Marcus’s hand slid down Liam’s sweat-slicked chest, fingers closing around Liam’s cock. He pumped hard, thumb grinding over the swollen head. Liam bucked, a ragged groan tearing from his throat. “Fucking do it,” he snarled, eyes wild in the moonlight slicing through the shutters.
Marcus spat onto his fingers, slicking Liam’s entrance with brutal efficiency. He lined up, pressing forward without hesitation. Liam’s back arched off the concrete, teeth bared in a silent scream as Marcus breached him, driving deep in one relentless thrust. The stretch was savage, unforgiving. Marcus held still, buried to the hilt, watching Liam’s face contort — pain and defiance warring in his storm-grey eyes.
Then Marcus moved. Hard, deep strokes that hammered Liam into the gritty floor. Each thrust jolted Liam’s body, his cock leaking onto his stomach. Marcus gripped Liam’s hips, fingers bruising flesh, anchoring him as he pistoned faster. The slap of skin echoed the generator’s thrum outside.
Liam met every drive, pushing back, his heels digging into Marcus’s flank. “Harder,” he gasped, nails raking Marcus’s forearms. “Make me feel it.”
Marcus obeyed, slamming into Liam with jackhammer force. Sweat dripped from his jaw onto Liam’s heaving chest. He leaned down, biting Liam’s collarbone, tasting salt and rage. Liam’s hand fisted in Marcus’s hair, yanking his head back. Their eyes locked — glacial blue and storm-grey blazing with shared ruin. No ghosts here. Only flesh and fury.
Liam’s free hand flew to his own cock, stroking in brutal sync with Marcus’s thrusts. “Now,” Liam choked out, body tightening. Marcus felt the clench, the tremors building. He drove in once, twice more — deep, grinding — and Liam shattered. Thick ropes of semen pulsed onto his stomach and chest, stripe after stripe. Marcus followed, roaring Liam’s name as he emptied his sperm deep inside, hips jerking with each pulse.
They collapsed, limbs tangled, breathing ragged. Liam’s hand rested on Marcus’s nape, fingers trembling. Marcus stayed buried, forehead pressed to Liam’s shoulder. The generator’s drone filled the silence.
Outside, the wind howled. Inside, the scent of sex and sweat hung thick. Liam traced a scar on Marcus’s back — slow, deliberate. Marcus didn’t move. The papers lay forgotten in the dark.
Dawn came too soon. They dressed in silence, fatigue stiffening their limbs. Liam’s knuckles brushed Marcus’s as they buckled belts. A spark. Unspoken.
The mess hall buzzed. Eggs like rubber, coffee like tar. They sat apart. Marcus felt Liam’s gaze like a physical touch. A sergeant joked about insurgents. Laughter cracked like gunfire. Marcus’s fork bent in his grip.
Training ground. Dust choked the air. Recruits stumbled through drills. Marcus barked corrections, voice raw. His eyes flicked to the command tent. Liam stood silhouetted against maps, posture rigid. Their eyes met — a lightning strike across the sand. Liam’s chin lifted. Almost imperceptible. Marcus turned back, drove a recruit’s shoulder down harder than needed.
Mail call. Another blue envelope for Marcus. David’s handwriting. No return address. Thin. Too thin. He tore it open. A single line: "Final papers signed. Lawyer’s contact enclosed. Goodbye Marcus." The paper fluttered to the dust.
Liam watched. Saw the fracture. Stepped close as others dispersed. "Holt." Just his name. Grounding. Real.
Marcus crumpled the paper. "Done." The word tasted like ash.
Liam’s hand gripped his elbow. Brief. Solid. "My tent. 2200." Not a request. A lifeline.
Marcus nodded. The desert sun burned. But the cold in his chest? Deeper. Sharper. He walked toward the firing range. The ghosts followed. But now, one walked beside him.
***
The heat intensified. Marcus stood behind a line of recruits, their rifles kicking against shoulders. Sand stung his eyes. Or maybe it was the grit behind them. David’s final words echoed: *Goodbye*. Hollow. Final. He watched a recruit fumble a reload. "Eyes on your magwell, Private!" The bark scraped his throat raw. "Slow is dead. Dead is buried."
