Chapter 2
BLAKE
Iwake up before the alarm.
No nightmare this time. No fire and flames. No screaming. No waking up believing they’re hurting and in pain and I can’t do anything.
Just the snap of eyes opening in the pitch black and the immediate, suffocating weight of Kabul.
03:47 AM.
I fucking hate the heat. The AC unit rattles in the window frame, spitting out lukewarm air and fighting a losing war against the concrete walls.
My sheet is glued to my back, drenched in sweat.
I peel it off, my skin crawling. The air in this place tastes like recycled dust and CLP gun oil.
It gets into your pores. It coats the back of your throat no matter how much water you drink, a constant, gritty reminder of exactly where you are.
I don't think about the workshop. I don't let my brain touch the smell of cedar shavings or the quiet focus of my hands on a piece of wood.
I definitely don't think about the look on Reid's face—the raw, broken realization that I'm exactly the piece of shit he always feared I was—or the sound of Laine's voice in the rain, telling me I’m sick.
That’s dead weight. You carry dead weight on a ruck, your knees buckle. You slow down, you die. Or worse, you get someone else killed.
And I’ve already done enough of that.
I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the cot. The mattress springs shriek, a metal-on-metal scrape that grates against my teeth.
Routine takes over. It’s the only thing keeping the quiet out.
Boots on. I yank the laces tight until they bite into the instep, welcoming the pinch. Check the gear on the footlocker. I run my hands over the plate carrier, testing the heavy ceramic seams. I pick up the M4. The bolt carrier group is wet with fresh oil. I cycle the action. Click-clack.
Crisp. Perfect mechanical function. If only my fucking brain worked that well.
My phone sits on the metal shelf next to a half-empty water bottle. It’s a black brick. Dead. I haven't charged it since I landed three months ago.
I stare at it. The urge to plug it in is a physical itch under my skin, a withdrawal tremor in my hands. Just to check. Just to see if Reid finally sent a text telling me to rot in hell. Just to look at a picture of her face, even if seeing it would feel like swallowing broken glass.
No. Shut it down.
The room is too small. The silence is deafening. I grab my towel and shove out the door, needing to move before the thoughts catch up and break my jaw.
The compound is bathed in the sickly yellow glow of the sodium security lights. The gravel crunches under my boots—a harsh, bone-dry sound. There’s no moisture here. Oregon was green. Alive. This place is just rocks and dust waiting to bury you.
The gym is a converted shipping container on the north perimeter. It smells of rust and old sweat. The air tastes like iron. It’s empty. Good.
I load the bar. The plates are mismatched, scarred and chipped from years of abuse. I slide three on each side. 315 pounds. I get under it. The weight is honest. It doesn't give a fuck that you destroyed your best friend's life. It doesn't ask for apologies. It just wants to crush your windpipe.
Down. Up. Down. Up.
My triceps burn. The muscle fibers in my chest feel like they’re shredding.
Pain is good. Pain is focus. If I’m hurting, I’m not remembering.
I do five sets. Then five more. I push until my arms are shaking violently, until the knurling on the bar threatens to tear the calluses off my sweat-slicked palms.
I rack the weight with a clang that rattles the metal walls. I sit up, wiping the stinging sweat from my eyes with the back of my hand.
Wilson is on the incline bench across the container. Didn't hear the door open. He’s flaring his arms out like a rookie, putting all the tension directly on his rotator cuffs.
"Elbows."
"What?" Wilson grunts, his face purple as he strains against the bar.
I walk over. I shouldn't care. It’s not my shoulder. I’m here to shoot things and guard things, not play physical therapist. But I can't watch a guy break himself if I know how to fix his form. It’s a flaw in my wiring. I have to fix things, even though I'm the one who breaks everything else.
I tap his elbow with a hard finger. "Tuck it. You're grinding the joint. Load the muscle, not the bone. You keep lifting like that, you’ll blow the socket out before we even roll outside the wire."
Wilson adjusts. He tucks his elbows, drives the weight up. The movement is smoother. He racks it and looks at me, chest heaving.
"Thanks, Moore. You're up early."
"Couldn't sleep."
"You never sleep," Wilson says, reaching for his water. "I swear, every time I come in here, you’re already sweating. You’re like a machine."
I wish. "Machines don't feel a fucking thing," I say. "Machines are useful."
