21. Said I Loved You – Michael Bolton
Shay – 30 years; Skye18 years
Driving my fists hard and quick, ignoring the fatigue, I didn’t stop until I slammed several dents in the bag before it jerked off its hook and went flying across the room.
“That’s it, I’m fucking tired of your moping.” Griffin kicked the bag as he approached. “That’s the third fucking bag you’ve killed in the last two weeks. Spill. Now.” He shoved at my chest. “Do you have your fucking period or something. Fourteen months I’ve put up with this shit. It’s time to go home, bro and lay your fucking claim.” He hit my chest again.
I walked backward not giving into his taunting. If I did, he’d probably land in the medic tent. We were stationed in Baghdad, and we’d seen enough wounded soldiers daily without having to hurt each other out of stupidity. Well, my foolishness more than anything.
“Come on, bro.” Another push. “Punching bags don’t hit back,” he goaded.
I let my left hook fly and his body slammed into the wall behind him. “Fuck,” he groaned, shaking his head to focus.
“Another?” I growled.
The cheeky bastard merely cupped his jaw, tested that it functioned and cocked a brow at me. “Is that all you got, pussy?” He fisted his hands in front of him, going into defense mode and I laughed.
“Seriously? You want to do this?” I mocked. “You know you can’t take me.”
Griffin had learned the hard way that while I might be the best fucking sniper on the squad, my fists were equally as dangerous when provoked, to say nothing of what I could do with a knife. I was skilled and hoped to make the special ops team soon. Griffin knew my strengths though. He’d seen them in action on more than a couple of occasions starting with our sting against the mountain guerillas in the Columbian Forest. Raw, uncouth fuckers didn’t know what the fuck hit them after they’d cornered me. By the time Griffin arrived with the rest of our team, I’d taken down nine men.
“Let’s see if your fists work as good as your mouth,” he snorted, rolling his fists and looking for an opportunity to catch me unawares.
“Hawk, Griff! We’re moving out.” The abrupt call had him turning.
We looked at each other, already mentally preparing ourselves. “Saved by the fucking alarm.” Griffin still joked. Laughing, I followed him.
Forty-five minutes later, we weren’t laughing as we moved out in a convoy of six armored vehicles to deliver food and water to a nearby town hit by militant assholes that had nothing better to fucking do than go after innocents. Approaching ambush territory, another town we had to pass through, we turned watchful, became alert, quiet, thoughtful whether we’d make it back to camp, stateside or home. This was the drill every day. Fighting to protect and serve, while eager to stay alive.
“No guts, no glory,” one of the newer guys muttered in the back seat. First deployment and he was trying to put on a brave face. I glanced over my shoulder and offered him what I hoped was a ‘you’ve got this’ look. He nodded.
The next few minutes happened in a chaotic blur, no one was ever prepared for.
The truck in front of us exploded, kicking up a sandstorm. “What the fuck!” Griffin yelled wrenching the wheel of our vehicle hard right.
The move wasn’t fast enough, and the left side of our truck collided hard with the blazing vehicle. Our truck reared up and flipped over, tossing us like we were paperweights. A few agonizing seconds and my body felt like I’d been thrown into a woodchipper as sand, smoke and dust rained down on us.
“Fuck!” I heard the rookie shout.