Beyond the range, Liam stood near a Humvee, briefing a patrol squad. His voice, clipped and authoritative, carried on the dry wind. Marcus saw the Major’s gaze flick toward him. Just a fraction of a second. Storm-grey meeting glacial blue. A silent current passed – acknowledgment, defiance, the shared weight of severed tethers. Liam turned back to the map, pointing decisively. Marcus tightened his grip on his own rifle stock. The phantom warmth of Liam’s hand on his elbow lingered.
*****
Nightfall brought no relief. Marcus paced his bunk, the thin paper of David’s lawyer’s contact info crumpled in his fist. 2200. Liam’s tent. The promise was a live wire. He stripped off his sweat-stiffened shirt, the scratches on his back from the generator shed throbbing faintly. He splashed tepid water from his canteen over his face, the sting grounding him. Outside, the base settled into the uneasy rhythm of night watch – distant shouts, the rumble of an engine, the rhythmic thump of a distant generator. He checked his watch. 2157.
*****
The path to Liam’s tent was swallowed in shadow. Marcus moved like a wraith, boots silent on the packed earth. The flap was unzipped. Inside, darkness. Only the faint glow of a red-lens flashlight on the footlocker illuminated Liam’s silhouette. He sat on the cot’s edge, shirtless, forearms resting on his knees. The divorce papers were gone. In their place, resting on the footlocker beside the flashlight, lay Marcus’s crumpled blue envelope.
Liam’s head lifted as Marcus stepped inside. No words. The air thickened, charged with the day’s wreckage and the night’s unspoken promise. Liam’s eyes, reflecting the dim red light, held Marcus’s – a silent command. Come here. Marcus locked the flap behind him. The click echoed in the stillness. He crossed the small space, stopping before Liam. The scent of dust, gun oil, and Liam’s sweat filled his lungs. He reached out, his calloused fingers tracing the tense line of Liam’s jaw. Liam leaned into the touch, a low hum vibrating in his chest.
Marcus’s thumb brushed Liam’s lower lip. "Reporting as ordered, Major." His voice was rough gravel. Liam’s hand shot up, gripping Marcus’s wrist, pulling him down. Their mouths met – not collision, not conflagration, but a deep, claiming hunger. The desert outside held its breath.
Liam’s teeth grazed Marcus’s jawline as he shoved him backward onto the cot. Marcus landed with a grunt, boots still planted on the floor. Liam straddled him, knees pinning Marcus’s hips, fingers tearing at Marcus’s belt buckle. The metallic rasp echoed. Marcus arched up, meeting Liam’s mouth again, tasting coffee and inevitability.
Liam ripped Marcus’s fatigues open, shoving fabric down his thighs. Cool air hit Marcus’s straining cock. Liam spat into his palm, wrapped his fist around Marcus’s thickness, and pumped – rough, demanding strokes that drew a choked gasp from Marcus’s throat.
Marcus retaliated, hands clawing at Liam’s waistband. Buttons popped. He shoved Liam’s pants down, freeing Liam’s rigid cock. Their hips slammed together, shafts grinding, sweat-slick and urgent. Liam’s groan vibrated against Marcus’s neck where he bit down. Marcus bucked upward, driving their cocks harder together, friction bordering on pain. Pre-cum slicked the brutal rhythm.
Liam pulled back abruptly, eyes wild in the red gloom. He flipped Marcus onto his stomach. Marcus braced on elbows, knees digging into the cot’s thin mattress. Liam spat onto his fingers, then drove two knuckles deep into Marcus’s hole without warning. Marcus hissed, back bowing, fingers twisting in the blanket. Liam scissored brutally, stretching him, preparing him only enough to take what came next. He withdrew, spat onto his own cockhead, slicked it roughly, and lined up.
The breach was a white-hot shock. Marcus roared into the mattress as Liam slammed home in one vicious thrust, burying himself to the root. Marcus felt split open, impaled. Liam didn’t pause. He gripped Marcus’s hips, fingers bruising bone, and pistoned into him with jackhammer force.
