But here, driving for days and nights on end with nothing but plateaus, the occasional mountain, silhouettes of a far off village, and abandoned towns as his only companion was complete and utter torture.

Not only was the drive so monotonous that he felt like he was going crazy, but whenever the prisoner — Mohammad, a man with a lean build and a face he had rarely seen due to the burlap bag usually over it — was in his truck, the man was either eerily quiet and still or chanting some sort of hymn on repeat. Neal could repeat the words verbatim but ask him what they meant and he couldn't tell you. A part of him wondered if it was some sort of curse. Frankly, he wouldn't be surprised.

But that wasn't the worst of all.

He had been right, that day in the tent. They were living a live-action SWAT movie, and he would have elbowed Emma in the ribs to say "I told you so" if they weren't constantly on high alert and evading threats left and right. A simple drive across country that should have taken no more than two weeks turned into an obstacle course. Most attacks were blatant: a car full of rebels hoping to free Mohammad as if he were the prophet himself driving straight for them and hounding them with slurs and bullets. Some were sneakier: an old woman huddled over on the side of the road with a broken cart wheel and a kind face. That is until a pack of young men, sometimes even teens, would come out with guns and bombs and machetes. Luckily their team had been undefeated, but they had to wait for another crew to do the clean up, and by now, Neal was used to thinking of the consequences of their actions as a mess.

They had been away for a month. A freaking month. He should have been out of here by now. He should have been home by now bothering Alia from her sleep and getting scolded by Tamara. His baby girl would be turning one in a few weeks, and at this rate, he'd miss yet another milestone. He was so close to seeing her he could practically hear her gurgling at him. Or maybe she was already talking. Tamara said she was walking with some help and forming words but nothing substantial yet. He was a little late to walk himself, but he knew she'd be one of those kids who didn't half-ass things. She'd start running in no time, playing soccer, and karate, and beating up boys but still a daddy's girl. He jerked as Emma made a hard turn left, veering off the road to follow the other truck in front of them as they drove haphazardly through the desert. Neal sighed. The rocks out there definitely weren't his daughter.

The landscape started to blend in with one another from their constant driving. Always move. Always change direction. Keep them guessing, Cabrera had said. The enemy can follow a straight line, but to follow a zig-zag, criss-cross pattern and backtrack only to return the way they came was harder to trail. They always met another team some miles away to refuel or switch cars and then they'd be off again. Already Frederick and Kennedy's car leading the way had had to call for a replacement vehicle since their original one had been riddled with bullets a noticeable hole appeared at the side of the armoured truck. These homemade weapons were really starting to piss him off.

This guy better be worth it, Neal grumbled to himself as Fred's voice crackled over the radio.

Neal leaned forward in between the seats, the cushion creaking under his shifting weight, and listened as Emma, keeping one eye trained on the road as she drove carefully up the rocky terrain of a hill, picked up the walkie to give him the go ahead.

"We're less than ten miles from our destination. We'll detour away from the main road. Follow my lead."

"Wilco. Out."

"Finally," Emma muttered replacing the radio. "We'll be there by sundown, Sergeant."

"Don't get too cocky yet," Cabrera warned, surveying the passing land with his intense gaze. "You know what that means, right?"

"We get to go home, sir?" Neal hoped from the back.

"Consider this the darkest hour, Cassidy. Ready to show me what you're made of?"

"Yes, sir." Neal clenched his jaw and tensed at Cabrera's foreboding tone. It was ten miles. Less than that. What could possibly go wrong?


Almost three miles out and they were driving through a dilapidated village. Neal had seen his fair share of abandoned towns before, but this one took the cake. There was no sign of life and barely any indication that this had been a village at all if it hadn't been for the withered, termite-eaten sign two miles back saying they were approaching. It couldn't have been host to no more than ten housing structures, maybe fifty or so people once travelling these roads, children chasing each other, men and women washing and praying, but the walls of nearly all of them had crumbled down to its foundation. Not one house was left standing in usable order, the closest being two stone walls precariously standing, the front one broken down in a slope joined adjacent with the east wall, a few ceiling bricks keeping it together at the corner.

