Page 8 of What We Brave
I tap his elbow with a hard finger. "Tuck it. You're grinding the joint. Load the muscle, not the bone. You keep lifting like that, you’ll blow the socket out before we even roll outside the wire."
Wilson adjusts. He tucks his elbows, drives the weight up. The movement is smoother. He racks it and looks at me, chest heaving.
"Thanks, Moore. You're up early."
"Couldn't sleep."
"You never sleep," Wilson says, reaching for his water. "I swear, every time I come in here, you’re already sweating. You’re like a machine."
I wish. "Machines don't feel a fucking thing," I say. "Machines are useful."
"Man, you gotta relax." Wilson wipes his face. "Movie night in the rec room later.Die Hard. Come hang out. You’ve been here three months and I think I’ve seen you smile once."
"I'm good."
"Come on. Jackson looks up to you. Kid thinks you're some kind of spec-ops god because you never talk."
"Then tell him the truth," I say, grabbing my towel. "Tell him I'm just a carpenter with a rifle who didn't have anywhere else to go."
I leave him there. I don't need friends. Friends are liabilities. Friends are people you have to worry about, and my quota for ruining lives is already full.
By 0600,I’m in the Tactical Operations Center. The AC in here is cranked so high the sweat freezes on my neck. Anderson stands at the front, pointing at a high-res satellite map.
"Highway 1," Anderson says, tapping a jagged line. "Culvert repair. Locals say the road is washing out. Engineers need four hours to reinforce the drainage."
I look at the map. The terrain is a clusterfuck—steep ridges on both sides, plenty of cover for an ambush. A classic choke point.
"Intel says we might have eyes on us," Anderson continues. "We need a heavy presence."
"I'll take the ridge," I say, my voice scraping against the quiet room. "Overwatch. Eastern side gives me a clear line of sight on the village and the road."
Anderson nods. "Done. Take Jackson as your spotter."
I lock my jaw. Jackson. The kid is twenty-four, fresh out of the Rangers, and vibrates with nervous energy. Eager, loud, and desperate for approval. He hasn't lost enough yet. He reminds me of Reid before the first war broke him.
Which is exactly why I want him a hundred miles away from me. But I'm just a grunt. I don't get a fucking say.
We roll out at 0630. The heat hits like a hammer the second you step outside the wire—a physical, suffocating weight that sucks the moisture right out of your eyeballs. Everything is brown. Brown dust, brown rocks, brown mud-brick walls. It’s a dead landscape.
Jackson is driving the lead SUV, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel to music only he can hear.
"Check your vest," I tell him.
"It's good, Moore."
"It's loose. It's sagging in the back. You take a round to the spine, you're not walking home."
He sighs, a dramatic, annoyed exhale, but reaches back and tightens the straps. I watch him do it. Why do I bother? I’m not his NCO. I’m not his brother.
Because you can't help it. You have to protect them. Even when you're the threat.
We hit the site forty minutes later. The convoy halts in a defensive dispersion, engines idling, heat shimmering off the armor.
I grab my drag bag and bail out. Jackson follows.
We hike the ridge. The shale slides under my boots, loose and treacherous. By the time we reach the vantage point, my lungs are burning and sweat is pouring down my spine under the ceramic plates. Good. Let it burn.
I settle into the dirt behind a cluster of rocks. Deploy the bipod. Settle the rifle into the shoulder pocket.
