Books in the Series:
The Gathering Storm, Book 1
The Arrival, Book 2
The Relief, Book 3
Tip of the sword, Book 4
Blade Cuts, Book 5
Loose Ends, Book 6
The Gathering Storm, Book 1
Murder . . . International Intrigue . . . Nuclear Threat . . . And a Secret Military Assassination Team formed to Change the World’s Geopolitics.
Captain Alvarez knows one thing, his Delta Force squad needs to kill everyone at the Taliban meeting. Otherwise, there’d be horrific consequences. But, one gets away.
He and a spirited female USAF pilot get recruited to a top-secret team. But, why are they being trained on outdated equipment?
A nuclear bomb obliterates D.C. The team is deployed. He’s briefed on their monumental task, and is stunned. Can such an insane assignment actually be real?
Immerse yourself into the characters as they are forged into the elite team and embark on their strange mission to reshape the world’s geopolitics.
Experience intriguing personalities, gripping events, intense battles, sprinkles of wit, and a dash of searing romance!
Don’t wait to catch this ride! Get it now!
See The Gathering Storm, Book 1, Chapter 1 preview below!
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The Arrival, Book 2
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Time Travel . . . Survival . . . Sizzling Encounters . . . and Dangerous Assassination Missions
Team A makes their strange journey to their new world—to a harsh reception.
After recuperating, they set out to establish an operational base in D.C. and organize prior to their assigned missions.
Their first mission: eradicate HIV before it spreads, and it’s an unsettling one.
Christy visits Senator Peterson—her young dad, to ask for help for her team. Meet her mom and catch a glimpse of what's behind Christy's adventurous personality.
OGA recruits Special Forces soldiers to do their dirtier work. Their tactical skills are tested on a risky assassination assignment in the Cambodian jungle.
The team “borrows” a USAF AC-130 aircraft. But, “If you want to make God laugh, tell Him about your plans for the future.”
Continue Alvarez's, Christy's, and Alexander's intense journey to alter the gritty geopolitical landscape.
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The Relief, Book 3
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Hunting Major Chernoff in Uganda . . . Intense Combat . . . Disaster . . . Team B Arrives! . . . Hello Libya.
OGA turns its sights on Uganda . . . To hunt Major Chernoff . . . And change a few things.
What? More clean up to do in Uganda? And what a mess . . .
The team gets important news from the future about the bombing!
It turns out the U.S. State Department isn’t happy about losing their hundred million dollar AC-130 aircraft.
Team B arrives! . . . Oh, no! An An unlikely union . . . the Papacy gets involved.
It’s Libya’s turn for OGA meddling. Webb works his diplomatic skills, but needs to resort to Plan B.
More wild action-adventure rides, visceral intrigues, and historical personalities . . . and dash of steamy . . .
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Tip of the Sword, Book 4
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The General goes hunting . . . Let’s stop the Islamic Revolution in Iran. No, not an attack on OGA!
Really O’Riely, what the hell are you up to at your Cayman Island paradise?
The General embarks solo on an OGA assignment to help de-nuclearize South Asia. And has his own personal mission to amend a traumatic event in his past. Be forewarned, the General finds some white-hot sizzle!
The new OGA base camp is open off the coast of Venezuela!
It's time for OGA's most crucial mission: preventing the Iran's Islamic Revolution and alleviate the Middle East’s future quagmire. But first, Webb and Asabad need to persuade the arrogant Shah of Iran to accept their plan.
What? An attack on OGA?
More wild twists in this adrenaline-packed geopolitical military action-adventure series.
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Blade Cuts, Book 5
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Damnit Chernoff! . . . Alvarez visits the barrio to help his mom . . . A major shakeup in the Middle East . . . Hello Surprise! . . . The 1972 Munich Olympics.
Chernoff screws up OGA’s work in Libya.
Alvarez pays a visit East L.A. to fix his troubled childhood—his backstory.
Time to change things up in the Middle East! The Kremlin’s not a happy camper.
Ooops!
What! Chernoff fucks things up again, big time!
More Middle East geopolitical reorganization . . . but not by the OGA.
Really . . . a doublecross?
Hello Lindicita!
