I stayed under the Humvee until my breathing steadied. The pain was still there a grinding ache with every inhale, but the bleeding had stopped. I could move my fingers, and my legs responded when I told them to. Eli's training cut through the fog, forcing me to think instead of panic.
Unimaginable situation or not, I wasn't dead. That meant I had a chance. A slim one, but still a chance.
I pushed myself upright, gritting my teeth as my ribs protested. My shirt was stiff with dried blood, and every joint felt bruised. But I was mobile, and in a place like this, that mattered more than anything.
The convoy was a graveyard.
Charred metal, sand kicked up over bodies, gear scattered everywhere. The smell of burned rubber and blood clung to the air. I stepped around the wreckage slowly and deliberately, trying not to look directly at the faces of the men sprawled on the ground.
It didn't work.
One face Patterson eyes open, the kid too new to know better than to volunteer for an escort mission. Another Sykes slumped behind a wheel well. These were people Eli had joked with, eaten with, and trained with.
Memories that weren't mine but felt like they were punched me in the gut.
My breathing quickened, too fast, bordering on hyperventilation.
Stop.
I pressed my hand against the Humvee's sun-hot metal. In through the nose. Out slow. Again. Eli's training cut through the panic like muscle memory that didn't belong to me but worked all the same.
Survive first. Fall apart later.
Gear first.
I checked for any radios that are still working, but found them to be shot or taken. I shook my head, then moved to the nearest intact body, checking pouches with shaking hands.
An M4 lay half-buried in the sand beside him, dusty, scratched, but functional. The bolt cycled when I pulled it back. Three full magazines were on his vest. I stripped them and shoved them into my own.
The next soldier still had his M9 in the thigh holster. I took it, checked the chamber, and tucked it into mine. Two additional magazines. Full.
A storage compartment on the less-destroyed Humvee popped open with a metal groan. Inside were:
A cold-weather jacket with a fleece liner, two unopened MREs, a near-full water bottle, and a spare helmet.
Better than anything I'd hoped for. I wiped off the grime, shrugged into the jacket despite the heat, and opened the helmet.
Inside, tucked into the padding, was an NVG unit—one of the older models, but intact. I snapped it onto the helmet mount and tested the flip. It was smooth, and the battery was green.
I slid the helmet on. It felt heavy on my tired neck muscles.
My throat tightened as I looked back at the bodies.
Dog tags.
I didn't want to do it. I knew I had to.
One by one, I unclipped them: Patterson, Sykes, Adams, Martinez. Cold metal tapped against cold metal as I added each pair to a carabiner.
I ignored the way my chest tightened. I ignored it all.
I didn't know them…
Next: navigation.
A glove compartment revealed a map of the valley, creases worn, notes scribbled along the margins. I folded it once and slid it into my vest.
I drank half the warm water. It tasted like plastic and metal, but it helped. My ribs screamed when I capped the bottle.
The sun was dropping toward late afternoon, shadows stretching across the valley floor. I had maybe three hours of light left. Maybe. It was hard to tell with the haze.
I stepped back and scanned the terrain.
Steep elevation and boulder fields.
On the north-facing slopes, there were forests clinging to the shade.
If the Ten Rings came back to loot or confirm kills, and they probably would, I was dead where I stood.
My eyes dropped to the map.
Safi Village, three miles to the south.
Northeast, tire tracks, Tony's direction. I knew what would happen. I knew the cave. I knew where he'd end up.
But I had no idea what I was supposed to do.
Going south meant civilians,
Probably controlled by the Ten Rings....
Going northeast meant Stark and a terrorist stronghold that would cut me into pieces in my current state.
My head spun. Literally.
I felt dizzy, my vision fuzzy around the edges. I gripped the rifle to stay upright.
Think.
Breathe.
Ahead, the tree line on the slope looked like salvation, shade, concealment, a place to catch my breath without being visible from a mile away.
Then the thing in my chest pulsed, slow and heavy, like someone knocking from inside my ribcage.
I exhaled slowly, adjusted the straps of the rucksack, checked the rifle sling, and tightened the vest over the bullet wounds I was pretending didn't exist.
One foot forward.
Then another.
I stepped away from the convoy wreckage, the bodies, the smoke, the smell, and toward the slope, the forest, and whatever came next.
The world narrowed to pain, heat, and the sound of my own ragged breathing. By the time I cleared the last of the wreckage, sweat stung my eyes, and every inhale felt like someone dragging barbed wire across my lungs.
The slope ahead wasn't steep, but it might as well have been a cliff. The tree line looked close maybe two hundred meters away but distance meant nothing when your body was held together by stubbornness and Sith sorcery.
I kept moving.
Every few steps, my vision blurred. My legs trembled under the weight of my gear.
My ribs ached with every jolt. But I made progress, slow and uneven.
I could literally feel the bullets in my chest.
The ground shifted from loose sand to dry scrub, then to rocks scattered like loose sand.
The trees came into focus as I got closer, thick-trunked trees adapted to the harsh region.
Their leaves were dusty and tough, more gray-green than vibrant. Some towered above the others, their narrow, spiny leaves offering patches of deep shade and a windbreak from the exposed valley.
When I finally stepped into the tree line, the temperature dropped by a few degrees. Not much, but enough that the air didn't burn as it entered my lungs. My legs nearly gave out from the relief alone.
I pushed deeper until the convoy was hidden behind the trunks, then found a small depression between two large roots out of sight from most angles, sheltered and quiet.
Good enough.
I slid the ruck off my shoulders and dropped to a knee. My lungs screamed. My ribs throbbed. I forced myself to breathe slowly.
Water.
I took a long drink from the bottle. Half gone already. I capped it and forced myself not to take another.
I fished an MRE out of the ruck.
I tore the brown plastic open with shaking hands and dumped the contents into my lap.
I skipped the heater, no fire, no steam. Just cold food.
I opened the main pouch first. It smelled like tomato paste mixed with regret, but the calories mattered more than the taste. I squeezed half of it into my mouth, forcing myself to swallow despite the texture.
The tuna was better, salty, strong, and protein-dense. I ate it straight from the pouch, one slow bite at a time.
Next were the crackers and peanut butter. They were dry enough to choke me, but they were filling.
By the time the last crumbs were gone, my stomach felt less hollow, and the pounding in my head eased slightly.
I leaned back against the cedar trunk, rifle across my lap, finger near the trigger guard. The jacket helped against the early chill creeping in as the sun dropped behind the ridge.
Shadows grew longer between the trees, and the forest shifted from sunlit to dark in minutes.
My eyelids felt heavy.
I tried to stay alert, to listen for movement, to convince myself I could push farther, find a better hiding spot, and start planning.
But the pain, exhaustion, blood loss, and shock all came crashing down at once.
My grip on the rifle loosened gradually.
My eyes blurred, and my head dipped.