Page 21 of On Your Six
“Dumbass.” Novak grinned. “But yeah. I miss her like crazy.”
“You do know dinosaurs are extinct, right?” Reed called from his bunk.
Novak threw a shoe at him.
Hudson watched as Novak settled back against his pillow, thumb tracing the edge of the photo. He wondered what it felt like to have a dad who kept a photo of you under his pillow. To have a dad in general.
The conversation drifted, and got lazier as exhaustion started winning. Out of the corner of his eye, Hudson saw Shaw sitting up in his bunk.
"What about you, Shaw?" Fernandez called out. "You got plans for leave?"
"Not particularly," Shaw said.
"Come on, man. You gotta have something you're looking forward to."
"No."
The word landed flat, final, and Fernandez dropped it.
Hudson stared at Shaw. His jaw had gone tight, eyes fixed on his book but not moving across the pages. Maybe he didn't want to go home. Or maybe he did and couldn't. Hard to tell.
Eventually, someone killed the lights, the emergencyexit signs casting green shadows across the otherwise dark barracks.
"Night, dumbasses," Reed's voice came from the darkness next to him.
Hudson smiled. "Night, lover boy."
"Fuck off."
"Love you too, man."
CHAPTER SEVEN
ELLIOT
Elliot's shouldersdropped half an inch when he stepped inside the shooting range. His breathing slowed.Finally.
He liked it here. Concrete walls, steel targets, the smell of gunpowder and oil. The room was twelve lanes wide, the far end lost in the shadow beyond the target line. Even the noise had structure—thunderous cracks instead of shouting, echoes contained and predictable.
It was the last component of evaluation week. After this, the ranking would be final. Locked in. The number next to you would follow into your next posting, into your life, onto every evaluation that came after.
Elliot kept his eyes away from the board as he walked in, but he knew his place.
Second. Right after Hale.
That needed to change.
The soreness from earlier in the week had faded, or he'd stopped caring. Either way, gone. Elliot rolled his shoulders—no stiffness.
His hands stayed steady as he checked his weapon—astandard-issue M9. Magazine loaded, chamber clear, safety on. His movements were rehearsed enough he didn't need to look.
He took his position and balanced his weight. Then he raised his weapon, sight aligning with the first target downrange. The world narrowed down to sight picture and trigger pressure. Breath control.
When the signal cracked, he fired, the recoil settling in his shoulder. He shifted, the next target already in sight. Another clean hit dead center. His breathing stayed even.
In. Aim. Out. Fire. The rhythm was automatic, his body executing while his mind tracked every single detail.
Two lanes over, Hale had a different rhythm. Faster, looser, but still hitting targets. Elliot heard it in the cadence of shots.
