First to Burn by Anna Richland Page B

roommates away. Doesn’t she head out ASAP for midtour leave?” Deavers rifled papers on his desk. “Sure I can forge a Red Cross message requiring you out of theater for an emergency too.”
    “Ahh.” Wulf sagged against the wall. He should’ve had faith, but that commodity was scant when his tank was this empty. “Where would my emergency be?”
    “Karachi first, then wherever our mystery cargo goes. Find out who takes delivery.” Deavers handed him a blurry photo of a brown-haired man whose full mustache didn’t conceal his jowls. “Morgan’s disappearing flight-line manager. Cruz couldn’t dig up a better shot because he’s been wiped from the B & S database. And this—” he added a business card to the photo, “—is the best CIA guy in Karachi, if you need backup.”
    Wulf pocketed both. “Who’s the worst one?”
    “That’d be the new guy, name of John Smith. Seriously.” Chris rolled his eyes and grinned past the wad in his lip. “Going to play dumb?”
    “Crossed my mind.” In a clueless nasal tone, he asked, “Uhh, can you tell me where the docks are? Is that the ocean?” before reverting to himself. “My coloring stands out in Karachi. Everyone’s so suspicious after the bin Laden job, I might as well go for laughs.”
    “Your choice, but hurry and pack your cling things. Morgan’s on night ops so he can drop you on the convoy before it hits the border at 2330 tonight.”
    Fast-roping onto moving targets was usually Wulf’s favorite part of a mission, but riding spider style was French for shitty sleep. He’d have to stay suctioned or magnetically attached to a container roof until they stopped somewhere he could disembark unnoticed.
    “While you’re gone, we’ll hunt the lab.” Deavers pulled a map with red dots marching down a valley like a line of fire ants. “Firebases where Morgan picked up overweight loads.”
    “Sorry to miss hide-and-seek.” Wulf’s stomach rumbled like Kahananui’s coffee grinder.
    “You look like a dead trout.” He picked up his spit cup and tilted on two chair legs. “Better get to chow.”
    “Love to. Some paper pusher with unauthorized side business kept me late.”
    “Well, frag the son of a bitch next time.” Deavers tossed him a can of foul-n-fizzy energy drink. “Oh, wait, you mean me. Scratch that.”
    Wulf popped the top. “Come on, any leads on my destination? Europe? North America?”
    “No clue, but that much of Afghanistan’s best doesn’t fly special delivery. You’ll have time to kill before the boat unloads down the line.” The captain’s humor disappeared as his eyes locked with Wulf’s. “I hear Rome is nice this time of year. You might check it out.”
    Wulf’s breath caught. Had his commander ordered him to follow Theresa? His expression must’ve communicated his question, because Deavers nodded.
    “The team can’t lose you.” His captain left the instruction unspoken, but not unclear. Handle the problem with the doctor .
    Wulf acknowledged by lifting his can in the informal salute Special Forces used among themselves. No need to let on he didn’t have the energy for a full hand to brow.
    * * *
    When Theresa peered out the narrow opening of the bathroom trailer’s door, she saw a woman with her fist raised to knock. Relief, as warm as the shower she’d finished, flooded her.
    “Ma’am? Everything okay?” The private, who might turn twenty on her next birthday, frowned. “The sergeant asked me to check.” Her voice rose as if she wondered why, but then she answered her own question. “He said he heard a noise and thought maybe someone slipped?”
    Theresa’s gaze followed the private’s thumb. Wulf’s teammate with the Southern accent stood in the shadow of a building kitty-corner to the shower unit. He held a phone, the picture of a guy looking for privacy to call home, but she knew better. He was watching.
    “Ma’am? You okay?”
    “I—I—” her mind churned. She couldn’t stay trapped