The 1972 Munich Olympics—what could possibly go wrong?
Oh no, tell me it’s not so!
Ready for more unexpected events in this intense gritty geopolitical military action-adventure series?
Get it now!
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Loose Ends, Book 6
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Again? OGA’s under attack? . . . The Yom Kippur War . . . Young Alexander in Lebanon . . . Remember Abdul, the bomber? . . . Come on, let’s get Chernoff and Asabad.
The U.S. government goes after OGA.
The Yom Kippur War and OGA’s solution to the Palestine Problem.
Alvarez gets bad news.
No! More attrition?
Here it is . . . the General’s backstory. Young Alexander visits his dad in Beirut. . . . Ohhh Jamila. The Lebanese Civil War.
What ever happened to Abdul, the destroyer of D.C. and N.Y.C.? He should be on the scene by now.
Poor General Alexander . . .
Can we ever kill that slippery Chernoff? And, damn it, find Asabad.
Lots more fascinating historical stuff, hope, despair, and intrigue.
Get it now!
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The Gathering Storm, Book 1, Chapter 1 preview:
Chapter 1
Village of Bannu, Pakistan, near the Afghanistan border
10 P.M., October 2006
The most persistent sound which reverberates through man’s history is the beating of war drums.
—Arthur Koestler, Hungarian-British author and journalist, 1934-1983
Stars twinkled in the crisp night sky.
In the east, flashes of lightning foreshadowed approaching thunderclouds.
The crescent moon disappeared as the dark mass of clouds shrouded the landscape.
The heavens went black.
A jagged flash of lightning burst from the sky, bathing village below with contorted silhouettes.
A guard propped his dusty boot on the ledge of the flat rooftop and gazed toward the turbulence above. He pulled on the shoulder strap of his rifle to better adjust the rifle over his shoulder. Cupping a hand, he lit a cigarette and took a long drag. Hot smoke filled his lungs and gave him some warmth against the cold bite of the night. As he exhaled, he watched the smoke swirl in front of his face in eerie ghostly twists. It disappeared with a gust of wind.
A hand grasped his mouth from behind—his body froze with fright. A glint of black steel flashed by. A burning sting exploded across his throat.
His eyes screamed in frantic terror. The attacker’s left hand gripped tighter into the flesh of the man’s mouth while the knife hand dropped down to clutch the guard’s waist, bending him backward. The assailant knelt, pulling his victim onto the ground. The body quivered in grotesque spasms, held immobile by the attacker’s unyielding arms. The man’s life drained away with sickly sounds of blood gurgling out of the open gash.
Captain Alvarez released his grip, allowing the body to settle onto the rooftop. He wiped clean the blade of his knife on the man’s jacket sleeve. Looking down to sheath his knife, Alvarez noticed a light steamy fog rise as warm black blood welled up under the form on the frigid concrete. If that’s your soul, it’s going into oblivion, you evil shit. Alvarez remained kneeling and listened for activity. My dark skin should make it hard to see me up here. Behind him, laundry fluttered on the rooftop’s clothesline. Those sheets should hide my silhouette well up here. It’s good there’s no rain—so far. Too fucking cold to get drenched. He pulled down on his black floppy “muhj” wool hat to adjust the head strap of his night vision goggles. Turning, he signaled with a single forward motion of his hand. Two bearded men in mujahideen garb emerged from the shadows to join him. One of them, another Delta Force operator, took a shooting position with his TAC-50 sniper rifle to his right along the concrete rooftop ledge overlooking the street. The other man, Uhan, knelt next to Alvarez.
Alvarez turned his head toward Uhan. Okay, we’ll check out your story about a special Taliban meeting here tonight. I hope this is worth it, coming here in this shitty weather.
Alvarez studied Uhan, searching for any body language signs of betrayal. This had better not be a trap. I’ve worked with this gray-bearded man before and he’s provided good actionable intel on the local Taliban. Headquarters said his family was murdered by the Taliban. That doesn’t mean he’s trustworthy. Wish I had more men with me, but we’re the only group available.
Uhan pointed to the house across the street. “That where village Taliban leader live. Good friend of mine said he hear of meeting tonight. He see important chiefs arrive there over several day.”
