Page 1
Prologue
Adrien
Iraq, 2015
This morning, the first thing John tells me is that his eight-year-old son has better taste in women’s accessories than Garcia. The second is that if I repeat it to Garcia, he’ll deny it even under oath.
I look away from the broken window we’ve been watching for four hours and find John sitting against a yellow-stained wall, one knee up, rifle at his side. His helmet lies between his boots, his blond hair plastered to his skull despite the desert chill that settled in before dawn. In his hand is a photograph.
“You know he’ll hear you,” I say.
“Garcia can’t hear shit unless it’s about Garcia.”
From across the room comes a muffled, “Fuck you, Blake.”
John’s mouth quirks into a grin. “See?”
Over the battered couch he’s claimed, Garcia raises a gloved middle finger without taking his eyes off the street. I bite back a laugh and lean my shoulder against the concrete.
This house was run-down before somebody abandoned it, but years of war definitely haven’t done her any favors. The second floor gives us enough shelter, even with the plaster peeled away, exposing the stonework and the layers of dust and sand coating every inch of the place.
A faded blue flower sits painted above where a child’s bed once stood—gone now, of course. Everything is gone, except a cracked mirror, two wooden chairs, the couch Garcia is posted up behind, and a rust-colored rug rolled up and propped against a corner.
We’re squatters in someone else’s lost life.
Across the street, under a hundred meters away, stands a low compound behind a high wall and a metal gate. Since last night, nine men have entered, and six have left. We’re waiting on the last three and a positive ID on one in particular.
But the most excitement we’ve had in the past forty minutes? Betting on a chicken that wandered into the road and nearly got run over by a truck.
The rest of us now owe Palinsky and Osbourne five bucks.
“Lemme see him,” Vasquez demands from the other side of the room.
John clutches the photo to his chest. “No.”
“Oh, fuck off,” Vasquez drawls.
“He’s not for your eyes.”
“Your son isn’t a state secret.”
“He might be.”
“Blake.”
“No.”
Vasquez crawls forward, body hugging the floor, and snatches at the photo.
John jerks it away. “Touch it and lose the hand.”
“Jesus Christ. You show Delmonte every picture,” Vasquez grumbles.
John glances at me. “Because Delmonte appreciates them.”
“I do?” I ask.
John grins and passes the photo over Vasquez’s hand and into mine. I take it, though I’ve seen it so often I could reproduce it blind.