The cot frame shrieked. Each drive hammered Marcus deeper into the mattress, each withdrawal a tearing emptiness before the next brutal invasion. Liam leaned forward, biting Marcus’s shoulder blade, his breath scorching Marcus’s skin.
"Mine," Liam snarled against the sweat-slicked muscle, driving deeper still. Marcus pushed back, meeting every punishing stroke, the pain and possession searing away the lawyer’s letter, the goodbye, everything but the raw, anchoring truth of Liam’s cock splitting him open. He reached beneath himself, fisting his own aching length in brutal counterpoint to Liam’s rhythm. The cot frame shrieked protest.
Liam’s hand clamped down on Marcus’s nape, pinning him. "Take it," he growled, hips pistoning, each thrust jolting Marcus forward. "All of it." Marcus gasped, the stretch bordering on agony, yet the fullness was a brutal anchor. He felt Liam’s balls slap against him, the hot slide of skin, the impossible intimacy of being claimed. His own strokes grew frantic, knuckles white.
Liam leaned over, teeth sinking into Marcus’s trapezius, the bite sharp and grounding. His breath was fire against Marcus’s ear. "Cum for me, Sergeant." The command, rough with need, shattered Marcus’s control. A raw shout tore from him as he convulsed, sperm pulsing thickly onto the blanket beneath him, his channel clamping down hard on Liam’s invading length.
The sudden, fierce clench dragged Liam over the edge. He buried himself to the hilt with a final, brutal drive, roaring Marcus’s name as his release surged deep inside, hot pulses flooding Marcus’s core. Liam collapsed forward, crushing Marcus into the sweat-soaked cot, his weight a solid, trembling anchor. Their harsh breaths mingled, the only sound besides the frantic hammering of their hearts pressed together.
Slowly, Liam withdrew. Marcus felt the loss, the emptiness, sharper than any wound. Liam rolled him onto his back. In the dim red light, Liam’s storm-grey eyes were dark pools, fixed on Marcus’s face. He reached down, fingers brushing the sticky mess on Marcus’s stomach, then tracing the bite mark on his shoulder. His touch was unexpectedly gentle, almost reverent. He grabbed a damp rag from the footlocker, wiping Marcus clean with slow, deliberate strokes – stomach, softening cock, thighs. The care in the act, after the violence, stole Marcus’s breath.
Liam tossed the rag aside. He stretched out beside Marcus, pulling him close, skin to skin. His arm draped heavily over Marcus’s waist, fingers splayed possessively on his hip. Marcus turned his face into Liam’s neck, breathing him in – sweat, sex, gun oil, Liam.
Outside, the generator’s thrum faded into the desert night. Inside, the crumpled blue envelope lay forgotten on the floor beside the cot. Silence settled, thick and profound. No ghosts whispered here. Only the shared, ragged beat of survival.
Marcus traced the fresh bite mark on Liam’s collarbone with a calloused thumb. The Major’s arm tightened around his waist, pulling him closer against the barracks chill seeping through the canvas. Liam’s breath warmed the crown of Marcus’s head. The intimacy was terrifying, solid. Real.
*****
Dawn painted the tent flap grey. Marcus stirred, the question burning like a tracer round in his chest. He lifted his head, meeting Liam’s watchful storm-grey eyes. Sleep hadn’t touched them. "Thorne," Marcus rasped, voice raw from shouting, from silence. "Where’s this heading?" He gestured vaguely at the tangled space between them. "This ... thing. What do you see?"
Liam didn’t flinch. His gaze held Marcus’s, steady as iron sights. "I see tomorrow," he stated, low and certain. "The next patrol. The next briefing. The next night." His thumb brushed the scar beneath Marcus’s ribs, a relic from Fallujah. "I see you beside me for it." He paused, the weight of the admission hanging between them. "Beyond that?" A ghost of something bleak flickered in his eyes. "The future’s a minefield, Holt. Always has been. But I walk it." His hand slid up Marcus’s spine, possessive, grounding. "Walk it with me."