“You said your friend brought food to them? You completely trust your friend?”
“Yes. He my dead wife brother.”
“How many men are there in the house?”
“He only deliver food. Not go upstairs. He think about six men.”
Alvarez nodded and continued to observe the man. Uhan’s eyes darted up and down the street. Alvarez saw a smile on the old-timer’s lips—he’s looking forward to getting some revenge. Or, he’s a great actor.
Alvarez pulled around the M14 slung across his back and positioned the weapon into his shoulder. He set his eye to the scope and flipped on the thermal-vision switch. The darkness of the night transformed into a grainy-green illuminated world. Quick-focusing the lens, he released the safety and settled his finger next to the trigger.
Through the crosshairs, he scanned the flat rooftop of the two-story residence across the street. A red glowing form came into focus . . . a Taliban guard. The glowing man reached up and scratched an itch through his thick beard, a cigarette drooping from his lips. Alvarez’s infrared laser dot appeared on his forehead. The sky lit up with a bolt of lightning. Thunder rumbled as darkness resumed.
Fucking lightning. He doesn’t seem to have seen us. Let’s see how many sentries they have here. . . . He panned his scope to the other adjacent flat rooftops. There’s another guard . . . and another . . . and one more wandering toward the back of the target house roof. Four rooftop sentries. Uhan, looks like your tip about an important Taliban meeting might be good. From the number of sentries, there must be some high-value targets in that house. Or, this could be a set-up to capture us. Alvarez refocused his attention back to the target house. Sturdy brick, two-story residence. Security bars on the wood-shuttered windows. Heavy wooden front door. Cobblestone streets. Typical ancient residential neighborhood. The nearest working lamppost is two houses down . . . well, barely working. Okay, let’s check back on those rooftop guards. They still look clueless. Doesn’t feel like a setup. Let’s remove these guards and figure out what’s going on inside. Alvarez kept his eye on his gun sight and spoke into his headset’s microphone, “Viking-7, I identify four rooftop guards. You take the two tangos to the right. I’ve got the two on the left.”
“Copy, Viking-1,” replied the black-turbaned Delta Force operator kneeling to his right. Viking-7 set down his large TAC-50 rifle and unslung his M14 and acquired his two firing assignments.
“Uhan, do any women or children live there?” asked Alvarez.
“They sent away for meeting.”
“You sure?”
“No woman or children allowed in house during meetings.”
“And you said the house doesn’t have any entrances except the front door?”
“Only front door, my friend think.”
A waft of curry from a nearby chimney caught Alvarez’s nose. Hmmmm, yellow curry? Maybe with chicken? His stomach moaned in protest. No real food since breakfast. Even the grit of the sand in his teeth didn’t dull his hunger. I’ll eat later, after we’ve removed these assholes from this world.
Alvarez pushed back his Pakistani patu scarf to press the microphone of his headset closer to his lips. He whispered, “Command, Viking-1.”
“Viking-1, Command, go ahead,” replied Headquarters.
“We are in position. There are multiple guards posted, indicating probable HVTs inside.”
“Copy, Viking-1. Identify HVTs if possible and report back for orders.”
“Roger.”
Let’s verify the street is clear. Alvarez pressed the headset’s night-vision scopes closer to his eyes and leaned forward over the ledge to scan below. Good, no human heat signatures on the street. Now, let’s check out what’s going on in the target house. Thermal can’t see through the brick wall, but there should be good sound conductivity. I hope the storm doesn’t hinder our eavesdropping. The lightning does seem to have lessened.
Alvarez searched through his backpack and removed a large pouch containing his surveillance equipment. He unzipped the pouch and pulled a cupped directional listening microphone with two headphones. He picked up the headphones and handed one to Uhan to put on with him. Alvarez aimed the microphone at the first floor of the house across the street.
“Uhan, tell me what you hear.”
The old man listened carefully before speaking. “Men talking about women.”
Probably guards. “How many men?”
“Maybe three? But, not know.”
“Do you hear the voices of any children or women?” asked Alvarez.
“I not hear those voices.”
I don’t hear any either. Alvarez pointed the microphone at the second story. “Again, tell me what you hear.”
