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ghoulish sound of my original plan, I had an ulterior motive for wanting to check out the Humvees. If the soldiers who had been in them had been overrun, odds were good that no one would ever know what happened to them. Every soldier was issued a pair of dog tags, and I intended to collect the second tag so that someday, I could make sure someone knew what happened to these men. When I’d been in the Air Force, I was required to wear both of mine around my neck, but when I was writing for Nate, I learned that some units wore their second tag laced into their boot instead. I crept up to the first body in BDUs and steeled myself to check the right boot. The shiny metal reflected the fading sunlight. Right the first time. Rather than try to unlace it, I moved up a little and grabbed the combat knife from his belt. The tag came free after a quick slice against the boot lace, and I went to the body lying near the front of the other Humvee. This guy had his in the same place, and I cut it free. Both men had gaping wounds at their necks that made me a little queasy to look at. From where I was, I couldn’t see another body, so I went around the front of the lead Humvee to check the other side. Sure enough, I found another body, lying in plain sight of the school.
    I moved as quickly as I dared, using the vehicle’s shadow to conceal myself as I cut the boot laces to get his tag. As much as I wanted to get behind the Humvee, I forced myself to grab the pistol from his tactical holster and pull the extra magazines from the pouch beside it before I snuck back to the far side. Once I had my back to the driver’s side door, I took a quick look at the pistol I’d taken. Survival rule number sixteen was to never trust a gun picked up during a fight, and this was close enough to qualify. You never knew if it was on the ground for a damn good reason. The ubiquitous M9 pistol was one I’d been trained to use back when I was in the Air Force, but I’d never drawn one outside of the target range. I pulled the slide back and chambered a round, then clicked the safety off, keeping my finger outside the trigger guard. That was rule seventeen: never put your finger on the trigger until you’re ready to pull it. Now I had fifteen rounds of nine millimeter ammunition to hand. I tucked the two spare magazines into my right hand cargo pocket and went to the nearest body. His pistol was on the ground near him, with the spent magazine still in it. I undid the leg straps and unbuckled his belt. His ammo was in the pouch on his holster, and he had his combat knife on his belt. I fastened the belt again and slung it over my shoulder, then went to his rifle. Even in the twilight, I could tell it was trashed. The collapsible stock had been bent and the magazine well had been crimped. Empty magazines were lying near the front tire, and I only found one in his vest. I tucked it into my cargo pocket as well, and crouch-walked to the first body I’d checked. He still had his pistol holstered, so I repeated the process with his belt and slung it, replacing his combat knife in its sheath, too. His rifle still looked intact, so I grabbed it and checked his ammo pouches. That netted me two more magazines, plus what was left in the one still in the well. I slung his rifle over my shoulder and tucked the two magazines into my bulging cargo pocket. As I crept back to the end of the Humvee, I heard movement inside it.
    I jumped when a bandaged hand slapped against the window. Only three fingers showed through the bloody bandages, and it left a red smear on the glass as the man in the Humvee pulled himself into view. His eyes were milky and distant as he stared at me from the other side of the glass. Every part of my brain was trying to tell me to run, but I couldn’t take my eyes off of him or even move from the sheer terror. Movement to my left caught my attention a microsecond before a cold hand grabbed my ankle.
    I screamed like a little girl. Okay, it was