Free Warning Order by Joshua Hood

him. Zeus stripped a smoke grenade from his kit and pulled the pin a moment before tossing it into the middle of the street. Mason hammered through the remainder of his mag, trying desperately to keep from getting overrun.
    â€œReloading.” he yelled, snatching a fresh one from his kit. In tandem, Zeus picked up his rate of fire. The Libyan was on his knee, firing at the advancing jihadists, but still they managed to get within ten feet of their position. Mason got his rifle back up, slapped his friend on the shoulder, and pointed out the only cover left on the street, an ancient wagon filled with firewood.
    â€œMoving,” Zeus yelled, as Mason flipped the rifle to full auto, ripping a long burst through the white smoke billowing up from the canister. He fired waist high, forcing the enemy to dive to the ground while Zeus bounded toward the wagon.
    The gunner of the ZPU caught sight of the Libyan out of his peripheral and frantically traversed the gun in hopes of nailing him. A line of tracers zipped across the street, and Mason flipped the AK back to semi, braced the smoking-hot barrel against the hood of the car, and pulled the trigger gently. The first round was high, and the American cursed the Kalashnikov as the ZPU cut into the wagon.
    â€œPiece of shit,” he yelled, pulling the AK tight against his shoulder. The rounds hammered the wagon, sending shards of splintered wood over the top of Zeus’s head, forcing him to the ground behind it. Zeus knew he couldn’t stay behind the wagon, and before Mason could reengage, he got to his feet and darted out into the open.
    Mason saw a tracer round snap dangerously close to his friend’s head before closing his left eye and gently pulling the trigger to the rear. The shot broke, snapping the muzzle of his AK up as it went off. The round caught the jihadist at the base of the neck, bowling him onto the cab of the pickup.
    Mason let out a low whistle and gave the notoriously inaccurate rifle a kiss just as Zeus finally ensconced himself in a recessed door frame on the north side of the target building.
    The American could see his chest heaving from the sprint and waited for him to start firing before running across to join him. Together they popped the door to the objective and slipped silently into the dimly lit interior.
    Mason’s radio squawked as they came to an open door leading down to the basement. “All elements, be advised, the Reaper is cleared hot on the objective.”
    â€œTomahawk Base, Ronin 6, be advised we are inside the objective,” he whispered into the radio, turning down the volume as they moved down the steps.
    â€œRonin . . . say . . . again . . .” the radio squelched as they descended underground.
    â€œTomahawk Base, I say again, we are inside the target building.”
    Static hissed through the hand mike, and Mason knew that his transmission hadn’t gone through.
    â€œComms are down,” he whispered as they moved to the base of the rickety stairs.
    â€œThat is a clear sign that we need to get the hell out of here,” Zeus replied.
    â€œYou’re not telling me anything new.”
    Mason swept left digging his hard corner, while Zeus took the right. He kept his finger outside the trigger guard, scanning slowly across the room for any imminent threats.
    â€œMoving,” he whispered.
    â€œMove,” Zeus answered.
    He stepped deeper into the basement, trying to cover the angles while his teammate covered him. Then he saw a body.
    â€œShit,” he said, rushing over to see if it was Boland, but as he drew near, it was immediately obvious that this was not his friend. Next to the dead man, he noticed an object lying on the ground, framed by a collection of sharp boot prints that were cut into the dusty floor. He recognized it as a military-grade emergency beacon, and assumed at once that it belonged to Boland.
    â€œThey were just here,” he said,