Chapter 43: The Flight of the Outcasts

The standoff lasted for what felt like hours, though it was likely only minutes. In the end, Sterling blinked. He couldn't kill twenty-one of his own men, and he couldn't risk a fire-fight that would be heard all the way to Kabul.

He signaled the guards to cut the ties. James rubbed his wrists, stepping away from the helicopter. He walked straight to me, ignoring Sterling, ignoring the guns. He took my hand in front of everyone—no secrets, no masks.

"What now?" I whispered.

"Now," James said, looking at his men, "we finish the rotation. We do our jobs. And when we get back, we fight the paperwork. But we do it as a unit."

The Black Hawk lifted off, empty except for Sterling and his guards. As the dust settled, the 3rd Platoon stood on the helipad, a group of outcasts who had chosen each other over the system.

We weren't just a platoon anymore. We were a tribe.