"And it could be a hit-and-run by those son-of-a-bitchin' bandits or Taliban. If our guys are hurt, they could bleed to death before we can get back to them." He grabbed his gun from the glove box and jumped to the ground. "Stay here. I'll check it out." He strode toward the overturned truck. "Call for help."

If he was going to do it, then she couldn't let him go in alone. She grabbed her Glock and got out of the truck. "Be careful, dammit. Don't go barging in and-" She stopped as she saw the blood.

A thin red stream was running toward them from behind the truck.

She forgot about being careful. She was around the truck before Joel got there.

"God in heaven," she whispered.

Al was crumpled near the ditch. His head had been almost torn from his body by a barrage of bullets. Don was half under the truck as if he'd tried to get away from the attack. He hadn't succeeded. Bullet holes peppered his entire torso.

"Butchers," Joel said huskily. "They didn't have a chance."

Emily tore her gaze from the bodies. Bodies. So impersonal a word. These had been her friends and companions. "We can't do any¬thing for them. We have to get out of here."

He didn't move. "Sons of bitches."

Emily grabbed him by the arm. "We have to leave. Now. They could still be-"

"And they are." She whirled to see a tall, loose-limbed man with sandy hair coming toward her, an AK-47 cradled casually in the crook of his arm. "Don't lift your guns. This weapon could cut you in two before either of you could press the trigger."

"You killed them?" She stared at him in bewildered horror. "Why? If you wanted anything in the truck, they would have let you have it. Those are our orders. We're not supposed to fight to protect those ar¬tifacts."

"But, love, I needed a distraction." He raised his thick sandy brows. "How else could I be sure to engage your attention?"