Choke Point

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Kozak was a multitasking maniac, a grand maestro of death, having divided his brain into four separate parts all working in concert with one another, his eyes flicking between –

The targets being hit by the Warhound’s mortars, which appeared as throbbing red blips on a digital map in his HUD …

The video piped in from the guided missile camera as he launched a second rocket at the other APC …

The grenade sensor’s readout marking the positions of the Marines along with the team, and the hostiles framed in red …

And, finally, what he saw with his own eyes: the profiles of Hamid, Valencia and Delgado out by the far hut, and above them, surrounded by a bed of palm fronds, 30K rising to his knees with his rifle in hand …

Screw the multitasking.

That was his friend out there.

30K, his big brother. The guy who always got him into trouble but the guy he wished he could be, with so much courage that he’d throw himself into a barrage of bullets and ask why the enemy was so cheap with ammo.

Valencia had his rifle raised –

Kozak was about to scream but a barrage of incoming fire ten times heavier than before came out of nowhere, as if every remaining troop at the outpost had suddenly converged on their position, and this tiny piece of swamp and sand on an island smaller than Brooklyn was about to become a slaughterhouse.

Before Kozak could take another breath, the second APC was struck by the Warhound’s guided missile, Valencia’s rifle flashed and popped, and Pepper swung around and fired a shot at the fleeing men.

The plates on 30K’s chest took a few of the rounds, but one caught him in the arm, another grazing his neck, the multiple impacts making him lose his balance before he could return fire, damn it –

And two more gunshots later, he was falling back off the hut’s roof and into the air …

He landed on his head and shoulder, a horrible crunch reverberating through his neck, the feeling of bones shattering, and then his breath gone, the Cross-Com torn from his face, the dirt in his mouth, his eyes flickering open, another burning pain in his side turning prickly and sharper, just after a rifle report. He’d been shot again.

His left arm was useless, the collarbone most certainly broken, the bone already popping in his shoulder. He reached back for his pistol, saw Valencia lying on the ground clutching a gunshot wound at his hip, saw Hamid and Delgado darting off for the APC, as a fresh wave of gunfire began shredding the hut above him.

After stealing a quick breath, he pulled himself up on one elbow and tried to crawl forward. Nothing. He tried again with everything he had. Cursed. Tried again.

Damn it. He would not be killed by this hybrid half-assed army. They didn’t deserve a prize like him, these amateur bastards. They’d hardly earned his respect. He drove his elbow deeper into the sand and groaned, just as a round pinged off his helmet.

It was a Sunday afternoon, and Ross was home in Virginia Beach for two weeks of R & R. Wendy had gone out to Target with her friends to buy something for a baby shower happening the following week, and she’d warned him twice to keep an eye on the boys, and he’d sworn he would.

‘Dad? It’s so hot outside. Can you shoot us with the hose?’

Jonathan and his little buddy Marcus were running around on the front lawn, playing catch with a Nerf football, but they were sweating bullets and needed to cool off.

Ross had argued against the pool, citing the initial expense, high maintenance costs, and trying to joke that he didn’t want his wife fraternizing with the pool boy while he was on the other side the world.

The boys would’ve been in that pool on a day like that. On 14 August.

‘Okay, guys, give me a minute. I’ll go get the hose.’

Backhanding sweat from his brow, Ross padded across the lawn, opened the gate, then crossed the backyard patio to unscrew the hose from the spigot.

He was gone all of twenty seconds, and since then he’d counted and recounted every one of them, each seeming to strip a year off his life.

Although he never heard their conversation, Marcus conveyed it later on, how he’d thrown the ball too hard, how it’d gone over Jonathan’s head and Jonathan had said he’d get it. He hadn’t even looked as he’d run into the street.

The guy who hit him was thirty years old, the brother of a Navy SEAL who lived at the end of the block. That was no coincidence since many operators lived in that area. He was driving back up to Long Island after coming down to see his brother for the weekend. He was under the speed limit, completely sober, utterly devastated. He just couldn’t stop his pickup in time.

Ross had heard the brakes squealing, the thump, Marcus yelling, and another voice: ‘Oh my God! Oh my God!’

He dropped the hose and went sprinting around the side of the house –

To find his little boy lying facedown in the middle of the road.

And at that moment, Ross was struck with the hollowest, most painful feeling he had ever known, a piece of his soul dying as he staggered toward the scene, mouth falling open, breath suddenly gone, legs failing to work …

Now, as he squinted toward 30K lying facedown in the sand, struggling to pull himself up, he realized with gritted teeth that this time — this fucking time — it wasn’t too late.

‘Pepper, Kozak, take the Warhound and go after Hamid!’ he ordered.

‘What about 30K?’ cried Kozak.

‘I got him! You go now!’