“Also only voices of men. Several . . . they speak about food, they eat dinner.”
My Arabic is spotty, but Uhan doesn’t know that. Hopefully, it’s enough to verify what he tells me is true. “Uhan, translate what they say.”
Inside, on the second floor of the target building, five men sat around a large rectangular wooden table talking. Scattered about the table were remnants from a meal of curried chicken, rice, naan, and dried fruit. On one side sat two guest foreigners. The white-bearded older foreigner set down his teacup and spoke, “Thank you for your hot tea, nourishment, and hospitality after our long journey. But, we must now discuss my plan.”
The elder of the three on the other side of the table huffed, “Yes we do, Ayatollah Radwan.” His fierce eyes glared as if he wanted to spit.
The ayatollah ignored the insult. Diplomacy was paramount in dealing with these hateful Sunnis. Mutual self-interest was his bridge to their cooperation. Flattery and money helped too. He put on a warm smile. “Thank you for the privilege of meeting again, distinguished leaders of the Taliban. In your esteemed wisdom, I trust you have agreed to join us and proceed in this divinely historic undertaking.”
“Join us?” scoffed the elder Taliban. “It will be the Taliban, not your people, who are tasked with attacking the depot at the Peshawar Airbase to steal the nuclear bombs.” He settled back in his chair and folded his arms. The other two gray-bearded Taliban leaders copied his gesture, jutting up their jaws in acknowledgment of their unwavering solidarity with their elder.
“And the credit and glory of obtaining them will be only yours. The preeminent stature of the Taliban will become indisputable . . . especially in the eyes of Allah.”
The elder leader unfolded his arms and stroked his whiskers as he peered down his nose at the two Shiites. The Sunni leader spoke, “Ayatollah Radwan, you realize it is very audacious of you to request this alliance with us. For it is heresy for us to work with you Shia . . . even more so with a Shiite cleric. I assume that you are under the guidance of the despicable Iranian Revolutionary Guard?”
“The great scope of this plan necessitates specific connections.”
“Distasteful connections,” scowled the elder. He paused to have the visitor squirm with his silence.
The ayatollah nodded in agreement. “That is true, my esteemed Kassem. Unfortunate distasteful connections . . . but with access to substantial funding. Financial resources which will be generously compensating you for your efforts. More money than the Taliban could have ever wished for, funding any future objectives you may have.”
The elder scratched his beard as he pretended to contemplate. Turning his head, he looked over to his two other Taliban leaders. Their dark hardened eyes met in agreement.
“We do share a common enemy.” The man’s eyes bore into the Ayatollah’s. “Before we agree, we must discuss our terms for your plan.”
Ayatollah Radwan hid his sigh of relief, keeping his face expressionless. It had taken decades of preparation to finally arrive at this moment. “Good. Allah will smile upon you.”
“Our men will capture the nuclear bombs stored at the depot.” The elder paused and turned his gaze over to the man sitting next to the Ayatollah. “However, we do not feel comfortable turning them over to your young beardless associate here.”
“Abdul must take possession!” demanded the Ayatollah, his white-bearded face flushing red with anger. “He must! Otherwise, the plan fails!”
“We don’t trust turning over such a prize to a . . . man that looks untested in battle,” sneered the elder, casting his hand toward Abdul. “In this attack, we will lose many, many men.” The old warrior folded his arms and puffed his chest up.
“Then there will be no attack!” The Ayatollah’s fist slammed against the top of the table, rattling the teacups and knocking over a bowl, scattering dried figs across the table.
“We can do it ourselves without you,” said the elder. His fellow associates nodded in agreement as they glared at the two Shia.
The chair screeched against the wooden plank floor as Abdul pushed himself from the table. He rose. Thunder rumbled in the distance. The tall young man extended his hands onto the table. His unnatural green-flecked brown eyes locked into each of the men’s eyes. His face calm, Abdul said, “Yes, you could do it yourselves. This is your homeland and you move in it almost with impunity. However, I am the only one who knows the airbase and the depot. Your men will be slaughtered without my guidance into the base.” Returning his glare to the elder, he said, “And if, somehow, you are able to escape with the bombs, do you know anything about arming them?” Abdul changed his scowl into a slight smile. “I know that I am not the great warrior that you all are. However, I have spent my life becoming a nuclear weapons expert in preparation for this mission. You cannot succeed without me.”
