There were eight of them hunkered behind the row of HESCOs, eight Rangers in digital camo, black kneepads, and vests. Rifle rounds from the insurgents snapped against the wire mesh of the barricades, and he’d been watching, through a crack, the quadrangle of marketplace between him and the hostiles—sandstone, pottery, a dry concrete fountain—and then the horse emerged from behind the burnt husk of a Toyota and walked toward the center of the square. Left hind leg, left front leg. Right hind leg, right front leg. No hurry in its gait. No saddle or blanket. Just a bridle and a set of split leather reins. Russell had seen plenty of mules in this country, a disheveled pony, but never a creature such as this. It was a varnish roan, dark brown on its cheekbones, elbows, and hocks, and if it was startled by the noise of gunfire, it certainly didn’t show. The horse walked to the center of the quad and stopped. A hush descended over the square, and for several moments they didn’t take any fire.
