The photograph arrived in a plain brown envelope.
I found it on my desk that morning, slipped under the door sometime during the night. No return address. No postmark. Just my name scrawled across the front in handwriting I didn't recognize.
I opened it carefully, my instincts screaming that something was wrong. Inside was a single photograph. Old. Faded. A group of soldiers standing in front of a Humvee, their faces young and hopeful. I recognized them. All of them. The men I'd served with in Kandahar. The men I'd led into battle. The men I'd left behind.
And in the corner, someone had written a message in red ink: THEY'RE ALL DEAD. YOU'RE NEXT.
I stared at the photograph for a long moment, feeling the cold spread through my chest. The ghosts of my past had come back to haunt me. And