Marcus searched Liam’s face – the granite lines softened only by exhaustion and the faint bruise Marcus’s teeth had left on his jaw. No promises of white picket fences. No illusions. Only the stark, shared reality of the next step. The next breath. The next fight. Beside him.
A reveille trumpet blared, distant but jarring. Liam’s grip tightened briefly before releasing. "Duty calls, Sergeant," he murmured, already shifting toward the edge of the cot. But his eyes lingered on Marcus’s. The unspoken command was clear: Stay close. Stay ready. Marcus nodded, the cold knot in his chest loosening, replaced by a fierce, unfamiliar warmth. He reached for his fatigues. Tomorrow had arrived. They’d face it together.
*****
The briefing room hummed with tension. Satellite images glowed on screens — insurgent positions marked in red near a dusty village called Al-Hadid. Colonel Vance’s pointer tapped the map. "… high-value target confirmed. Extraction team deploys at 0400 tomorrow." His gaze swept the room, landing on Liam. "Thorne, you’ll lead."
Liam stood, spine rigid. "Sir." His storm-grey eyes flickered to Marcus, seated near the door. Marcus gave a fractional nod. They’d expected this. Vance’s pointer moved again. "Sergeant Holt — you’ll command the overwatch team. Ridge position here." He indicated a rocky outcrop overlooking the village. "Cover Thorne’s advance."
Marcus’s jaw tightened. Separated. Exposed. Liam’s voice cut through the silence. "Sir, recommend Holt’s team integrates with the main assault. Overwatch lacks field flexibility for this terrain."
Vance’s eyebrow arched. "Noted, Major. Overwatch stands." The dismissal was final. Liam sat, knuckles white on the table’s edge. Marcus kept his face stone. The ghosts stirred, whispering of ambushes, severed comms, men left behind.
*****
They met at the armory as dusk bled into night. Sand gusted against the prefab walls. Liam handed Marcus a modified M110 sniper rifle, their fingers brushing. "Keep your head down up there, Holt," Liam said, voice low. "That ridge is a goddamn shooting gallery."
Marcus slung the rifle. "Just get your HVT and get out fast, sir." The formality felt brittle. Liam’s gaze held his — a silent promise. Marcus added, softer, "Come back whole, Liam."
Liam’s hand clamped Marcus’s shoulder, brief and bruising. "Always do." He turned to leave, then paused. "My tent. After." Not a request. A vow. Marcus watched him vanish into the swirling dust, the warmth of Liam’s touch lingering like a brand.
*****
Marcus’s overwatch team ascended the ridge under a moonless sky. Gravel skittered beneath boots. Below, Al-Hadid slept — a cluster of flat-roofed buildings etched in shadow. He positioned his men: Corporal Diaz with the spotting scope, Privates Chen and Reynolds flanking with rifles. Marcus settled behind the M110, its cold weight familiar. The desert wind carried the scent of dry sage and distant dung fires. He scanned the village through thermal optics — ghostly heat signatures flickering behind walls. No movement near the target house. Too quiet.
0400. Liam’s assault team materialized at the village edge like wraiths. Six shadows flowing toward the HVT’s compound. Marcus tracked Liam’s thermal bloom — intense, focused — advancing through an alley. Diaz whispered, "All green, Sarge."
Marcus’s finger hovered near the trigger. His earpiece crackled with Liam’s voice, clipped and clear: "Approaching entry point. Overwatch confirm perimeter clear."
Marcus swept the rooftops. "East roof. Heat sig. Single occupant. Stationary." A sentry.
Liam’s reply was ice. "Engaging."
Two suppressed shots popped faintly in the stillness. The heat signature slumped. "Clear." The team breached the compound gate.
Sudden muzzle flashes erupted from a window Marcus hadn’t scanned — a blind spot. Automatic fire ripped the night. "Contact west!" Marcus barked, swinging his rifle. Chen’s curse hissed through comms as bullets chewed the rock near his head. Below, Liam’s team scrambled for cover. Two heat signatures dropped instantly, motionless.
