Prologue

      Mosul

      ELI WESTON NOTED THE Bible, the rosary and the bottle of Jack Daniel’s on his friend’s bedside table with a burgeoning sense of disquiet. Not that all three items didn’t make regular appearances on Micah Holland’s table—they did—but usually it was only one or two, not all three together.

      That knowledge, combined with the increasingly blank expression on his friend’s face, made the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

      Eli emptied his pockets and dropped heavily onto his bunk. “Another day in paradise,” he muttered, shooting Micah a smile. “You been back long?”

      Micah shook his head. “Nah.”

      A beat slid to three. “You look tired.”

      He knew his friend hadn’t been getting much sleep, especially over the past two weeks. It was understandable, given what had happened. War was hell, and this war, in particular, had been fought in ways that boggled the mind. They’d been trained to fight other soldiers, to honor the rules of war, but this enemy didn’t play by those rules and thought nothing of strapping explosive devices onto pregnant women and then sending them into a hospital.

      That’s what Micah had witnessed two weeks ago—what he’d tried to prevent—and he hadn’t been the same since. Not that Eli blamed him, but...

      He hesitated, not wanting to cross a line, but not wanting to see Micah deteriorate any further. They’d met in basic training, had been friends since Jump School. There were a lot of blood and bullets under the bridge. And if the situation were reversed, he knew Micah would try to counsel him, as well.

      “Listen, man. There’s no shame in talking to someone. I know you—”

      Micah whirled on him, like a reanimated corpse, his eyes blazing. “You know nothing,” he spat. “Nothing. So don’t insult me by giving me the standard line. I’ve got to sort this out my own way and the only person I have to talk to about it or square it with is the man upstairs.” He jerked his head heavenward, gave an ironic little laugh, one that, for reasons which escaped him, made Eli nervous. Micah released a heavy breath. “Just leave it, Eli. I know you mean well...but I’m handling it.”

      Rather than irritate his friend further, Eli merely nodded. But whether Micah wanted to admit it or not, he needed help. And if he wouldn’t get it on his own, then Eli had every intention of making him by other means. One word to the right person would set the ball in motion.

      Finally, he nodded. “Yeah. Fine.” He arched a brow, pretending as if the exchange never happened. “You want to go get something to eat? I’m about to head over to the mess hall.”

      Micah shook his head. “No, thanks. I’m not hungry.”

      Eli heaved a silent sigh, then stood. He’d reached the door when Micah’s voice stopped him.

      “Eli?”

      He turned expectantly.

      Micah opened his mouth, then closed it. He seemed to be struggling with what he wanted to say, a myriad of expressions flashing rapid-fire over his tortured face. Finally, he muttered, “You’re a good friend.”

      Eli swallowed, gave him an up nod. “So are you, man.” Then he slowly walked away.

      He’d made it to the front of the barracks before he heard the gunshot. And he knew before he’d frantically retraced his steps back to the room what he’d find.

      Oh, Jesus. He dropped to his knees and gathered up his friend. Sightless eyes, so much blood, rosary still in his hand. “Micah! Dammit to hell,” Eli sobbed, rocking him back and forth, his voice broken. “Oh, Micah, what have you done? What have you done?”