Chapter 16 One Year Before
A year before Penny
The blast rips the world out from under me.
One second I’m running, rifle up, breath steady. The next, the ground bucks like a beast, and I’m weightless before I slam into it hard enough to see stars.
Everything’s gone. No sound but the shrill ringing in my ears, no air but smoke. My lungs claw for oxygen and find nothing but fire, searing all the way down. I cough, gag, choke, roll onto my side, dragging in another mouthful of poison.
My hands dig into the dirt, scrabbling for purchase. My palm slips through something thick. Sticky. Warm. The copper smell hits my nose and twists my stomach.
Blood.
I curse under my breath, though I can barely hear it. Please not mine. Please. My body’s numb, alien, like I’ve been sawed into parts and dropped back wrong. I don’t know what’s still attached, what’s working.
Vision swims. The smoke burns my eyes until the world is only shadows and smears of orange flame. Shapes move. Gunfire cracks distant and muffled, like it’s coming from underwater. Screams cut through, jagged and raw.
I crawl. Elbows digging, knees dragging. Every inch feels like a mile. Gravel bites into my palms, sharp through gloves. My chest heaves with each pull forward, coughing out smoke only to drag more in.
A slab of concrete looms in front of me, jagged and blackened. Cover. Salvation. I collapse against it, my body trembling with effort. My throat burns. My head feels split.
“Boomer!”
The voice slams into me through the ringing. Boots pound the ground. Then strong arms hook under mine and drag me back behind the slab. My head lolls, smoke stinging my eyes shut until cold water splashes across my face.
I choke, sputter, blink hard. The sting clears just enough to see him.
Night.
Night isn’t usually with me. He’s a sniper, the kind they put on the bigger teams, the ones running missions I don’t even hear about. I’ve only just made the SEALs, still the new kid trying to earn my place. Night never hangs out with me—he’s got his own crew, his own orbit—but he’s always decent. Cordial. The kind of guy who nods in the mess hall but doesn’t linger. But here, when it’s life or death, that changes. Here, he’s all focus, all sharp edges, every word precise.
His jaw’s set hard, dirt and soot streaked across his face, sniper rifle slung and ready at his side. His eyes cut through me like steel.
“Eyes open, kid,” he snaps, shaking me once. He tips the canteen again, water running over my cheeks, burning away the grit. “Clear it out.”
I blink, again and again, until the shapes sharpen. Night crouches low, shoulders tight, head on a swivel. The chaos roars around us—gunfire, shouting, the sick thud of mortars hitting too close.
“Blood sweep,” he barks. “Now.”
I nod, force my trembling hands to move. My fingers slip under my vest, drag down my ribs. Dry. Nothing sticky. I pat my thighs, calves, ankles. All still there. All still mine.
“I’m good,” I rasp, voice shredded raw.
Night’s eyes flick over me, then back out to the smoke. He leans just far enough to squeeze off two shots. The crack of his rifle splits the air, sharp and clean. Somewhere out there, someone falls. He ducks back, jaw flexing.
“You’re lucky,” he mutters.
Lucky. I don’t feel lucky.
The air reeks of burning metal, fuel, and blood. The ground still trembles under each distant blast. Voices shout in languages that twist sharp, angry through the haze. The mission’s gone to hell. I know it. Night knows it. Everyone knows it. This isn’t about strategy anymore. This is about survival.
I press my forehead to the rough concrete, grit grinding into my skin. My chest is tight, not just from smoke but from the thought that maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe I don’t crawl out of this. Maybe I let it end here, in dust and blood, where nobody expects anything else of me.
A sharp grip yanks me back. Night’s hand fists into my vest, pulling me upright until his face is inches from mine.
“Listen, boy.” His voice cuts clean through the noise. “You might not care what happens to you. But somebody out there is waiting for you.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. My throat swells with smoke, with silence.
“And if no one is,” Night growls, giving me a quick smack to the side of my helmet, “then don’t you dare make me lose a guy on my watch. You hear me?”
His eyes burn into mine, steady and sharp. My chest heaves, and I force myself to nod. Slow. Heavy.
“Good,” he snaps. He swings his rifle back into place, peeks around the slab. Bullets whip past, cracking against stone. He doesn’t flinch. “On three.”
My hands find my own rifle. Fingers wrap the grip, trembling but firming as I pull it close. My legs scream, but they hold.
“One.”
I suck in a ragged breath.
“Two.”
My pulse pounds against my skull, louder than the gunfire. I push away all images of people I once cared about.
“Three.”
We bolt. Out of the cover, into the storm. Gunfire rips past. Dirt sprays up in bursts at my heels. Night fires smooth and quick, one shot after another, while I hunch low, every step a gamble.
The air is thick with smoke and screams, but for the first time since the blast, I’m moving.
Alive.
Even if I don’t know why I’m still fighting.