"Ambush!" Liam’s voice was a snarl over gunfire. "Heavy weapons! Overwatch, suppress that window!"
Marcus exhaled, centering the crosshairs. The shooter leaned out, spraying wildly. Marcus squeezed. The rifle bucked. The shooter’s head snapped back, a dark spray against the mudbrick. "Window suppressed," Marcus reported, voice flat. He scanned frantically. More muzzle flashes sparked from adjacent rooftops. The assault team was pinned in the courtyard.
Diaz yelled, "RPG! Roof, northeast!" A rocket-propelled grenade streaked toward Liam’s position. Marcus tracked it, useless. Impact. Dust and debris erupted. Liam’s thermal bloom vanished in the chaos.
Marcus’s heart stalled. "Thorne! Status!" Static hissed. Below, insurgents poured into the courtyard. Reynolds fired rapid bursts. "Sarge, we’re taking fire! Multiple shooters, south ridge!"
Marcus tore his eyes from the smoking crater where Liam had been. Enemy muzzle flashes winked from rocks fifty meters below their position. They were flanked. He pivoted, firing three quick shots. A scream answered. "Chen, Diaz! Cover south approach! Reynolds, watch that alley!" He keyed comms again, voice raw. "Thorne, respond!"
Silence. Then, a cough, strained. "Alive ... pinned ... northwest corner." Relief flooded Marcus, cold and sharp. Liam’s heat signature flickered weakly behind a collapsed wall. But insurgents closed in, converging on his position. Marcus chambered another round. The ridge trembled under enemy fire. He had seconds.
"Reynolds! Suppress south approach!" Marcus barked. "Diaz, Chen – keep those rooftops off Thorne!" He pivoted back to Liam’s thermal bloom. Three insurgents advanced, rifles raised. Marcus exhaled, slow and deliberate. Crack. The lead figure dropped. Crack. A second stumbled. The third ducked behind rubble. Marcus tracked him, waiting for the fatal glimpse.
Below, Liam’s voice rasped over comms, thick with dust and pain. "Holt ... extraction compromised ... fall back." The order was a gut punch. Leave him? Never.
"Negative," Marcus growled, scanning the courtyard. He spotted a narrow drainage ditch snaking toward Liam’s position. "Thorne, crawl east. Ten meters. Ditch line. Move!" He fired at a muzzle flash near Liam, forcing the shooter down. "Covering!"
Liam’s heat signature shifted painfully slow. Marcus fired again and again, methodically clearing paths, his world narrowing to the crosshairs and Liam’s agonizing crawl. Bullets whined off rocks near Marcus’s head. Diaz cried out – a wet thump. Marcus didn’t flinch. His finger squeezed. Another insurgent fell. Almost there.
Liam vanished into the ditch’s thermal shadow. Marcus shifted fire, laying down a withering barrage on the compound entrance. "Extraction team," he snarled into comms, "Thorne is ditch-marked east. Converge now!" He heard the distant roar of approaching Humvees, the chatter of friendly guns. Below, Liam’s heat bloom reappeared, crawling toward the sound. Marcus kept firing, emptying the magazine, each shot a silent vow echoing across the deadly ridge. Hold on. Just hold on.
*****
The medevac Black Hawk thundered away, carrying Liam and the wounded Diaz. Marcus stood on the tarmac, the M110 heavy in his hands, watching the chopper shrink into the dawn haze. The ridge’s echoes still rang in his bones – Diaz’s cry, the RPG’s concussion, the frantic crawl toward salvation.
Corporal Jenkins approached, face pale beneath grime. "Sarge ... Diaz lost his leg. Thorne took shrapnel in the back and shoulder. Stable, they said."
Marcus nodded, jaw clenched. Stable wasn’t whole. He walked toward the field hospital, the adrenaline crash leaving him hollow. Inside the sterile tent, Liam lay propped up, bandages stark against his skin. Pain etched deep lines around his eyes, but the storm-grey gaze locked onto Marcus instantly. Raw. Exposed.
