on self-discipline and took pride in his ability to endure any hardship. He passed so many mental and physical tests in the Army, but he couldn't beat this alcohol. It won every time. Whenever he was in the mood, usually in a dark place, he would order a drink and stare at it. He would will it to try and break him, will himself not to break. Almost always, inevitably, the booze won.
This time was different. There was too much at stake. This would be the final test. Mike willed himself to leave the beer untouched until he left to meet his connecting flight. If it did, Mike would have won again his streak of over thirty days free and counting. The truth was it was knife-edge close between walking out and someone carrying him out.
He lost all hope soon after returning to Fort Bragg. It didn't take long to figure out the powers that be wanted him to retire. After the way he acted, he wasn't surprised. Tact wasn't one of his strong suits. It didn't matter. There was no reason to stay in. And, if he had, no officer would send him back to settle a personal vendetta. He could have gone back as a contractor, but then how would he track down Paul's killers? Or he could have gone back as a private civilian, and then what? No matter how he got there, that was the easy part. Searching for and finding Paul's killer on his own would be a next to an impossible goal. Then the Taliban took over, and it nearly ended him.
He'd retired, tried to ruin his life, and bought a house in the country with the insurance he received after Paul's death. Paul told him that his ex-wife wouldn’t get a dime if he ate it. Since he had no kids, the insurance money went to him. When the check arrived, it felt like another slap in the face. His brother died because of him, and he reaped a reward for it.
Rage, bitterness, and fury boiled within him every day. At times anger overwhelmed him, violent anger at the loss of his brother. For the first year or so, Mike could and would snap at anyone, strangers, and family. It didn't matter. The overwhelming sense of loss and his anger destroyed his personal life. For a while, he figured it was a short trip to prison or worse if he didn't get it under control. Either outcome seemed a certainty until he realized something, maybe not profound, but meaningful. His anger meant he was alive. It gave him purpose. Unlike despair and depression, they sucked the life out of him. He could barely get himself out of bed the day’s depression hit him full on. But, with anger, he felt it, life. Not the healthy attitude another person might feel, but it was all he had. With his anger, he could channelize his rage to set a goal. If life meant an anger-fueled focus, Mike accepted. He kept up his skills, guns, blades, hands, feet, everything he would need if the day ever came. There might only be a 1% chance of enacting revenge. 1% wasn't nothing. If the day came, he would be ready. Worrying about the festering questions in the back of his head didn’t do any good. Would he really be ready? Would the day come? Training became an obsession and one of the only things that got him out of his house and interacting with people. He had money and time to focus on what was important to him. He didn't need anything else except the opportunity to fulfill his purpose.
The time after the day’s work was the worst. The exhilaration of each day was like a new drug. He would struggle to cram as much physical training into each day. The daily goal became conquer at least one skill. Don't think too far ahead. But, the sense of purpose slowly diminished as each hour passed. With night came dread. Despair always replaced anger. The two-beer limit became three until he no longer counted. Finally, beer wasn't enough to make him forget. The time between dinner and sleep was the worse. Anything could and would provoke the memory of the Tal Bez Valley, the ambush, and the death of his brother. It played in his mind over and over until he passed out. Come dawn, he forced anger, his life force, back into his cloudy mind. Anger and the hope he would find Paul's killer. The cycle repeated itself until it was all he had. It was a constant battle to eat right and stay in the best physical condition he could muster. It was all he had while his demons led him down the path of doubt and self-pity.
Then, a month ago, out of the blue, an old friend threw him a lifeline in the form of an email. It's cliche, he knew, to see his salvation come from out of nowhere. But that stuff happened, or it wouldn't be cliche. And here he was in a bar at Reagan.
Hope was the thing that got him to Reagan. It would get him on a plane where pain waited for him and maybe atonement.
