31. Ryan
Ryan
Gunshots are ringing out all around us, a frantic, deafening cacophony that drowns out everything but the corrosive need to survive. “Fuck, we are trapped!” I yelled, the words tasting like copper and adrenaline.
“Hallway clear!” Brody confirmed, squeezing my shoulder firmly from behind, his grip the only thing keeping me from spinning out into panic.
We pushed forward, moving in a practiced, deadly silence toward the source.
Our comrade, covering the opposite flank, was just ahead of us.
In the strobe-light flashes of muzzle fire, I felt my mind fracturing, but I desperately summoned the image of Jackson.
I pictured him in a bright Seattle kitchen, the sun catching his beautiful face, infectious energy in his eyes as he grinned at me.
That smile was my anchor, a clean, beautiful contrast to the grime and terror of this hallway.
All of a sudden, the drywall exploded into dust, a white, choking cloud, and a rain of bullets tore through the space.
I watched in horror as our comrade, who had been directly in the line of fire, crumpled instantly, a heavy, silent weight hitting the ground.
The sight of another brother gone ripped through me, the raw trauma threatening to pull me under.
I tried to hold onto the thought of Jackson’s hand in mine—warm, solid, and untainted by this violence—but the smell of blood was too loud.
My focus immediately snapped to the man behind me.
I spun, slamming my hand against Brody’s chest and shoving him back violently around the concrete corner. “Brody, stay down! Cover!” I screamed, the sound of my fallen comrade echoing in my ears, but my priority was absolute.
Brody didn’t waste a second, pulling me back against the corner with him. “You too, Ry! Get your head in the fight!” he screamed over the gunfire.
My entire world narrowed to the horrifying sight of our fallen comrade, the raw, sickening trauma of the loss fracturing my mind.
But even as the dust filled my lungs, I mentally reached for the quiet pond Jackson had promised.
I could almost feel the cool Pacific breeze and see Jackson standing on the deck, waiting for me to come home.
I gripped my rifle tighter, positioning my body to shield Brody from the line of fire.
He was yelling, pulling me, trying to ground me, but my only clear thought was: He is not dying today.
I won’t let him, and I have to get back to the man who makes me want more.