Marcus stopped at the cot’s edge. Words died in his throat. Liam lifted his good arm, fingers trembling slightly. Marcus clasped the offered hand, grip fierce. Liam’s fingers tightened, anchoring.
"Told you ... I’d come back," Liam rasped, voice shredded but defiant. Marcus squeezed harder, the unspoken truth hanging thick between them: They’d walked the minefield. They were still walking. Together.
The sterile hospital tent reeked of antiseptic and blood. Marcus pulled a rickety stool beside Liam’s cot, never releasing his hand. Liam’s fingers twitched weakly in his grasp, a silent acknowledgment. His storm-grey eyes, clouded with painkillers but fiercely lucid, tracked Marcus’s face. "Diaz?" Liam managed.
"Stable. Lost the leg below the knee." Marcus kept his voice low, gravelly. "He’s tough. He’ll adapt."
Liam’s jaw tightened. Another ghost added to the roster. His gaze drifted to the thick bandages swathing his shoulder and torso. "Feels like a truck hit me."
"RPG shrapnel," Marcus stated flatly. "Docs dug most of it out. Said you’re lucky." Lucky I kept firing, Marcus thought, the image of Liam crawling through dust and debris seared into his mind.
Silence stretched, filled by the distant thrum of generators and muffled groans from other cots. Liam shifted, wincing. "Vance pulled the plug on Al-Hadid. Called us back." Bitterness edged his exhaustion. "HVT got away."
Marcus grunted. Failure tasted like ash. He traced the rough edge of Liam’s bandage with his thumb. "We’re alive." It was the only victory that mattered now.
Liam’s eyes met his again, the intensity cutting through the haze of drugs. "You stayed." It wasn’t a question. It was raw gratitude, stark and unvarnished. "On that ridge ... covering fire ..." He trailed off, the memory of bullets cracking stone echoing between them.
"Orders," Marcus murmured, echoing their earlier dark pact. His thumb brushed Liam’s knuckles. "Walk the minefield."
A faint, pained smile touched Liam’s lips. He squeezed Marcus’s hand back, the gesture weak but deliberate. "Walk it," he echoed. His eyelids grew heavy, the fight against the sedatives fading. "Stay," he breathed, a command softer than reveille.
Marcus didn’t move. He watched Liam’s breathing deepen, the harsh lines of pain easing slightly in sleep. He kept hold of Liam’s hand, anchoring them both. Outside, the desert sun climbed higher, baking the dust. Inside the tent, amidst the scent of iodine and sweat, Marcus Holt kept watch. The ghosts were quiet. For now.
*****
Three days later, Liam discharged himself against medical advice. He moved stiffly, the bandages hidden beneath his fatigues, but his storm-grey eyes were sharp as flint. They stood together at the edge of the motor pool, watching engineers weld armor plating onto Humvees. The air tasted of diesel and impending reckoning.
"Vance wants a debrief," Liam said, voice low. "Today. 1500 hours." He didn’t look at Marcus. "He’s bringing in JAG."
Marcus stiffened. JAG meant lawyers. Investigations. Scapegoats. "For what? Following orders into an ambush?"
Liam finally met his gaze. "For Al-Hadid. For Diaz’s leg. For the failed op." His jaw tightened. "They’ll dissect every decision. Including overwatch placement." The unspoken accusation hung heavy: Vance’s order had nearly gotten them killed.
Marcus spat into the dust. "So we’re the fall guys?"
"We’re the ones who walked out," Liam corrected grimly. "Vance needs his ass covered." He leaned closer, his shoulder brushing Marcus’s. "Stick to the facts. No deviations. No ‘what-ifs’. We followed protocol." His eyes held Marcus’s – a silent command forged in fire. "Together."
*****
The debrief room felt like a morgue. Colonel Vance sat flanked by a stern-faced JAG officer, Captain Ellis, whose polished boots gleamed under the fluorescent lights. Files lay open before them. Marcus and Liam stood rigidly at attention.
Vance began, pointer tapping the Al-Hadid map. "Major Thorne. Explain the deviation from overwatch positioning." His tone implied guilt.