"Man, you gotta relax." Wilson wipes his face. "Movie night in the rec room later. Die Hard. Come hang out. You’ve been here three months and I think I’ve seen you smile once."
"I'm good."
"Come on. Jackson looks up to you. Kid thinks you're some kind of spec-ops god because you never talk."
"Then tell him the truth," I say, grabbing my towel. "Tell him I'm just a carpenter with a rifle who didn't have anywhere else to go."
I leave him there. I don't need friends. Friends are liabilities. Friends are people you have to worry about, and my quota for ruining lives is already full.
By 0600, I’m in the Tactical Operations Center. The AC in here is cranked so high the sweat freezes on my neck. Anderson stands at the front, pointing at a high-res satellite map.
"Highway 1," Anderson says, tapping a jagged line. "Culvert repair. Locals say the road is washing out. Engineers need four hours to reinforce the drainage."
I look at the map. The terrain is a clusterfuck—steep ridges on both sides, plenty of cover for an ambush. A classic choke point.
"Intel says we might have eyes on us," Anderson continues. "We need a heavy presence."
"I'll take the ridge," I say, my voice scraping against the quiet room. "Overwatch. Eastern side gives me a clear line of sight on the village and the road."
Anderson nods. "Done. Take Jackson as your spotter."
I lock my jaw. Jackson. The kid is twenty-four, fresh out of the Rangers, and vibrates with nervous energy. Eager, loud, and desperate for approval. He hasn't lost enough yet. He reminds me of Reid before the first war broke him.
Which is exactly why I want him a hundred miles away from me. But I'm just a grunt. I don't get a fucking say.
We roll out at 0630. The heat hits like a hammer the second you step outside the wire—a physical, suffocating weight that sucks the moisture right out of your eyeballs. Everything is brown. Brown dust, brown rocks, brown mud-brick walls. It’s a dead landscape.
Jackson is driving the lead SUV, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel to music only he can hear.
"Check your vest," I tell him.
"It's good, Moore."
"It's loose. It's sagging in the back. You take a round to the spine, you're not walking home."
He sighs, a dramatic, annoyed exhale, but reaches back and tightens the straps. I watch him do it. Why do I bother? I’m not his NCO. I’m not his brother.
Because you can't help it. You have to protect them. Even when you're the threat.
We hit the site forty minutes later. The convoy halts in a defensive dispersion, engines idling, heat shimmering off the armor.
I grab my drag bag and bail out. Jackson follows.
We hike the ridge. The shale slides under my boots, loose and treacherous. By the time we reach the vantage point, my lungs are burning and sweat is pouring down my spine under the ceramic plates. Good. Let it burn.
I settle into the dirt behind a cluster of rocks. Deploy the bipod. Settle the rifle into the shoulder pocket.
Scope up.
The world narrows down to a circle of glass. I scan the ridges. The village. The dark squares of the windows facing the road.
"Clear right," Jackson whispers, out of breath behind his spotting scope.
"Clear left."
Below us, the engineers spill out of the MRAPs. A minute later, the grinding starts. The screech of power tools echoes off the canyon walls. It sounds like the workshop when I’m planing oak, but harsher. Violent.
"Good view," Jackson says.
"Keep your voice down. Sound carries."
We settle in. The waiting game. Lying in the dirt, baking in the sun, pissing into a bottle because you can't move.
It’s peaceful here, in a twisted, fucked-up way. No noise. No guilt. Just math. Just wind velocity and bullet drop.
Hours pass. The sun bakes the back of my neck.
"So," Jackson whispers, shattering the quiet. "You got someone back home? You never talk about it."
My jaw tightens against the stock of the rifle. "Watch your sector, Jackson."
"Come on, Moore. We’ve been staring at rocks for three hours. Give me something. Wife? Girlfriend?"
"No."
"Ex-wife?"
"Drop it."
"I got a girl," Jackson says, totally oblivious to the warning in my tone. "Tina. We’re getting married when this contract is up. She wants a big wedding. Barn style. You know, rustic."
My chest tightens, a sudden, sharp vice. Rustic. I can see it. The wide-plank floors. A farmhouse table big enough for a family. The kind of life I used to build for people.
"She's worried about me being here," Jackson continues. "But the money is good. I figure, one year, we pay off the house, start fresh."
