Rogue let out a low whistle. “You ever thought about modeling, Ghost?”
Ghost’s voice came dry. “Fat chance. Besides, it’s not the model. It’s the photographer.”
Rachel’s cheeks flushed instantly. Heat crawled up the back of her neck and settled there, hot and rooted. She looked down, the embarrassment creeping in.
Rogue didn’t miss it, but he didn’t say anything. He tapped the dial once more. The next photo came up.
Ghost crouching low, hand outstretched. The girl offering flowers. His face tilted toward her, unreadable, but softer than any of them had ever seen. The wildflowers in his palm. A moment held still. Honest. Unarmored.
Brick spoke first, voice low. “You’re not just playing around with that camera, are you?”
Rachel swallowed. “No.”
Torch stepped closer, gaze still on the screen. “These aren’t just good. They’re… different. I’ve seen a lot of field shots. None of them look like this.”
Reaper didn’t speak, but he tapped the button, going back one frame, then back again.
They weren’t admiring technique. They were seeing themselves the way no one else ever had, real. In the middle of something messy and honest. Not cleaned up or filtered, just… seen.
Ghost finally stepped forward. Took the camera gently from Rogue’s hands. He passed it back to her without looking at the screen. Just met her eyes.
And for a second, just one, he looked like the man in that photo.
12
F.O.B Kilo - Field Med Bay
A child’s scream cut through the midday heat.
Ghost was already moving before his brain caught up, rounding the corner of the med tent at a jog. His boots crunched over gravel. The air reeked of antiseptic, sharp enough to burn his throat.
He hadn't been following Rachel. Not exactly. She'd mentioned heading to the med tent to talk with the corpsmen about field rotations. Notebook in hand, camera over her shoulder. Standard embedded journalist work.
He'd told himself he was just keeping an eye on the perimeter.
But when the call came in, civilians hit by an explosion north of the village, Ghost's gut had twisted. He'd moved fast, knowing exactly where she'd be.
Inside the tent, everything was moving too fast.
Two women huddled in the corner, veils soaked with dust and tears, voices rising in panicked Pashto. Three children lay across cots. Medics swarmed around them, hands flying, voices sharp with urgency. A corpsman yelled for suction. Another dropped a tray, metal clattering against concrete, the sound lost under crying and shouted orders.
Blood. Everywhere. The smell hit Ghost hard, metallic and thick.
His eyes found Rachel immediately.
She was kneeling on one of the cots, both hands pressed hard against a field dressing on a small boy's abdomen. The kid couldn't be older than six. His shirt was soaked dark with blood. Rachel's face was pale, jaw set, her whole body locked rigid as she kept pressure on the wound.
She wasn't doing this for a story. Her camera sat forgotten across the tent. She'd just moved when she saw the blood, when she saw the kid.
Ghost stood near the side entrance, watching. His pulse kicked harder than it had any right to, and it wasn't the adrenaline he knew from combat. This was something else entirely.
Rachel had her hands pressed hard against a compress on the kid's stomach, blood soaking through the white gauze faster than itshould. She had no medical training that he knew of, but her hands stayed steady. Her face was bone-white, lips pressed thin, but she didn't pull back.
The medic beside her called for more gauze and someone passed it over without Rachel having to move. She kept her weight on that compress, leaning into it. Ghost could see her arms shaking now from the strain of holding pressure, tiny tremors running from her shoulders down to her wrists.
"Keep pressure. Just like that," the medic said, voice tight with focus.
Rachel nodded without taking her eyes off the boy's face.
