A shot to the leg, but I’m still moving. Bullets rip through the air like bees in the summer, their sharp whine cutting through the chaos. I can’t stay in this position much longer. My team was just with me, but when the first shot rang out, it tore through my leg, and the firefight began.

God, my leg. Blood pours down, warm and slick, but there’s no time to dwell on it. I hear the sharp crack of automatic fire—the same weapons we use. Good. That means I’m not alone. I need to get a tourniquet on, fast. Too much blood. I pray it didn’t hit an artery. With shaking hands, I rip my belt free and cinch it tight above the wound.

“RPG!” someone shouts.

Shit. Get down! I hit the dirt hard, ignoring the fresh jolt of pain. I need to pull myself together. If I lose focus now, I’ll get us all killed. The mission isn’t over. We have to reach the asset, secure the intel, and get the hell out. Running into a nest of gunners wasn’t part of the plan, but bad luck doesn’t care about plans.

We were told this time of day would be safe. They were dead wrong.

Speed is our only ally now. We packed light to move quickly, but my leg isn’t cooperating. We can’t stay pinned down forever.

“John! Get up!” someone yells. “Your team needs you!”

I blink, forcing my vision to clear. Billy crouches nearby, eyes wide with urgency.

“We need to go—now!” he shouts.

“John, you good to move?” another voice calls.

I flex my leg, wincing. The bleeding has slowed under the tight grip of my makeshift tourniquet. Pain be damned. I nod.

“Yeah,” I grit out. “Let’s go.”