The realness of it was hard to fathom. Too many times, he'd dreamed about going back, knowing it was more fantasy than possible. An email and a quick phone call was all it took to get him to leave his garrison house in the woods. A simple message from an old friend, if you want vengeance for Paul, this is your chance. Al didn't give many details. Mike didn't ask. Revenge for Paul was all he needed to hear. And, on an unsecure line, Al wouldn’t say much anyway. Meet him at Reagen, and all would be explained, like how they would get in country and hopefully out again. Maybe it was all a pipe dream, but he couldn't afford not to make the attempt. This would be his only chance. He was sure of that. Whatever Al had in mind, he had contacted Mike. No one else had. In a small corner of Mike's mind, he knew something didn't smell right. He was nothing special, a burned-out old SF guy with little to offer anyone, especially someone who worked for the CIA and could hire any number of people.
Why they wanted him, Mike didn't care. All Al had to do was mention Afghanistan and Paul in the same sentence, and Mike was in. He didn't care what he would have to do or who he would have to kill, but it would probably get messy, maybe deadly, since Al called him of all people. Again, he didn't care as long as he got closer to what he wanted. All this took about two seconds to consider while on the phone. He was going. After that call, he knew what he had to do.
He had gone cold turkey. Why he had to wait a month before they left, he didn't know, and Al wasn't willing to tell him on the phone. It had been hard, the drink called him every night, but the waiting had been worse. Both hands shook for weeks when it got late at night, and the urge to have one drink and one drink only came on him. He resisted. He wouldn't allow any form of weakness to stop him now. Nothing and no one would get in the way of finding Paul's killer. If the mission Al wanted him for was bullshit, Mike would bail and find another way. This was it. There was no going back unless he found Paul's killers. He would lie, steal, cheat, whatever it took to get him to his target.
He never gave much thought to the inherent danger of twenty plus years in the military, specifically in Special Forces. There were plenty of close calls in training and in war, but he had always survived, and truth be told, he became more resilient, tougher for it. But, the Tal Bez shook him to his core, not only the pain and anguish of his brother’s death but how he handled it. He always considered himself a survivor, someone who could not just function but thrive under any setback, opposition, or hardship. Paul’s death proved otherwise. Sitting in the airport, he had to consider, did he care if he came back? He wasn't sure. And if he did return home, did he want to start a new life? What was a new life? Would a new life mean anything if the man responsible for his brother's death wasn’t dead at the end of it? It wouldn’t be a suicide mission if he could help it, Mike didn't think he wanted to die, but he wasn't afraid of it.
A familiar face plowed through the airport crowd. Even the most inattentive commuters sensed him and shifted around him. Maybe it was because he looked like an inside linebacker searching for an opposing player or maybe they just knew he wasn’t going to move first. Eyes fixed to his front, he never broke stride. Ten years Mike figured since he'd seen him last. A little grey stood out between the sandy brown of his hair and beard, but he hadn't changed. At six foot five and 245 pounds, Tom Lane looked in great shape. Mike wasn't surprised. For a man in his mid-forties, he didn't look like he'd lost a step.
Al's voice on the phone had been off, and now this. It wasn't a fluke. A former Teammate and veteran of the Tal Bez walked down the same concourse where Mike sat in a bar to catch an International flight.
"Tommy Balls," Mike shouted.
Startled patrons looked up one spilled his drink on the bar causing more eyebrows to lift.
The tall man stopped and turned. The frown on his face turned into a broad smile, and he strolled into the bar.
“Well, well, M&M. What a coincidence."
“Is it? Mike stood a big smile on his face the years washed away seeing his friend again.
Tom reached in, and the two men bro hugged with ample hard back slapping.
"Have I ever mentioned how much I hate the name Tommy Balls?"
Mike laughed. "Probably as many times as I've told you how much I hate the name M&M."
"Yeah." Tom chuckled.
"Coincidence, huh?"
Tom shrugged and dropped his head to the right. "Not exactly."
"Al gave you a call," Mike said. "He wanted you to back me up?"
"I'm not sure about that, and I'm sure you know more about this than I do."
"Uh-huh."
Tom always was a shitty liar. Mike let it go. An airport bar wasn't the best place to wring out the details of what Al had going on and Mike’s emotions and desire to believe his friend might have shifted.
To change the subject, Tom saw his chance on the soggy coaster.
"I thought you quit?"
There was a hint of concern in Tom's voice. He looked away as if embarrassed and not to draw attention to the concern or the offending glass of beer. Although, Mike thought, he did bring it up intentionally. A little niggle of anger tried to come out.