Liam’s reply was clipped, precise. "No deviation occurred, sir. Sergeant Holt’s team occupied the designated ridge per your written orders." He gestured to the map. "Intelligence failed to identify the insurgent stronghold south of the ridge. That flanking position compromised both teams."
Ellis interjected, cold eyes on Marcus. "Sergeant Holt. Your report states you engaged targets beyond your overwatch sector. Explain."
Marcus kept his voice flat. "Enemy fire originated from the south ridge, directly threatening my team’s position. Engaging was necessary self-defense." He paused. "Simultaneously, Major Thorne’s unit was pinned by heavy fire. Suppressing enemy positions was essential to enable their extraction."
Ellis scribbled a note. "Major Thorne ordered a fallback. You refused."
"I assessed extraction was still viable," Marcus countered, locking eyes with Liam. "Major Thorne was mobile. Suppressing fire created a window. The extraction team confirmed."
Vance’s face darkened. "Your refusal endangered –"
"Saved lives, sir," Liam cut in, steel in his voice. "Sergeant Holt’s actions preserved the surviving assault team. Without his covering fire, casualties would have been total." He held Vance’s gaze. "The failure lies with faulty intel. Not the men on the ground."
Silence crackled. Ellis exchanged a look with Vance. The Colonel leaned back, defeated. "Dismissed."
They walked out into the blinding sun. Liam’s steps were stiff with pain. Marcus matched his pace. No words were needed. The minefield was still there. But they’d crossed this patch intact. Side by side.
*****
The summons came at dusk. Not to Vance’s office, but to the Commanding General’s prefab. Marcus’s gut tightened. Generals didn’t call Sergeants without cause. Liam’s face was granite as they stood before the polished desk. General Harlan’s eyes, cold as Arctic ice, swept over them. "Sit." It wasn’t an invitation.
Harlan pushed a file across the desk. Satellite images. Not Al-Hadid. A different village, Al-Sakar. Closer to the Syrian border. "Your HVT," Harlan stated, tapping a grainy photo of a gaunt man with a scarred cheek. "Abu Rashid. Intel confirms he fled to Al-Sakar after your … unsuccessful extraction." The word hung like an accusation. "He’s consolidating foreign fighters. Planning something big. Chemical signatures detected."
Liam leaned forward, ignoring the stab of pain. "Rescue op, sir?"
"No." Harlan’s smile was thin. "Termination. Deep penetration. Small team. Maximum deniability." His gaze pinned Liam. "You know the terrain. You know the cost of failure." Then it shifted to Marcus. "And you, Sergeant. Ridgefield proved your aim hasn’t dulled. Or your nerve." He slid another photo forward. A dusty schoolhouse on Al-Sakar’s edge. "Rashid uses this. Intel suggests hostages – locals. Collateral is unacceptable."
Marcus studied the image. Narrow windows. Thick walls. A nightmare for assault. "Rules of Engagement, sir?"
Harlan’s stare was flint. "Minimal footprint. Rashid dies. Hostages live. Everything else …" He shrugged. "Is sand."
Liam exchanged a glance with Marcus. The ghosts stirred. Rashid was the butcher who’d rigged the IED that took Liam’s first squad. Marcus saw the recognition flare in Liam’s storm-grey eyes – cold fury mixed with grim resolve.
"We’ll need a pilot who can thread a needle in the dark," Liam said, voice low. "And demolition. Shaped charges. Silent entry."
Harlan nodded. "Assets approved. Wheels up in twelve hours." He stood, dismissal final. "Don’t come back without his head."
Outside, the desert wind howled. Liam stopped, turning to Marcus under the harsh floodlights. His hand found Marcus’s forearm, grip fierce. "No overwatch this time," he rasped. "We go in together. Side by side. All the way."
Marcus covered Liam’s hand with his own. The scar above Liam’s eyebrow, a relic of Ramadi, stood stark in the light. "All the way," Marcus echoed. The ghosts whispered of blood and schoolhouses. But they’d walk this minefield together. To the end.
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