“Hey, you’ve reached Lukas. Leave a message.”
“Hey, Lukas, it’s me. I know you’re probably busy, getting everything in order to deploy, but I just wanted to talk about the other day. I think we were both stressed, tired, not in the right mindset to talk about something like that. We’re in a hard spot, we both know that. But I still love you, and I’m still in this. Just know that, okay? There isn’t anyone else in this world I’d choose to be with. I want you to spend your time out there with a clear mind, knowing that we’ll be fine. We’ll make it through this. Promise. Love you, miss you.”
CHAPTER 18
Lukas
THREE MONTHS INTO DEPLOYMENT
Iclench my fingers around my rifle, hoping the white-knuckled grip looks like I’m ready and not terrified.
We’re third in line in a row of humvees, racing down the bumpy dirt roads toward town. The music blares through the little bluetooth speaker Collins snuck into his pack. The humvees don’t have radios, or speakers, and we’re supposed to be listening for a potential threat or radio call instead of music. But it’s been a rough few months out here. We’re all exhausted, some of us are on the final days of a head cold, and Collins said we needed the distraction. The music is so loud, we don’t even bother talking.
I peek over at Collins in the driver’s seat. His fingers are tapping along to the beat. He smacks his gum through his teeth, blowing out a pink bubble before obnoxiously popping it. He’s as calm as they come, relaxed as if he’s in dad mode right now, schlepping his kids to the grocery store on a summer afternoon.
I twist in my seat to glance behind me at the two guys riding in the back. There’s Brutus, he’s older than the rest of us, eight years in and plans to be a lifer.As long as I don’t get my fat ass in trouble,he always says. He reminds me of my brotherGrayson, if Grayson didn’t like to shower and got most of his teeth knocked out in fist fights.
Next to him is Davis. At nineteen years old, he’s fresh out of school. He looks like a typical California boy—blonde hair, blue eyes. I would have thought he’d be more like me: hesitant, a little scared, but he’s like Collins, damn near begging for action.
They’re both armed and ready. Gazes locked out their respective windows, muscles tight, eager for a fight.
And then there's me. The scared boy from Iowa. Thrown in the middle of a dog fight without a fucking clue.
They could be hiding terrorists, they tell us.
You can’t trust anything they say.
We’re in a war zone; assume everyone is out to get you.
I remind myself of their words, trying to keep my expression neutral when the humvee comes to a halt. Collins turns the engine off, the music cutting out midbridge, the ringing in my ears the only sound.
He turns around to face the guys behind us, resting his hand on the back of my seat. “Ready for some action, fuckers?”
The outside air is still … stifling. I breathe in a lung full of dirt and dust before bringing my bandana up and covering my lower face. The guys around me and the ones exiting the humvee next to us do the same. Staff Sergeant Winters exits from the front vehicle and motions for us to move. We fall into line. I hold the butt of my gun tight against my shoulder as we weave our way through the small-town streets.
People watch as we move, and my eyes dart back and forth, trying to focus on someone who looks suspicious, someone who might have a gun, someone who looks like they might want to start a fight.
But all I see is a weekend market. Crates of fruit. Chickens. A goddamn group of children kicking a ball as they run around. Women.
If this is a place where terrorists are hiding, or if they’re using innocent people like this to stash their weapons and bombs … it takes a twisted mind to do that.
The line halts, and Staff Sergeant Winters motions for me to come forward. I stand at his side, and he leans over, pointing to a worn wooden door down the alley.
“Back door on the right,” he says, his voice low but steady.
I nod, moving ahead of him since I got the green light. We’re silent as we move; the only sound is the crunch of the dirt under our combat boots and the distant giggles of children. A bird flies overhead, and a flock follows, their wings beating against the morning sun.
I stand at the side of the door, perking my ear to listen for signs of life. For children playing, a man yelling, anything.
It’s silent.
Still.
My gun lifts. The stock of my rifle is pressed to my bad shoulder; my sweaty hands grip the warm metal.Be empty, my mind chants.Please be empty. Please don’t be filled with women and children and the innocent.
With one final push, I clear my mind, send up a silent prayer, and kick the door off its hinges. Dust flies up and my breath comes out in quick successions as my pulse thunders in my throat.
My gun rises, my comrades filling the room, flanking in around me. I wait for the gunfire, the yelling, the moment when all hell breaks loose.
