Free Weapons of Mass Destruction by Margaret Vandenburg

of some random god. Sinclair’s phobia gripped him. He focused on their torsos, not daring to look at their faces. It felt like their expressions alone could kill him. Bullets ripped their bodies apart midstride, and their faces just kept coming. He squeezed the trigger so hard his finger went numb. Let them all rush to meet their maker as long as they didn’t take him along for the ride.
    Wolf detected an almost imperceptible change in the squad’s firepower. One of their guns had fallen silent. He ordered Trapp to investigate and man the position himself, if need be. The whole squad heard the exchange. The fact that Wolf sent Trapp didn’t bode well. Their first and only priority under siege was engaging the enemy. Wounded men were expected to keep fighting until the threat was contained. But they all knew Trapp would bend the rules if the gunner in question urgently needed medical attention. He didn’t.
    Evans had been shot dead, a single bullet wound to the head. He fell as though hugging the barrel of his automatic. When Trapp pulled him aside to assume his position, he saw that his cheek had been branded by the smoldering muzzle. He wanted to compose the face, to succor the anguished expression before it froze forever in a death mask. But bullets were pinging helter-skelter, snapping Trapp back into action. In a rage over the loss of his buddy, he grabbed his gun and let loose. Whatever opening the enemy might have seized was slammed shut with a frenzied burst of rounds.
    “Evans must have been hit,” Wolf said.
    Exceptional squad leaders can recognize the signature styles of their gunners. Trapp was at the wheel now, driving like a maniac.
    “Let’s get him off the roof!” Sinclair shouted.
    “Maintain your position,” Wolf ordered. “Trapp’s got him covered.”
    Insurgents had given up on the idea of taking the compound by storm. Plan B evidently consisted of mounting an attack from several adjacent compounds. Wolf adjusted his strategy accordingly. His main objective was to prevent access to the only other three-story building within striking distance. If enemy grenade launchers managed to secure higher ground, the squad would be done for. He kept yelling into his headset, trying to contact the tactical operations center. Either the radio was dead or the blare of battle was drowning out their directives. Sequestering himself in a closet, he wrapped a pillow around his head as he strained to hear. Seconds later he rushed back out.
    “Prepare to evacuate!” he hollered.
    The order seemed incredible. The squad was surrounded. Outnumbered. They would be mowed down the minute they stepped foot outside the compound. But nothing justified second-guessing their commander. Sinclair obeyed instantaneously, without thinking. McCarthy was several steps behind him, swearing a blue streak as they raced down the hallway past a pair of gunners still cranking out rounds. The only conceivable explanation was that they hadn’t heard the command.
    “Evacuate the compound!” Sinclair bellowed.
    “What?” they screamed back.
    “Evacuate! Pronto!”
    “Are you crazy?”
    “Wolf’s orders.”
    They grabbed their gear and joined the exodus. Wolf raced up the stairs to make sure the rest of the squad followed suit. On the roof, Trapp and Percy were equally incredulous, but they lowered their guns. Trapp started to prepare Evans’s body for evacuation. Wolf intervened.
    “Not now.”
    “It’s okay,” Trapp said, intending to hoist Evans onto his back. “I’ve got him.”
    “We’ll be back,” Wolf said. “I promise.”
    Wolf was responsible for protecting the living and honoring the dead, in that order. He knew full well Trapp would make the ultimate sacrifice, even for a lost cause. It was a Southern thing. In the midst of the melee, Trapp had removed Evans’s flak jacket and spread it over his body, as though to protect him from fallout. He left a bandana folded under his bloodied head, cushioning his