Strapping on Kevlar.
Because Dalla is one of them, and when you hurt one Raider, you hurt them all.
I load my weapons.
Glock 19 in my shoulder holster—fifteen rounds plus one in the chamber.
Sig Sauer P320 on my hip—seventeen rounds.
AR-15 for the assault, with three extra magazines strapped to my vest.
Combat knife strapped to my thigh—the same one Da gave me when I turned eighteen, the one that's never let me down.
Enough firepower to start a small war.
Which isexactlywhat we're about to do.
My hands are steady as I check each weapon, but inside I'm anything but calm.
Every time I close my eyes, I see her face.
The way she looked at me this morning, nervous and excited about something she wanted to tell me.
The way she said "I love you more than you know."
Now I know what she meant. Now I understand.
She was going to tell me about the baby. Our baby.
The pregnancy test is burning a hole in my pocket.
I couldn't leave it behind, couldn't let anyone else find it.
That's her news to share.
Her secret to tell.
When I get her back—and I will get her back—she can tell me herself.
What was she feeling this morning?
Scared? Excited? Both?
Did she lie in bed next to me, watching me sleep, thinking about the future she was carrying inside her?
I push the thoughts away.
They're not helping.
They're making me feel things I can't afford to feel right now—tenderness, hope, love.
Those emotions are dangerous in combat.
They make you hesitant.
They make you weak.
Right now, I need to be a weapon. Cold and efficient and utterly without mercy.
