Sweat pours from my helmet, dripping from my brow and upper lip.
I blink away the sweat, undeterred by how uncomfortable I am. The weight of my bullet proof vest seems to press heavier against my chest.
But it doesn’t bother me.
I was trained for this. And I was trained for situations that made me far more uncomfortable. I learned to live with it. To become one with it and not let it hinder my performance.
My men are following behind me in a unified line. Their breaths as steady as our feet against the dirt road.
We keep alert. Every sound we hear is not missed. Every movement we see is assessed.
We keep ourselves close to the walls of the buildings we pass. Once we reach the end of the building, Darius turns to secure the back and I make efficient work of clearing us to move forward.
With a hand signal I clear for us to proceed. They all follow in step behind me.
Their trust in me is proved without question. They have given me their trust to keep them safe.
One mantra I always say before we leave on a mission is no brother left behind.
Out of the countless of missions we’ve had with each other we’ve all come back. Maybe a knick or a scratch here and there but nothing too serious.
I pray on every god that there is that it will stay that way.
Our location is close in sight. One-hundred meters until we breach the building.
Our mission is to extract the captives and kill on sight. Get in, extract, shoot to kill, get the fuck out.
With steady breaths, a calm heart rate and an alert mind we reach our destination.
I can hear the muffled cries coming from inside the wrecked building. The captives are there and I don’t know how badly they are injured.
Going by protocol I take a step back and allow, Jude, our breacher, to breach the door. Once he breaches the door hetakes a step back and I make another hand signal for my brothers to fall in a close line behind me.
When we enter the building the first thing we all see is three women and five children tied to chairs. Their mouths are stuffed with fabric and bound with rope.
I’ve been overseas for a long time. Seen shit that no man should see but seeing women and children,children,used as puppets always fucks with my head.
It’s no worse then seeing the little boys come charging at us with gunfire.
“I hate seeing this fucking shit,” Darius mutters under his breath.
“We all do,” Roman agrees, disgust clear in his voice.
Miguel takes a calculated step closer to the hostages. His eyes scan over each of them as we’ve been trained to. But he sees what we all see. No bombs strapped to their chests. No weapons on them. No threat posing from any of them. There’s only tears and muffled cries. Bruised and battered skin.
They all wait on my signal to start untying them. After Isaac and I do a round of the small building I clear for them to proceed.
As we are cutting the rope to free them there is this feeling I have in my gut that doesn’t sit right.
Nothing is ever this fucking easy.
The feeling only intensifies as we cut the last one free.
They speak in their native tongue and I wish I can understand what they are saying. But I try to decipher by the tone in their voice. Their body language and their facial expressions. I try to extract clues.
“They keep pointing to the next building over, Sergeant,” Isaac tells me.
A woman who is older than me keeps crying while holding a young child. She points at the young child and then forward. The only thing forward is another building like this one.
