Page 1 of Hard to Lose

PROLOGUE

Ryan

“When we’re done and out of here, man, I think we should all open a bar together,” Shotgun says with a disbelieving laugh, pointing to the desert-brown plywood around us. Beyond that are concrete barriers with razor wire on top, more fencing, and security watch to keep out our enemies, who are probably sitting in the hills surrounding us, watching our every move.

Dickman holds out the bottle of whiskey to me. Or at least I think it’s whiskey. We’re not one hundred percent sure, but he got it from someone who knows someone who knows someone who knows our translator, and despite alcohol being illegal for us, we have it anyway.

Maybe that’s why I’m hesitating taking it. The last thing I want is to get caught by our commanding officer and put on burning-the-shitter detail as punishment.

However, I reach over, take the bottle, and tilt it to my lips for one long, deep swallow. I wince as the burn fires down my throat but Jesus, it’s welcome if only to help me forget for a few goddamn minutes where I am and what we’re doing.

“A bar?” Richard asks.

“Yep. The four of us will buy a bar together and call it FUBAR as a silent ode to this once-in-a-lifetime experience we’re enjoying right here.” Shotgun’s sarcasm rings loud and clear, and we all laugh.

“I can get on board with that,” I say with a nod, the alcohol hitting faster than I expected. “Jesus, that’s some strong shit.”

Dickman laughs like a crazed loon, and we all shush him so we don’t get in trouble. “It definitely has a higher alcohol content than the shit we have back home.”

“Home,” Shotgun murmurs. We all fall silent, because we know his girl just dumped him and he’s taking it hard. Hell, we’ve only been here a month, so she didn’t even let his sheets grow cold before doing it either.

He may have lost his girl, but I lost my dream.

Fuck. That definitely hurts.

“What is it you guys can’t wait to get back to?” Richard asks as he hands the bottle back to me.

“Pussy,” Dickman deadpans, and we all burst out laughing.

“No shit,” Richard says, punching him in the arm. “I’m serious. Like we’re here and shit, but what are you hoping for when you get back?”

“We should just kiss our old lives goodbye,” Dickman says, “because nothing will ever be the same again.”

“C’mon,” I mutter. “That’s not true.”

“Like hell it isn’t,” Dickman says, and of course, we all pay more attention when he speaks because this is his second tour.

“No, I’m dead serious.” He points to me. “Don’t you get it? You’re no longer PFC Ryan Camden. You’re a faceless number among many. When the brass looks at you, they see a guy who mans the gun. Now to them, you’re simply Gunner.”

“Whatever.” I wave a hand at him and dismiss his I-know-more-than-you bullshit.

“You think I’m joking?” He lifts his eyebrows. “Richard over there has been dubbed Nixon, because he’s a tricky motherfucker who gets himself out of situations no one else can. Shotgun is . . . he’s always sitting shotgun beside me, so yeah, that’s what his name is.”

“And you? Why are you Dickman?”

He snorts, his eyes glassy when they meet mine. “Because I’m a dick, man,” he says in a total stoner voice. It draws a chuckle from us, but we all meet each other’s eyes through the darkness. That nickname is like hitting a nail on the head. He’s great, but thank fuck he’s on our side.

“I’ll drink to that,” Shotgun says.

We fall silent as we hear a noise in the distance. It sounds like a gunshot, but we’re so used to the sound in our short time here, none of us even flinch.

“Look, we all gave up something—a lot of things to be here—but the question is: what did you give up that you’ll never get back?” Dickman continues on his depressing roll.

His words have me thinking, wondering, cringing at the decisions I made and how I ended up here.

“Isn’t hope a good thing?” I finally ask. “Why give it up when it’s something we can look forward to?”

“You’re not getting it, Gunner,” Dickman says and takes the bottle from my hand. “Everything has changed. No one there cares about you anymore like you thought they did. Or if they did, it’s now different.” Concern flickers through Shotgun’s eyes. “The easiest thing to do, for your own sanity, is to pick the one thing you loved the most and say goodbye to it. Make it official and let it go. Hell, you might as well write your last letter to whatever or whoever it is, and say goodbye as if you’ll die.”