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sipped the scotch and enjoyed the burn it left in his throat, and savored the smooth, honey taste of the whisky.
    This was his tradition. Soldiers had traditions—especially Special Ops. He knew men who went to certain restaurants the night before deployment. Others picked out lucky socks, worked out, went jogging, went to church, or ate specific foods. Zinsser’s old team always gathered for a glass of Chivas, toasted the future, then went home to hug their families.
    Zinsser had no family and those he counted as friends were dead, brought home in body bags. All except one, and Zinsser had left him in the hospital bed an hour before, no longer able to look at his damaged form. He raised the glass of booze and said to the darkness, “To Echo.” He downed the remaining fluid in one gulp. It sent shivers through him. His head began to spin.
    Taking the decorative bottle he poured another glass and raised it. “To Boss.” It took two gulps to down the golden fluid.
    His hand began to shake. Rising, Zinsser moved to his stereo and pressed play. The dulcet voice of Roy Orbison filled the dark room. Roy sang “Running Scared.”
    “You don’t know the half of it, Roy. You don’t know nuthin’ from scared.” The melody wrapped Zinsser’s mind, and he began to sway, holding out the glass as if it were his dance partner. He two-stepped to the bottle of Scotch and refilled the glass.
    “To Chief.” He took his time with this drink. It was a breach of superstition, but he didn’t want to vomit on the floor and lose all the good booze he’d been pouring down his throat.
    By the time Roy Orbison had worked his way through “Oh, Pretty Woman,” “Only the Lonely,” “In Dreams,” and “Crying,” Zinsser could no longer walk a straight line. He had reached his goal: oblivion by drunkenness. His last conscious memory was stumbling into the bathroom, opening the felt-lined case holding his Distinguished Service Cross and pouring the last dregs of his drink on it. “Here’s to courage under fire.”
    Zinsser began to weep.

    THE AIR WAS FILLED with noise that pummeled Zinsser’s already assaulted ears. The MH-60G Nighthawk helicopter unleashed a torrent of 7.62mm rounds from its Dillon minigun on the street in front of the building. The sound of weapons, the impact of bullets, the thunder of the helo’s rotor blades, and the screams of the men burrowed through Zinsser’s ears and into his brain. His mind raced. What he did in the next few seconds would determine if he lived or died.
    He forced his ears to separate the sounds. He heard what he hoped: the syncopated pounding of another helo.
    “Our ride is here. Time to get moving, Echo.”
    “You go, Zinsser. I can’t last much longer. I can’t stand.”
    Zinsser holstered his 9mm, ignoring the empty M4 on the concrete floor. Taking Brian by the front of his vest, he yanked the man up and over his shoulder. Brian’s scream melted Zinsser’s soul. He charged the door, peeked out the opening, then sprinted into the street. In a perfect world, the street would be wide enough for one of the helos to land, or the roof strong enough to hold the aircraft’s weight. Of course, in a perfect world, he wouldn’t be trotting down the street with his dying friend over his shoulder and waiting for the impact of a bullet striking the back of his head.
    In the distance one of the helos was landing in a small field a hundred yards away. Dust rose around the chopper. Zinsser forced himself forward. His wounds screamed, and he could feel blood oozing down his arm. Still he forced one step in front of the other. Adrenaline powered him like racing fuel.
    Two men rounded one of the buildings, stopped, and raised weapons. Zinsser kept moving. A second later the men lowered their guns.
    “Take him. He has several wounds.”
    The soldiers took Brian from Zinsser. “Can you follow us?”
    “Yes.”
    “Let’s move.” The two special ops men headed toward the landed chopper.