"Don't," I say.
"Don't what?"
"Don't plan the money until you're home. And keep your fucking eyes on the glass."
"You're a real ray of sunshine, you know that?"
"I'm not here to be sunshine. I'm here to keep you alive so you can go home to Tina."
Jackson falls silent. Good. I don't want to know about Tina. I don't want to know her name or what she smells like or how much he loves her. Because if he dies, that's another ghost I have to carry. And I'm already buckling under the weight.
Ten minutes later, Jackson’s posture snaps rigid.
"Movement," he whispers. The playfulness vanishes. "Northeast compound. Second story window. The blue building."
I traverse the rifle. Smooth. Controlled. I find the window.
Male. Late twenties. Bearded. He steps out of the shadows of the room and sets a bundle on the sill. He unwraps the blanket.
Dragunov sniper rifle.
"Weapon confirmed," I say. My heart rate doesn't spike. It plummets. Ice floods my veins, freezing out the Kabul heat. "Radio it."
"Base, this is Overwatch," Jackson fumbles the handset. "Armed hostile. Northeast compound. Sector four. He has a line on the engineers."
The radio crackles. "Overwatch, this is Base. Hostile confirmed? Is he engaging?"
Through the scope, the man shoulders the rifle. He’s aiming straight down at the culvert.
"He's setting up," I say. "He's going to fire."
"Clear hot," the radio barks. "Overwatch, you are clear to engage. Take him."
I settle my cheek harder against the stock. I exhale, emptying my lungs.
Range 840 meters. Slight crosswind, left to right. I adjust my hold.
The guy in the window isn't a human being. He isn't a father or a son. He’s just a defect in the system. A threat to the guys on the ground. You don't hesitate with a threat. You eliminate it.
Squeeze.
The trigger breaks cleanly. The rifle kicks into my shoulder—a solid, familiar punch. The report cracks through the valley, sharp and final.
I don't blink. I ride the recoil, keeping the scope dead on target.
In the circle of glass, the window is empty. The man has been erased. Dropped backward into the dark.
The threat is gone.
"Target down," Jackson breathes. He lowers his spotting scope, staring at me with wide, terrified eyes. "Holy shit. One shot. You didn't even hesitate."
I keep my eye on the scope, scanning the surrounding windows. "Don't make it a story, Jackson."
"But that was... you just saved those guys."
"It was plumbing." I cycle the bolt. The spent casing pings against the rock next to me, smoking hot. "We cleared a blockage. That’s it."
"You're cold, man."
"Yeah," I say, eyes still on the glass. "I fucking know."
The ride back to base is quiet. The adrenaline dump leaves everyone crashy, slumped in the MRAP seats. When we get inside the wire, the guys head straight for the mess hall, needing to eat, needing to laugh, needing to prove to themselves they’re still breathing.
I skip it. I can't be around the noise.
I go back to my sweltering room. I sit on the edge of the cot and strip the M4. Bolt, carrier, firing pin, buffer spring. I lay the parts out on a rag.
I scrub the carbon off the bolt until my knuckles bleed.
Click. Slide. Snap.
The sound of the metal sliding home is the only thing that makes sense. It’s order. Things fitting together exactly the way they were designed to. No gray areas. No messy fucking emotions. Just steel and oil.
I set the rifle down and lie back on the mattress.
The silence rushes in. This is the hard part. The day is easy—the day is the mission. The day is external. The night is just me and the ceiling and the ghosts.
My hand drifts to the metal shelf. To the dead phone.
I could turn it on. Just for a second. It’s morning in Oregon. Laine is probably getting off shift. Reid is probably making coffee.
I picture the kitchen. The morning light hitting the table I built. The way Reid leans his hip against the counter. The way Laine tucks that stray piece of hair behind her ear.
The ache in my chest isn't an ache. It’s a fucking cave-in. A physical tear behind my ribs.
He kicked you out.
She knows exactly what you are.
You’re here because you’re poison.
I pull my hand back. I don't touch the phone.
I’m not a carpenter anymore. I’m not a brother. I’m just a weapon. You don't keep a weapon around to comfort it. You keep it in the dark until you need it to kill something.
I close my eyes.
The nightmare is waiting. I know it is. The fire. The screaming. Reid’s face melting in the heat.
Good. I hope it fucking hurts.