Mainly, the town was just rock walls, dry sand, and broken down fences. Not even a dog had stayed to mourn its loss.

"Do you know what happened here, Sergeant?" Emma cast a glance at Cabrera as she followed the makeshift path the vehicle ahead was providing.

Cabrera shook his head. "From my guess? Someone here was involved in something sinister and they got bombed."

"What's sinister enough to wipe out an entire village, sir?"

Neal didn't get his answer for he lurched forward in his seat when Emma slammed on the breaks suddenly. They were inches away from Fred and Ken's truck, its red break lights on and not moving an inch.

"What the hell was that?" Cabrera demanded over the radio.

"I thought I saw something, Sergeant," Frederick provided. "Movement in the northeast section."

Grumbling into the line, Cabrera conceded. "Keep the prisoner out of sight. We'll do a walk-around."

Slowly Neal, Emma, and Cabrera stepped out of the vehicle and surveyed the land. He pinpointed a wall large enough to hide three or four guys behind it to the south. The remnants of the wooden shutters were hanging at the base of the stone under where the windows once were. Boulders northeast were painted a dark burgundy down its front like some medieval beheading stone. Maybe whatever traitor lived here suffered that fate before the bomb came down. Or maybe he was too far away to see that the boulder was naturally reddened by the earth. Yeah, that explanation made his gut settle.

"What'd you see, Holt?" Cabrera asked as Frederick left the truck leaving Kennedy inside with their detained.

Frederick pointed further east where thick pillars stood in a wayward crumbled fashion. By the looks of it, the building may have been a small mosque once if the careful design on the pillars were any indication. A revered place at the very least. "I thought I saw movement there, sir."

"You thought or you did?" Cabrera grabbed a pair of binoculars and looked outward to where Fred had pointed.

"Thought, Sergeant."

It took a moment before Cabrera brought down the binoculars, and Neal wondered if he actually saw anything out there.

"Whatever it is, it's gone now. Let's get the hell outta here before it gets any dark—"

The driver's side window shattered just above Fred's head, and the four soldiers out in the open dropped down instinctively as silent bullets blasted out the windows of both cars.

"Where are they?!" Cabrera demanded over the shattering.

Cabrera didn't get his answer. The whips of wind from the silencer around the unseen gun stopped and the land was quiet once more.

"Chambers. You alive?"

"Yes, sir," Ken called from the back of the truck. "So is Mohammad over here."

Cabrera nodded and turned his attention to Neal, Emma, and Fred, all of whom were face down on the dirt not moving a muscle. "Get behind—"

Bullets rang out overhead, and this time, Neal could hear and see where they were coming from. From the northeast corner of the village, behind the pillars, behind the walls, behind any piece of stone that could shield them, were men with machine guns trained at them, ski masks over their faces like some petty robbers.

Neal crawled, following Cabrera through the gap between the two vehicles and avoiding the glass that littered the ground. Within moments they were behind the trucks with the cracking of bullets still pounding against their only shield. Kennedy slipped out from the safe side of the vehicle, yanking Mohammad with him. The man was yelling out, calling to his rescuers, but Kennedy elbowed him in the gut, silencing him.

"Anyone see how many there were?"

"Five? Six maybe?" Neal guessed. "Judging from the shots I'd say they're spread out."

Cabrera nodded decisively, moving to a crouch and positioning his rifle. "Let's take them out."


Gunfire and explosions sounded all night long until dawn broke. They didn't break for food or water, and any bathroom breaks were taken a foot away. Better to be seen and alive than be dead with privacy. Cabrera was the only one to get a hit, and that was because Neal had used a grenade to knock down a wall and exposed the guy. In the confusion of the blast, they had managed to relocate behind several broken down walls low enough to shield their bodies if they remained lying down. What got them distance made them lose visibility. Every time they even tried to pop their head up a shower of bullets flew over them, sand erupting where they hit or lodging in the stone mere inches from their faces.

Every so often both sides would pause, letting the eerie quiet fill the air. Sometimes the silence was more deafening than the gunfire, but in that silence, they waited. Act or react. Offence or defence. You played the hand that got you home at the end of the day. At this point, Neal was certain the deck was stacked.