I’ll have to talk with her later.
Her hands are trembling on her weapon, and the color has drained from her face. She’s not merely scared — she’s embarrassed. I feel a pang of regret for yelling at her, then remember that it’s my job to keep my men disciplined. I can’t feel bad for doing something that keeps us alive a little longer than the bad guys.
One of Max’s detonations lights up the night sky no more than a hundred yards away from us. The force of the explosion is like a physical wall of heat. It slams into the sushi restaurant and washes over our heads. I duck down and cover my scalp with my hand instinctively, the heat singeing the tips of my hair.
Lucky I’m wearing a hat.
The flames lick at the edges of plastic bins and piles of trash, lighting trails along spilled gasoline and diesel. It doesn’t wander further than the edges of the parking lot, though. There’s not a lot to burn around here.
I hear a thud behind me and spin around, grabbing my handgun on my belt. An improvising — and unusually clever — Omega soldier has climbed up on the roof behind us. He’s got his weapon out, ready to kill the first person he sees. Which would be me, obviously.
I nail him in the chest. An unhesitating reaction — pure instinct now. But I quickly realize that I’ve made a mistake. He’s wearing a vest, and although the impact of the shot knocks him backwards, the bullet doesn’t penetrate the vest. I stay crouched, shoot again. This time I shoot at a slight angle, right in the weak spot: the armpit. A bulletproof vest can only cover so much.
It’s a clean shot. A perfect shot. He drops dead, the bullet probably cutting right through his heart, into his lungs. I swallow a gag. Killing people — regardless of whether or not they are enemy soldiers here to kill me — is difficult for me. Especially when I can see the look on their faces as they die. When I am a sniper, I’m killing from a distance. It sounds horrific — and it is — but I’m not as traumatized when the job is done in a detached way. It helps separate me from the death.
But up close there’s no escape. These are the faces I see when I sleep at night.
Well. Try to sleep.
Within minutes the prisoners are free and the Omega troops are either dead or wounded — or fled. Some of them ran away during the firefight. I climb down from the roof and approach the camp. Everything happened in a mad rush. A contained rush, but a rush nonetheless. Bloodstains and black smudge marks line the pavement. Sophia says nothing. Neither does Alexander.
I do a headcount of the men in my platoon. Everybody here? Good. I didn’t lose a single soldier. Great news, especially since it’s my first mission as a Lieutenant. A tall, lean young man with cropped black hair is standing at the back of my platoon. I don’t know his name. He’s holding his left arm, his hand covered in blood. Concerned, I walk up to him.
“What’s your name, soldier?” I ask.
“Andrew, Ma’am,” he replies, grimacing.
I look around for a field medic. They’re occupied with other soldiers that are more badly hurt. I roll up Andrew’s shirtsleeve. He’s been shot through the arm — looks like a clean wound, though. In and out. A flesh wound.
“You are a very lucky guy,” I murmur. “This didn’t even scrap bone.”
“If you say so, Ma’am,” he replies.
I flip my knife out of the pocket in my boot and cut away a strip of cloth at the bottom of my black undershirt. I’ve got a tiny emergency first aid kit on a pack nestled snugly on my back. I whip it around, unzip it, and open up some alcohol wipes. I swab the wound. He winces but doesn’t complain. I wrap his arm in clean bandages, tie the strip of cloth around that, and nod.
“You’re good to go,” I say. “Check in with the Medical Staff when we get to base.”
He smiles. It’s a kind, sweet smile.
“Thank you, Ma’am,” he replies. “For everything.”
I’ve never known what to do with gratitude, so I just remain silent, zip up my little packet and sling it across my back. And I leave. I gather my platoon into one spot and watch as Chris approaches me through the crowd. He’s flushed. He’s mad.
“What was that?” he demands. He’s wearing black combat gear, a captured weapon in one arm, held at the ready. “Who gave your position away?”
“It was my fault,” I say, swallowing a sick feeling in my stomach. Why am I taking the blame for this?
Because that’s what a good leader does, I think. They take responsibility.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
Chris gives me a long, hard look.
“Don’t let it happen again,” he states. He glances at Sophia’s face, then back at me. Perhaps he knows the truth. “We’re returning to base.”
I nod.
“Nice recovery, though.” Derek shows up, covered in ash and sweat. His short blonde hair is hidden beneath a black skullcap. “Not bad, Hart.”
“Thanks.” I gesture to the twisted mass of metal that used to be the gate around the camp. “You didn’t do too bad, either.”
“Ah, Max is the brains. I just plant the explosives.” He shrugs. “This was a lot easier than I thought it’d be.”
“Easy is a relative term,” Alexander replies.
“I mean, compared to the last time we engaged Omega.”
“We were betrayed and ambushed.”
“Exactly.” Derek smiles at me. “See you at base, Hart.”
“See you,” I say.
We head towards our just arriving truck convoy, on the other side of the distribution center. It’s under the freeway. It’s been staged and waiting for our arrival. Vera is talking with Chris when I arrive, and he’s listening intently. I grind my teeth together and make a point of avoiding looking in her direction. She’s probably giving him a point-by-point recap of everything that happened to her platoon during the attack. I’m sure their execution was flawless.
I check my team one final time, making sure that they’re assembled in their transport vehicles. Everybody’s fine. I walk to the lead Humvee. I get in the backseat and slam the door. Weary.
A few seconds later, Chris gets in and takes the seat beside me.
Silence.
“You took the blame for Sophia’s mistake,” he states simply.
I say nothing. Then, “It’s my team.”
“It wasn’t your mistake.”
“My team. My mistake.”
The driver starts the engine and the convoy starts to move. We’ve got roving gunners in jeeps and ATCs keeping an eye on the roads as we rumble through the city, twisting and turning between old shopping centers and neighborhoods.
“Cassidy,” Chris says, lowering his voice. “You’re a good leader.”
I study his profile, noting the tightness of his jaw.
“You don’t seem too happy about it,” I surmise.
“Because you don’t need me anymore,” he says, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “Maybe I’m just getting sentimental.”
“I’ll always need you,” I reply.
I need Chris more than I need anyone else. Even if the entire war against Omega is an utter failure and we all end up enslaved — if I have Chris, I can survive.
He doesn’t answer. He just reaches over, takes my hand, and holds it for a few minutes until we reach Sector 20. His hand seems so big compared to mine.
“I’ll always need you,” I repeat as we pull into the base.
He pauses and looks at me, green eyes brimming with emotion.
“And I will always need you,” he says.