Mike found it irritating that his personal failing was something to be criticized by someone other then himself. And how did he know Mike had quit anyway? Mike stared at the carpet to get his anger in check. Tom went right at his weakness, and Mike felt it deep down. That weakness made him vulnerable. The skin on the back of his neck began to sweat.
"Hey, I didn't mean anything by it."
Hands behind his back they formed into fists, the tension needing release. Mike steadied, now was not the time to lose it. Control, it was all he had, and he would need it to get what he wanted. Find Paul's killers. Nothing good would happen if he let it out here.
"No worries, it hit me wrong."
How the hell did Tom know? Of course. Al. For whatever reason, he told Tom. Now was not the time to get into it. Tom was one of his oldest friends, and he didn't deserve Mike's wrath. They hadn't seen each other in ten years because of his anger and his total dissociation from everyone he knew. Tom would have stayed with him, helped him, done whatever it took to bring him back from the brink if Mike had let him.
They sat at the bar a little more cautious now.
Finally, Mike said, "Sorry, man, I got some demons I'm trying to work through."
"I get it. I got my own demons." A familiar smile spread across his face. "The latest one, her name is Sara. She's cool, but her entire family is completely insane."
They chuckled together.
Knowing Tom's taste in women, it wouldn't surprise Mike if Sara weren't a little nutty too.
Glancing at his watch, Mike stood. "I guess we should be heading to our gate. I never got a straight answer from Al. Where's our ultimate destination now that the Taliban run things over there?" He studied the faces of the people walking down the concourse. "I'm a little surprised we haven't seen him."
"Things changed. We'll meet him in Dubai." Tom grabbed his carry-on. "Sounds good. Let's get going."
Mike paid, and they joined the crowd in the concourse.
"Dubai, huh?"
"He called me last week. He's getting things set up."
Mike locked eyes with the taller man. Three inches in height wasn't near enough separation for Tom not to see the distaste settle on Mike's face.
“Funny, he didn’t call me. I've known you a long time. What else aren't you telling me?"
"You're going to be pissed."
"More pissed if you don't tell me?"
Tom shrugged. "Fine. I found out about this thing the same time you did, but I was always going. You, on the other hand, Al wasn't going to call you."
"Hmm." Eyes locked in front of him, Mike pushed his anger and fear away and stayed silent. He might not have been called? He wouldn't have been able to go? It felt like a kick in the gut. If the mission had gone and he wasn't there, it would have killed him.
"He checked in on you on the sly, saw where you were at, and backed off."
"And?"
"And I told him, you're in, or I'm out. And that's the way it is."
"Still sounds fishy. Why us? They got guys."
Tom's voice dropped to a whisper. "He had no option. He needed someone who knew the Tal Bez. According to him, no one else on the Team was in a position to go or wanted to go. So, I told him you're coming."
"The Tal Bez. You know what that place did to me."
"I know."
"And he agreed."
"Here you are."
"So you're my defender." Mike looked up. "And my babysitter, in case I'm not 100%."
"I wouldn't say that. More like, I'm looking out for a friend who's gone through some hard times. Or, more succinctly, I have your back like you have mine. That's it."
It took a few steps for Mike to process it and accept it. “Thanks. And thanks for getting me on this gig."
"Not a problem. You'd do the same for me."
"You mean to get me involved in going back to the worse place in the world and maybe get myself killed?"
"That's the spirit. A positive attitude is all anyone can ask for."
Mike smirked back. "Funny. And, succinctly? What, you got an English degree from some Ivy League school since I saw you last?"
"I'm full of surprises these days." Tom grinned back.
It wasn't much. But, this was the kind of camaraderie Mike missed during those long years wallowing in his pain. It felt good. Maybe, besides the obvious, something good would come of this trip. Still, he held back, he wouldn't allow himself to open up too much, Tom felt the same. No doubt the big man would want to have a wait and see attitude. Tom would like to make sure his old buddy Mike didn't go off the deep end between now and their mission. He couldn't blame him, he would have done the same if he were in Tom's shoes. Keep a careful watch on his friend. That was okay Mike needed the time and quiet to get his head right. But, he would have some choice words for Al when they met.
