Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Reid
Day five was what Mac called a “conditioning assessment.” No terrain, no navigation, no water.
Just the compound, a timer, and the interrogators from yesterday, yelling, pushing us to go faster, harder, telling us we are weak and won’t make it.
Ten hours of structured punishment broken into intervals—laps, push-ups, planks, tire runs, chin-ups, burpees, repeat.
Meals and thirty-minute breaks in between.
For some people, it was a relief after the interrogations. Something physical to channel the residual adrenaline into. For others, it was its own kind of breaking point, but everyone made it through.
For me, it was comfortable. Close enough to boot camp and a deployment PT schedule that my body knew what to do. I finished every rotation, hit every rep, didn’t think once about quitting.
Zay lapped everyone on the runs. Jacks moved through the circuit like he was somewhere peaceful in his head.
Blake started with his incessant complaining but that stopped as soon as he had to do one hundred extra pushups for mouthing off.
Sulla was quiet and relentless—no wasted motion, no visible effort, just steady output that never seemed to cost him anything.
I filed that away, too.
Day six. 0530 wake-up.
My body is adapting to the routine. Thighs still sore but functional. The blister on my heel is healing. I’m sleeping deeper, eating everything they give us, operating on mission focus.
Fifteen contestants left. Ten eliminated in five days. The attrition rate is brutal.
Mac briefs us after formation. “Today is solo navigation. Eight miles north to Rally Point Alpha. You have a map, a compass, and coordinates. First person there gets recognized. Last person there gets scrutinized. Questions?”
Blake raises his hand. “What happens at the rally point?”
“You’ll find out when you get there. Move.”
We grab breakfast and head for the transport. The bus is waiting, engine running. I find a window seat near the back and pull out my map to study the route.
Someone stands beside me.
Sulla.
“This seat taken?” he asks.
“No. Go ahead.”
He settles in, pulls out his own map. Studies it, then speaks quietly. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
He holds up the compass from his kit. “This. I know what it does. But not how to use it properly. The degrees, the bearings—I don’t understand the system.”
I look at him. He’s not embarrassed. Not defensive. Just asking. Most men would be too proud to admit they need help.
“You want me to show you how to use a compass?”
“Yes. In Rome, we had sun, stars, and landmarks. But this is more precise. I need to understand it.”
Something shifts in my chest. Quiet. Certain. In Rome. Not in history class or in the old days or any of the careful distancing language people use when they talk about ancient things. Just in Rome, the way I’d say in Fallujah or in the Korengal. First person. Present tense in his memory.
I look at him—really look, maybe for the first time without the filter of suspicion or strategy.
The gray streaks in his hair that seem premature.
The dark brown of his eyes, almost black in the dim bus lighting, looking at me with steady attention.
The scars I cataloged at the loch. The way he held perfectly still in fifty-two-degree water like cold was an old argument he’d already won.
The compass in his hand, this basic modern tool, held with the careful attention of someone who genuinely has never seen one before.
Two thousand years.
I try to imagine it—waking up in a world where everything you knew is archaeology. Where your language is dead, your city is ruins, everyone you ever loved has been dust for twenty centuries. What does that do to a person? What does it cost just to get up in the morning?
I have so many questions. I don’t ask any of them.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll show you.”
I take the compass from him. Our fingers brush—brief contact—and he doesn’t pull away first. His hand is warm, rough, steady.
I clear my throat and explain the basics. Magnetic north. Declination. Taking bearings. Following headings. He listens intently, leaning closer to see the compass face. Asks smart questions. Tests his understanding.
“So northeast is forty-five degrees from north?”
“Exactly. You’re a fast learner.”
“I have to be.”
By the time the bus reaches the drop-off area, he’s competent. Not expert, but functional.
“Thank you,” he says as we gather our gear. “For teaching me.”
“We’re all trying to survive this.”
“Are we? This is a competition.”
“Doesn’t mean we have to be enemies.”
He looks at me, but I can’t read his expression.
“No,” he says finally. “It doesn’t.”
The bus stops, and Mac calls the first drop-off. Contestants file off at different points along the road. When we reach my stop, I grab my pack. Sulla nods once—acknowledgment, maybe respect—and I step off into the cold morning air.
No rain for once. Weak spring sun just clearing the treeline. Birds going at it—caws, trills, something chittering in the branches above me that sounds personally offended by my presence.
