Leaving her again.
My chest seizes, a violent spasm that rips the air out of me. I slam my forehead into the dirt just to feel something other than fear. A shadow moves past in the smoke. Shouts in Arabic cut the air. Too close. Too fucking close. I can’t even reach for my rifle. My arms are dead weight.
My body’s not mine anymore. It’s just a carcass waiting to be filled with lead and in that heartbeat, in that half-second stretch of eternity—I know.
If this is it—She’ll never know.
Never know I loved her. Never know she was the only thing keeping me upright out here. Never know that every mission, every trigger pull, every fucking breath—was her.
The desert presses harder. Like it’s daring me to give up. The ringing folds in on itself, a high-pitched scream collapsing into silence.
For a second, I think I’ve gone deaf.
Then—hands.
Fists in my vest, jerking me off the ground hard enough my head whiplashes. Sand and glass cut my cheek. My ribs grind like broken teeth.
“Kingston!” The voice cuts through the fog. A snarl, guttural, familiar. “Get the fuck up!”
I blink, my vision tunnelling, smoke stinging so deep it feels like knives behind my eyes. A face swims into view. Mud. Blood. Helmet tilted, jaw clenched.
Torres.
His mouth moves fast, too fast, but only shards break through the static in my head.
“—ambush—”
“—move—”
“—cover—”
He drags me, half-carrying, half-hauling, boots slipping over dirt slick with blood. My stomach lurches with every jolt. My rifle bangs against my thigh like a dead limb.
I try to find my voice, but it’s buried under the ringing. My throat only works enough to rasp one word. “Reese?—”
“Gone!” Torres barks, spitting smoke. His grip on my vest tightens. “Move, motherfucker, or we all go down!”
The blast site burns behind us, the MRAP coughing black fire into the night. Shadows scatter. Some ours. Some not. Gunfire sparks in the haze—short bursts, controlled, answered by screams I can’t translate.
My boots drag trenches through the dirt as he yanks me behind what’s left of a wall. My body slams against it, pain ricocheting down my side where shrapnel sliced deep.
I gasp. Finally. A sound.
Torres crouches low, his eyes blazing. “You with me, Doc?”
I nod once. Barely.
But the truth?
I’m still pinned in the blast.
Still flat on the ground.
Still waiting for the earth to bury me alive.
The world won’t settle. It lurches, tilts, crashes back. Like I’m still tumbling from the blast even though Torres has me shoved against a wall. My ears buzz like a hive. My teeth feel loose in my skull.
The wall at my back is warm. Too warm. I glance down—handprints of blood smeared across the stone. Mine.