Tom was part of the Team, and they were going to Afghanistan. If Mike had to guess, his chances were no longer at 1%.
Bleary eyed Mike lifted his head and watched the runway flash by. He was disappointed no one met them in Dubai. They received an email instead. He got it, stuff happens, but still, he wasn’t sure he cared for the way Al was running the operation.
If nothing else, the three and half hour flight had been a good opportunity to get some sleep. And sleep was one thing a soldier or ex-soldier never wasted the chance to get. After splashing water on his face from the little bathroom on the small jet, he felt a little more awake. The water still dripping from Tom’s wheat straw colored beard produced a similar effect, awake, but barely.
The door to the pilot’s compartment opened, and one of the pilots leaned out.
“Hey, fellas. This is your final destination. Once we stop, they’ll roll up a stairway, and you can depart. A bus is on its way to pick you up and take you wherever you’re going.”
“Okay, Thanks,” Tom said and stood to collect his gear.
“No worries. Good luck doing whatever you’re getting ready to do.”
“Do you know what we’re doing?” It would have been nice to have some idea, Mike thought.
The pilot laughed. “No clue. We’re a flying bus service. We fly guys like you where they tell us to go, and then we refuel and pick up some other guys and fly them somewhere else. They don’t tell us anything else, and we don’t ask.”
“Everybody’s happy.”
“Exactly. We get paid, fly around the world and have a lot of downtime. It’s a great job if you don’t want to know stuff. And we don’t.”
The plane halted, and the man they’d been speaking to entered the cabin, worked the door mechanism, and opened it.
“Here comes the stairway, and there’s the bus.” He turned back into the cabin. “Maybe we’ll see you on the return trip.”
“You never know.” Mike grabbed his gear and followed Tom out the hatch and down the stairs.
In the distance, heat waves rose off the tarmac. Sweat trickled down his chest before his foot left the last step. Once on the ground, the two men who held the stairway unlocked the wheels and rolled it away. The planes hatch shut behind them.
Putting his hand over his eyes, Mike tried to see into the approaching bus. It looked like the only person in it was the driver, which meant, where was Al?
“It kind of feels like we’ve been left high and dry.”
“I’m sure Al will be along soon enough.” Tom struggled out of the sweatshirt he’d worn on the plane. “I can tell you this though. In wherever we are in Tajikistan, in the summer, it’s hot as a bastard.”
“You got that right.” Mike followed Tom’s example and put his sweatshirt in his bag.
As he did, an old green school bus rolled to a stop, the door opened, and the driver motioned them inside.
Tajikistan. Mike had never been to the former Soviet satellite country before, he knew people who had. The US made friends after 911 because it bordered Afghanistan’s northern border. Guys he was familiar with used it as a secure place to conduct non-combat operations and stage out of prior to deployment in theater. Its close proximity made it easy to get in and out of Afghanistan. Maybe the rest of the country was nice, but if this small section of the airbase was any indication, he’d never be back.
Everything from the airstrip to and including the compound they were bused to was old and drab. Weeds grew from cracked asphalt roads. The red and white barrier pole that allowed the bus into the fenced compound was covered in dust and rust left by flaked-off paint chips. Mike noted the dust covered plants between the sidewalks and road hadn’t seen water since who knows when. But, the yellowing vegetation struggled on and grew in the hard, parched patches of earth.
Whenever he’d visited former communist states, there were always old utilitarian buildings, most of them gone now. They stood out because they were rare and familiar with their old unimaginative Soviet architectural guidelines intact. Here on this little airbase, it was like the plane took them back in time. Every building they passed was under three stories, rectangular, old, grey, and of block house concrete construction. The airbase was like a 50 year old Cold War spy movie set any James Bond character would have been familiar with.
They stopped at a small compound surrounded by a chainlink fence and green cloth to prevent anyone from peeking in. Mike’s opinion of the architecture didn’t improve. From the bus, he was able to see over the fence. Inside was a building made of shipping containers two stories tall, five boxes wide, and three deep. All the boxes were different colors, some green, some red, black, and white, and most had graffiti in languages Mike didn’t understand.
Seeing the look on Mike’s face, Tom said, “Look on the bright side. It’s probably the newest building on the whole airbase.”
