Rambo.2

They made for the river. That was the plan. A radio, a pickup, and a flight to freedom. But the jungle had a different plan. The Russian advisor to the camp—a blond beast in a starched uniform—unleched the hounds. Not dogs. Men on dirt bikes with sidecars mounted with M60s.

John Rambo read it twice. Then he folded it into a tight square and swallowed it.

“They drew first blood,” he said. “Not me.” rambo.2

The mission wasn’t to fight. It was to photograph. The government wanted proof of American POWs still caged in the jungle five years after the armistice. Rambo had refused the first time. “Are we sending in a man or a weapon?” the Colonel had asked. They sent the weapon.

The dossier was thin, almost insulting. One grainy photo of a man with a hawk’s nose and dead eyes. One location: a monsoon-clogged valley in northern Thailand. One objective: confirm or deny. They made for the river

“I’m not a nobody,” Rambo said. He raised his bow. “I’m your worst mistake.”

“Jesus Christ,” the pilot whispered. “What happened here?” But the jungle had a different plan

Rambo snapped. The rules left him. The mission left him. There was only the red haze. He turned on the bikes like a cornered boar. He took a grenade from a dead man’s belt, pulled the pin, and shoved it into a gas tank. The fireball painted the jungle orange.

He climbed into the chopper. He didn’t take a seat. He stood in the open door, watching the valley shrink, his knuckles white on the frame. The photo was gone—lost in the mud, burned in the fire. But he didn’t need it.