With a snap of his right hand, Abdul knocked a fly out of the air hovering over a fig next to the overturned bowl.
Picking the stunned fly off the table, he held it between two fingers. “This fly is America. Together . . . after we steal the bombs, we will tear the infidels apart.” He coolly looked around at the old men. “First, with one attack.” He took hold of one of the helpless fly’s buzzing wings. With a precise yank, he tore one wing off. Abdul rotated his hand, pausing to observe the terrified struggling insect between his fingers. “Then, with another.” He ripped off the other wing.
Abdul held the pitiful fly out toward the men. He dropped it onto the table.
The wounded insect landed on its back. Its tiny legs thrashed and twisted about. Finally uprighting itself, the fly started to crawl away.
“And, when the Americans think that they have escaped us . . . we will cripple them again.”
Abdul lowered his hand and pinned the creature down with his fingernail just behind its head. The fly’s little legs struggled to escape its captor.
“And then, we will determine America’s destiny.” He pushed with his finger—the fly’s head popped off and rolled across the table. The head settled, rocking back and forth, in front of the elder. The strange alien-like compound eyes stared up at the old man.
The elder flinched as a cold chill ran down his spine.
“My apologies,” said Abdul, careful to hide his sneer. “The Ayatollah Radwan’s plan has been meticulously arranged. It cannot be altered. There is no task more righteous. It is our duty to Allah.” He bowed his head and folded his hands together for several seconds to summon Allah. Then, raising his head as if in divine enlightenment, he stated, “The great bin Laden showed the world that America could be struck at home. What we are planning will dwarf bin Laden’s attack. Allah demands that we further this jihad. Your names will be forever remembered. Your grandchildren’s children will tell proud stories about this great deed.” He eased his arms back off the table, relaxing as he straightened himself up. “Now, put away your distrust of us.”
The Sunni elder shifted in his chair. Grunting to himself, he unfolded his hands and set them on the table and looked around. The warriors nodded in acknowledgment. He spoke up, “Very well, my men will follow your plan. We will inflict upon the Americans such a terrible blow from which they will not recover . . .”
Alvarez turned toward Uhan, their eyes connecting. Uhan’s eyes showed shock from what he had translated to American.
Holy shit! The Pakistani Taliban is planning to steal some nuclear weapons. Alvarez patted Uhan gratefully on his shoulder. Damn good thing we found out about this meeting. This young bomb expert, he’s got powerful connections. We need to capture him.
Alvarez pressed his microphone to his lips and called mission command, “Command, Viking-1.”
“Viking-1, go ahead,” replied headquarters.
“Kassem and the Taliban hierarchy are here. They’re making plans to steal some nukes from Peshawar Airbase.”
Silence.
Alvarez shifted in his kneeling position, waiting. They’re probably briefing the colonel.
“Roger, Viking-1, proceed to eliminate targets,” replied Headquarters.
“Command, there’s a person of interest that we should take prisoner,” stated Alvarez.
“. . . A POI other than Kassem?” the colonel’s voice answered.
“Affirmative.”
“Okay, your call. But, terminate the others.”
“Copy.”
Alvarez gave Uhan a quick glance before radioing, “Viking-6, proceed.”
“Viking-1, copy,” replied Viking-6.
Down the dimly lit street, Alvarez heard the faint echo of clopping of hoofs and squeaking from a rickety donkey-pulled cart. Someone coming home late.
Alvarez radioed to his street-level team hiding in an alley below him, “Viking-2, Viking-1, audio shows possibly four guards on the first floor, probably in a living room. There are HVTs on the second floor. No non-combatants appear to be in the house. Check the house for other points of egress, then breach the first-floor main entry door. If you can, capture a young beardless man on the second floor, but make sure you kill him if you can’t. Eliminate the other hostiles.”
“Roger Viking-1,” said a voice.
