Page 9 of What We Brave
Scope up.
The world narrows down to a circle of glass. I scan the ridges. The village. The dark squares of the windows facing the road.
"Clear right," Jackson whispers, out of breath behind his spotting scope.
"Clear left."
Below us, the engineers spill out of the MRAPs. A minute later, the grinding starts. The screech of power tools echoes off the canyon walls. It sounds like the workshop when I’m planing oak, but harsher. Violent.
"Good view," Jackson says.
"Keep your voice down. Sound carries."
We settle in. The waiting game. Lying in the dirt, baking in the sun, pissing into a bottle because you can't move.
It’s peaceful here, in a twisted, fucked-up way. No noise. No guilt. Just math. Just wind velocity and bullet drop.
Hours pass. The sun bakes the back of my neck.
"So," Jackson whispers, shattering the quiet. "You got someone back home? You never talk about it."
My jaw tightens against the stock of the rifle. "Watch your sector, Jackson."
"Come on, Moore. We’ve been staring at rocks for three hours. Give me something. Wife? Girlfriend?"
"No."
"Ex-wife?"
"Drop it."
"I got a girl," Jackson says, totally oblivious to the warning in my tone. "Tina. We’re getting married when this contract is up. She wants a big wedding. Barn style. You know, rustic."
My chest tightens, a sudden, sharp vice.Rustic.I can see it. The wide-plank floors. A farmhouse table big enough for a family. The kind of life I used to build for people.
"She's worried about me being here," Jackson continues. "But the money is good. I figure, one year, we pay off the house, start fresh."
"Don't," I say.
"Don't what?"
"Don't plan the money until you're home. And keep your fucking eyes on the glass."
"You're a real ray of sunshine, you know that?"
"I'm not here to be sunshine. I'm here to keep you alive so you can go home to Tina."
Jackson falls silent. Good. I don't want to know about Tina. I don't want to know her name or what she smells like or how much he loves her. Because if he dies, that's another ghost I have to carry. And I'm already buckling under the weight.
Ten minutes later, Jackson’s posture snaps rigid.
"Movement," he whispers. The playfulness vanishes. "Northeast compound. Second story window. The blue building."
I traverse the rifle. Smooth. Controlled. I find the window.
Male. Late twenties. Bearded. He steps out of the shadows of the room and sets a bundle on the sill. He unwraps the blanket.
Dragunov sniper rifle.