I stop. Tip my face up. Let the sun hit it. Just for a moment.
Then I check my map, orient my compass, and start moving.
The navigation is straightforward. Eight miles through forest terrain, moderate elevation. I move at a steady pace, checking bearings every few minutes, counting steps to track distance.
This is meditation for me. Navigate. Move. Think. No distractions.
Three hours later, I break through the tree line into a clearing.
Rally Point Alpha.
A large fire pit in the center, surrounded by log benches. Several crew members with cameras. And Mac, standing with his clipboard, looking like he’s been waiting.
“Major Donahue,” he says, checking his watch. “0947 hours. Third to arrive. Well done.”
Third. Who beat me?
I see Zay sitting on one of the log benches, looking pleased with himself. And Heather, a fitness blogger I don’t know well, stretching and looking satisfied.
More contestants trickle in over the next two hours. Aiden arrives, limping but steady. Jacks, calm as always. Sienna and Juno arrive within minutes of each other. Trevor stumbles in looking exhausted. Blake arrives complaining about the terrain.
Sulla arrives around 1100, moving efficiently, not winded. He sees me, nods once, and finds a spot on the opposite side of the fire pit. Almost everyone else has straggled in when, at 1200 sharp, Mac checks his watch.
“Time.”
No one else emerges from the tree line.
He makes a note on his clipboard.
“Fourteen remain.” He steps into the center.
“Good work. Almost everyone made it. Some faster than others, but you all demonstrated basic navigation skills.” He pauses. “Today marks a shift. For the past week, you’ve competed individually. Tomorrow, that changes.”
He lets the words settle.
“You fourteen remaining contestants will be paired up. From that point forward, most of the challenges are team-based. You work with your partner. You succeed or fail with your partner. If your partner is medically evacuated, dismissed for conduct, or voluntarily withdraws, you continue alone.”
As he walks around the fire pit, he spears each of us with a serious look.
“You will complete both roles in any team challenge until reassignment. No rest advantage. No reduction in requirement. Reassignment occurs when another partnership opens. Or you may withdraw yourself. Your choice. Questions?”
“If you continue solo, do you still compete in the finale?” someone asks.
“You compete until reassignment or withdrawal. Currently, the finale requires a partner. If there are three left, the finale will be adjusted. If only one remains before the last challenge, then no finale is necessary.”
“Prize money,” someone else says. “How does that work with partners?”
“Each member of the placing team receives the full prize amount for their position. First place, two hundred fifty thousand each. Second, one hundred thousand each. Third, fifty thousand each. You are not splitting anything.”
Murmurs of acknowledgment ripple around the circle.
“Partnerships are assigned by production staff,” Mac continues. “No negotiation. No switching. You get who you get.” He looks down at his clipboard. “I’ll announce teams now so you have tonight to introduce yourselves.”
My stomach tightens.
Please not Blake. Please not someone incompetent.
“First pairing,” Mac says. “Zay Williams. Trevor Morrison.”
Trevor’s face lights up. Zay grins. They high-five across the circle. Good match—Zay’s steadiness will balance Trevor’s anxiety.
“Second pairing. Aiden Clarke. Jacks Peterson.”
Aiden, the younger veteran with the prosthetic leg, nods to Jacks, the quiet one who meditates every morning. He acknowledges the nod with one of his own. Professional. They’ll work well together.
“Third pairing. Sienna Martinez. Juno Hayes.”
The two women smile at each other. They’ve already been friendly. Easy partnership.
“Fourth pairing. Blake Thornton. Heather Doyle.” Blake—the loud, aggressive one who’s been working my last nerve since day one—looks annoyed. Heather goes very still. That pairing won’t end well. I feel sorry for her but relieved it isn’t me.
There are six of us left and my heart is beating faster than it should. Please not—
“Sulla. Reid Donahue.”
A few heads turn.
Even Mac looks up from the clipboard.
My pulse kicks once. I lock it down.
Sulla is looking at me across the firepit. His expression carefully neutral until his jaw tightens once, then stills.
Neither of us speaks.
Around the circle, I hear whispers. Speculation. The mysterious Roman and the military officer. Good television, probably.
Mac finishes the remaining pairings, then dismisses us. “You have the rest of today to get to know your partner. Tomorrow, we start team challenges. Be ready at 0600.”