Below, guided through the darkness by the flickering lamppost up the street, an old man and his donkey passed by the hidden Delta Force operators and continued with their small cart down the rough cobblestone road. Alvarez raised his M14 and through his night-vision scope observed the target house’s rooftop Taliban guard across the street. The guard moved to the edge of the roof to watch the old man below. After taking one last warming drag, the guard took his cigarette, carefully aimed, and flicked it at the man leading his donkey cart. Through the scope, Alvarez followed the glowing green butt as it arched downward, and landed unnoticed, just behind the hobbling old man. The donkey’s hooves continued their lazy rhythmic clomp as the wooden cart’s wheels rolled over the smoldering butt and along the ancient street. Alvarez returned his view to the guard’s face and saw the man’s grainy lips scrunched up in the disappointment of missing his target.
Pendejos “assholes,” these fucking thugs are just like the gangbangers back home. Alvarez steadied his eye into the scope.
A loud crack of lightning lit up the neighborhood.
Okay, let’s hurt these guys. This whole town is about to wake up to our little visit. I doubt the lightning will mask the noise we’re about to make. Two minutes to do the job and twenty minutes to get to the extraction site. Alvarez radioed to his adjacent sniper, “Viking-7, prepare.” Alvarez took a breath and said, “Now, ‘Bruiser.’”
Alvarez heard the crack of a pottery jug breaking into pieces up the street. The old man with the cart cursed and the cobblestone clomping halted. The Taliban rooftop sentries all turned toward the noise and moved to the edge of their rooftops to check out the commotion.
The old man clumsily began gathering up the broken pottery.
“Viking-7. On my count. Three, two, one, execute,” said Alvarez.
The two fired their M14s with suppressors attached to their barrels. With only muffled thunk sounds, two subsonic sniper bullets raced away—followed by two more.
The guards stood relaxed on the rooftops. Their bodies jolted. Blood flew out from their heads. They crumpled and disappeared from view.
“Viking. Four roof tangos hard down,” reported Alvarez to his team.
On the street below, the old man dumped the pottery fragments into the cart. Partially disappearing behind the cart, “Bruiser” pulled from the cart an M60 and aimed the machine gun downstreet. The “old man” called in, “Viking-1, Viking-6. In position.”
“Viking-2, proceed to target,” said Alvarez to his men below him on the street.
Emerging from an alley next to Alvarez’s building, Sergeant “Stomper” Smith replied, “Viking-1, Viking-2 commencing approach on house.” Stomper pushed up his turban to press his night vision goggles better against his face. He and three other street-level Delta Force operators scurried in the darkness across the street one at a time, robes flowing, silent upon the cobblestones. They took positions next to the Taliban's front door.
Stomper hand signaled and two of the men circled to the back of the house. Kneeling, Stomper carefully examined the ancient wooden door until he found a small chip at its base. That’ll do. He reached into the pouch on his plate-armor vest and removed a fiber optic camera with its cord. He shoved the tip of the flexible snake probe into the hole. Fuck, it won’t go in. He drew out his tactical knife and worked the hole. That should be big enough. Good, the cord’s in, let’s see who we’ve got. Flipping open the small battlefield computer mounted to his chest vest, he observed on the screen. Four men sitting on a couch. No other occupants.
His two men returned from behind the house and reported. “No back doors.”
Stomper nodded. Calling in, he said, “This is Viking-2. Four tangos on bottom floor. No women or children. No back doors.”
“Copy that Viking-2. Proceed,” replied Alvarez.
“Roger Viking-1.”
Stomper pocketed the camera cord and extended his arm toward the man beside him. The man pulled from Stomper’s backpack a long, two inch wide, explosive charge, folded in half. Unfolding it, he peeled off the plastic backing covering a sticky side and handed it over. Stomper pressed the explosive strip down the length of the sturdy wooden door. Gathering the wires attached to the strip, he attached a detonator and stepped away from the door. The team braced themselves, pressing their bulky vested backs hard against the dust-crusted ancient brick wall. “Ready your frags,” ordered Stomper. His three men reached to their vests, removed a fragmentation grenade from the webbing, and pulled off the ring. They held onto their M14s under their other arm.
“Frags readied.”
. . . (continued)