Free The Shadow Patrol by Alex Berenson

stoned to the gills and not at full combat readiness—”
    Rodriguez snapped the pipe from Roman’s hand. “Now. Before I jam this down your throat
.
”
    Fowler picked up his helmet, pushed himself up, inched along the wall. Then he heard Roman’s gear rattling inside the house and his composure broke. He ran for the gate.
    Back on the street, he closed the gate as smoothly as he could. He checked over his shoulder. The house’s front door was just opening. Fowler squared his shoulders and walked back to Coleman Young. He didn’t look back. He was proud of himself for that much anyway.
    “I miss anything?” Young said.
    “No kebabs. The door was closed and I couldn’t decide whether to knock. I stood there until I felt stupid and left.”
    “That’sit.”
    “That’sit.”
    “Huh. What happened to your pants?”
    Fowler looked down. His knees were covered with a dark brown splotch that stank of diesel. He must have knelt in a puddle without realizing. It was the porn’s fault. The porn had distracted him. He wiped madly at the stain and succeeded only in covering his hands with a greasy film. Might as well be wearing a sign that said “I’ve been spying on you, Sergeant.”
    “It was a drug deal. A big one. They had a scale.”
    “Don’t tellme.”
    “Kilos. It’s true.”
    Young grabbed Fowler’s Kevlar, pulled him close. “I don’t care if it’s true. I don’t want to hearit.”
    “What do I
do
, Coleman?”
    “You keep your mouth shut, Private.” Young pushed Fowler back so hard that he nearly fell on his butt. “Be cool. They comingnow.”
    Fowler turned. Rodriguez and Roman walked toward him. The Afghan in the blue robe was gone. Probably still in the house, watching porn. A real good Muslim. Dealing smack to the infidels.
    Roman grinned at them, pointed a finger pistol at Fowler. Fowler’s mouth went dry. If he didn’t calm down, he feared he might cry. “I’m not built for this, Sergeant,” he muttered.
    “It’s all right, Ricky. Nothing’s gonna happen now. I’ll watch your back and we’ll talk later. Back at the FOB.” Young tapped out two Newports, handed one to Fowler. Fowler wiped his mouth, lit up, puffed away.
    “Tastes like an air freshener.”
    “Good for you. Makes your lungs all minty. Smile and salute.”
    B Team rounded the corner as Rodriguez reached them. His backpack sat snug on his shoulders, Fowler saw. All that extra weight. “Anything to report?”
    “That one shot,” Young said. “Nothing else.”
    “All right. We’re done here then. Got a couple names. Probably junk but Weston’ll like it. He can give it to the S-2.” The battalion intelligence officer.
    “They’ll give him a pat on the head and a present with a big redbow.”
    “When Daddy’s happy, everybody’s happy.” Rodriguez poked at Fowler’s knees with the muzzle of his carbine. “What happened there, Private?”
    “Sergeant, figured I’d look over the left side of the villa. Fell in a puddle of diesel. I think it was diesel, anyway, sir. Smells likeit.”
    “Excellent soldiering. We get home, I’m signing you up for the Very Special Forces, where everybody’s a winner.”
    “I think of myself as a very special soldier,sir.”
    “Yes, you are. You see anything over there around the corner? Besides the puddle?”
    Fowler held Rodriguez’s eyes. “Goats, Sergeant. Nothing but goats.”
    “All right then. For showing that initiative, I’m giving you point on the way back, Private. Look alive. Do me proud.”
    “Yes, Sergeant.”
    * * *
    THEY SHUFFLED BACK toward Hamza Ali. For once, Fowler wasn’t worried about mines. He couldn’t stop thinking about the scale, those plastic-wrapped bricks. He’d seen drugs before. Heck, he’d grown up two hours from the Mexican border. He’d smoked pot like everyone else in the universe.
    But buying heroin by the kilo was a different game. Fowler couldn’t figure what Rodriguez was doing with the stuff. He wasn’t selling it on