“Oh yeah, and Al wasn’t at the plane, and now he’s not here to meet us. Not a great start.”
Outside the bus, it felt almost cool. The temperature inside the bus had to have been at least twenty degrees hotter than outside. Mike would have asked the bus driver what was next but apparently, the only language he spoke was thumb gesturing onto the bus and finger pointing off.
The sense of coolness didn’t last, and they were dripping again. The sun was bright in the sky, shining down with a sauna like intensity. The air was clear and fresh, and a breeze blew behind him. The breeze didn’t prevent a long drip of sweat from running down the back inside of his t-shirt.
“Well,” Tom said. “At least it’s not 30 below, and we’re wearing parkas.”
“Having second thoughts?”
Ha. A big grin stretched across his face. “Are you kidding me? I love this shit.”
“Yeah, you do,” Mike chuckled. “How long do you figure we’ll stare at that camera over the gate until someone comes and gets us?”
“Oh, about as long as it takes to get this soaking wet shirt off, dig around in my bag for a dry one, and then get it soaking wet too.”
“No doubt. If I ever thought this mission, which I still don’t know what it is, was going to go off issue free, I’ve been dissuaded of that fantasy.”
“You’re funny. What mission in history has gone start to finish as planned?”
“And what the hell?” Mike wiped his forehead with his hand. “Al’s a no show in Dubai, we get an email, go here, get on this plane, it will take you where you need to go, everything’s all good, don’t worry about anything.”
Tom made a half hearted search of the top of his bag, looking for something dry. “Were here no muss, no fuss, so that’s good.”
“Okay, Mr. Positive. If I want to complain, I will, so stop trying to cheer me up.”
They laughed together. The old camaraderie. It almost made Mike happy. But he wasn’t there yet. When this was over, who knew? For now, the hate was tamped down, but it was so near the surface he could feel it trying to break out.
“Ah, a t-shirt.” He yanked out a piece of clothing from his ruck, closed the bag, and set it on top.
“Of course, it’s black.”
“The perfect color for this type of heat.”
“You’re not going to put it on?”
Tom looked up at the camera. “There’s no way they don’t see us. They’re messing with us, just waiting for me to put this t-shirt on.” He smiled up at the camera and gave it the finger.
The gate buzzed and popped open a couple of inches.
“Nice work. That was the secret signal to open up.”
“Now we know.”
Tom stuffed the shirt back into his ruck.
“So.” Mike pulled the door open. “I guess we grab our gear, walk in, and figure out where we’re supposed to go?”
“I guess,” Tom said, picking up his ruck and carry-on bag.
“I guess.” Mike picked his up and moved to the door.
“Hey!’
Bald and about six feet tall, Al sauntered up behind them. A big grin pushed through his bushy salt and pepper mustache his bent nose from being broken too many times was as crooked as ever.
“What’s up, losers?”
“Well, surprise, surprise, Mr, no show.” Mike could barely suppress a grin. They’d been friends a long time. “You finally decided to make an appearance.”
“Mikey Mike,” Al said. He reached in, shook hands, and bro hugged. “Sorry about that, I had to handle some stuff.”
“Stuff that affects the mission?”
“Kind of. We’ll talk about it inside, but everything is still a go.”
“Big Tom.”
“Big Al. Good to see you.” With big smiles, they shook and hugged.
“Alright. Let’s get you inside and situated, and then you can meet the rest of the crew.”
“Rest of the crew?” Mike said.
“Us three and three others inside.”
“Hmm. Why am I just finding out about this now, and whatever it is, is it related to what happened to Paul?’
Al nodded. “That’s the plan, but this isn’t the place to discuss it. Lots of people around trying to gather any kind of info they can sell. Let’s get inside.”
Nobody around them seemed to be loitering, but a constant stream of men in and out of uniform had passed by on foot and in vehicles.
With one last look around, Mike picked up his gear and followed. Something about this whole thing didn’t sit right with him. Whatever it was, he could feel the anger begin to bubble up.
Thank You for Reading!
Wrath’s Pit is a serial story. It is ongoing even as you read. The table of contents, with links to existing portions of the story, can be found at the link below.
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