Mac nodded. “Second truck?”
“Bennett’s in the first. I’ll take rear overwatch.”
“I’ll take center.”
Around them the motor pool hummed as soldiers checked tires and synced radios. Monroe joked that combat Frisbee might be safer and earned a few tired laughs. The rhythm of deployment had returned.
The sun was already unforgiving, bouncing hard off concrete and hood metal. Mac and Melvin moved through pre-mission checks without words: clipboards, radios, gear adjustments, efficient and in rhythm.
As Melvin passed Mac the manifest, their fingers brushed, brief and accidental looking but not accidental at all.
Mac’s thumb pressed once over the back of Melvin’s hand before he took the clipboard and walked toward his vehicle like nothing had happened.
No one said anything. Maybe no one noticed.
But Melvin did.
The sky was pale haze by the time they rolled out. Dust rose behind them as the convoy moved past the outer gates one vehicle at a time. Melvin rode rear overwatch like he’d said. His eyes tracked ridgelines, rooftops, the shapes that didn’t belong. Pain pulsed low along his ribs beneath the vest. Radio chatter crackled, dry and routine. At the halfway mark they reached the checkpoint. Iraqi Police waved them through.
Nothing felt wrong. But nothing felt right either. Something buzzed low in Melvin’s spine.
“All trucks, maintain alert posture,” he said into the radio. “Eyes on rooftops. Rear sectors tight.”
Mac’s voice answered calm and steady. “Copy. Adjusting interval.”
A few minutes later they crested the hill before the bend. The world cracked sideways.
BOOM.
It wasn’t an IED. The blast was directional, pure overpressure. The lead Humvee rocked hard.
“We’re hit!” Bennett’s voice tore across the net. “Front axle’s gone. No casualties. Holding position!”
Melvin’s breath caught. “Rear security, form wedge! Cover fire lanes!”
Shots followed, probing fire, not a full ambush, but enough to disorient. A shadow darted along a wall to the east. Melvin raised his weapon and fired once.
The figure dropped. The fight lasted maybe five minutes, long enough for every nerve to stretch tight and the ache in his ribs to bloom beneath the carrier. When the echoes faded and dust began tosettle, Melvin stepped out and met Mac between the trucks. They didn’t speak at first.
Mac’s eyes narrowed as he looked him over. “You hit?”
Melvin shook his head. “Not fresh.”
Mac’s hand hovered a moment before settling on his shoulder, the quick squeeze grounding him. “I knew you’d run toward it,” he said.
“You did too.”
Mac snorted. “I always do. Doesn’t mean I like watching you bleed to prove a point.”
Melvin glanced away, then back. “Maybe the point isn’t about bleeding.”
Mac held his gaze. “Maybe it’s about staying.”
By the time they rolled through the north gate, the damaged Humvee limped in with its axle tied up in rigged straps. Dust coated everything. Medics swarmed the vehicle, but Bennett waved them off. “Everyone’s upright. Give us five minutes and bad coffee.” Melvin climbed down slower than usual.
Mac noticed.
Debrief and paperwork came first, like they always did.
