Delta Force Die Hard. Carol Ericson

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       Prologue

      Pain seared through his left ankle as he put weight on it. He listed to the side, throwing out a hand to wedge it against the rocky wall of the cliff face. As the gritty surface abraded the skinned flesh on the heel of his hand, he sucked in a breath.

      Sinking into a crouch, he extended his injured leg in front of him and surveyed the rocky expanse below. Even with two steady legs, hydrated and nourished, this landscape would pose a challenge to navigate. Parched, weakened by hunger and with a bum ankle, he didn’t stand a chance.

      He eyed the gray skies, scuffs of cloud rolling across the expanse, promising rain and relief—and more challenges. He dragged his boot over the rocks coated with dirt. Once the rains started, rivulets of water would wash the grit from the stones, joining forces in a muddy stream, making his path to the bottom of the mountain a slippery—and dangerous—proposition.

      He’d already witnessed one of his men take a tumble down the side of a mountain. Had Knight survived that fall? If he knew anything about his Delta Force team, he’d lay odds on it. But even if Asher Knight had made it through, the men who had double-crossed them would’ve finished off Knight.

      They wouldn’t have left any witnesses.

      He took a deep breath and swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Did you think it was gonna be easy going AWOL in Afghanistan in the middle of enemy territory, Denver?”

      His voice sounded rusty to his own ears, but it was strong enough to startle a bird from its hiding place. The bird scuttled and flapped before taking wing and soaring up to those threatening clouds. He watched its ascent with something like envy roiling in his gut.

      He willed himself to stand up—he owed it to Knight and the others to persevere. He stomped his bad foot and secured the laces on his boot—the tighter, the better for support. He hoisted his backpack and belted it around his waist. He strapped his rifle across his body. Couldn’t afford to lose that if he took a fall.

      The first step jolted his bones, and he gritted his teeth. The next step felt worse, but at least he didn’t slide down the mountain.

      Several more yards of jerky movement and his face broke into a sweat, which dripped into his eyes, blurring his vision. Maybe this descent would work better by touch and feel than sight, anyway. He didn’t need to see the view if he pitched off a cliff.

      Something scrabbled behind him, dislodging several small stones that tumbled down and peppered the back of his legs. He could get lucky and ride down with an avalanche.

      “Meester.”

      Ripping his sidearm from its holster, he whipped around and took aim at...a boy. The boy looked down at him from several feet above, clinging to the side of the mountain like a goat.

      Denver’s muscles coiled, and he spat out in guttural Pashto, “Who are you? Where did you come from?”

      The boy’s eyes grew round, crowding out the other features in his gaunt face. Then he raised an old Russian rifle, pointed it at him and said, “American soldier. You die today.”