First to Burn by Anna Richland Page A

could already wrap their walnut-size fists around his fingers. Last night, when he’d stroked one’s spiky black hair, identical to the downy heads of the babies he carried in his heart, envy had almost driven him from the room. He’d abandoned his mercenary life, surrounded himself with honorable men, made the right choices, but even an illiterate opium grower had something he never would. In the centuries since his brother and he had realized what their healing abilities had taken away and he’d lost Zenobia, he’d avoided children. Now the curiosity of Mir, the kid who was into everything, and the near-adoption of the twins by his team had snuck past his walls and knocked, no, pounded, on a hollow space under his ribs.
    Part of him had a crazy urge to fill the void with more than memories. The rest of him panicked and gulped dinner if Theresa entered the chow hall. Left the gym if he saw her ponytail on the treadmill. Did an about-face if he heard her laugh. Ran from the opportunity to screw up his life. Because he was the lonely horndog that Kahananui often accused him of being, vigilance was becoming a full-time occupation.
    Today he made it to the team’s ready room without seeing Theresa, with space to wonder why Deavers had beeped him during lunch. His commander had a guest Wulf recognized, a Night Stalker named Morgan from the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment. He must have been visiting from Bagram Airfield in Kabul, because Wulf didn’t recall an air-mobile mission on tap.
    The helicopter pilot’s mouth bisected his face like a slash. “Chief flew two medevac tours in Vietnam.” The aviator continued speaking as if he hadn’t noticed Wulf. “Thirty years flying the governor for State Patrol, wildfires with the Guard, two tours in Iraq, before he volunteered for this sandbox. He taught me more about flying in two days than I got in six weeks at Rucker.” He thrust his head and shoulders forward. “Chief John Mitchell did not shoot his own leg cleaning his weapon!”
    Wulf had met Chief Mitchell enough times to agree with the captain’s assessment. Chief had been the guy you put in charge of loading the lifeboats, the guy played by Clint Eastwood. Not a Snuffy who made a mistake like shooting himself in the femoral.
    After introducing Wulf to the pilot, Deavers launched into an explanation. “This month Morgan and Chief Mitchell returned shipping containers to Bagram from outposts here—” Deavers tapped their wall map, “—here and here. Should’ve been empties swapped for resupply, but they registered six hundred kilos over listed empty weight.” His commander’s coiled stillness broadcast clearly. Higher headquarters assigned ninety-five percent of the team’s missions: hostage extraction, training ops with the Afghans, target surveillance or neutralization. Five percent of the time the team set its own agenda, unrecorded missions of their choosing. Deavers especially liked to make the world right when he had the chance to go off the record.
    Now Morgan had brought them a five-percenter.
    “Chief didn’t like jerks screwing with our loads. He wanted to know .” Eyes red-rimmed, the pilot stared at Wulf. “That last day, we landed the conex hard. Busted a corner. On purpose.” He covered his face with his hands and rocked forward, elbows on his knees. “I walked off—my son was suspended and my wife needed to talk— God, I should’ve stayed.”
    Deavers looked from the other captain to Wulf. “Chief Mitchell was checking the container the last time he was seen alive. Morgan noticed the flight-line manager running over.”
    The hairs on Wulf’s neck turned into bristles. “What’d the guy say happened?”
    “Never did.” The pilot spoke to the floor. “He left that night. Black and Swan charter. Hour after I found Chief in his hut. By the time I went hunting for him, he was wheels up. B & S claimed he had a family emergency.”
    “Bag of Shit.” One of many names for