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Icame to in the water, cold and black, my lungs screaming like I’d been set ablaze.
For a moment, I was nowhere—head spinning, senses scrambled, the world a murky swirl of salt and pain.
My body thrashed, instinct taking over, and I broke the surface, gasping, choking on the Kiawah River’s bitter sting.
The night roared—gunfire cracking, death slicing through the dark, the air thick with smoke and the iron tang of blood.
Memory slammed back—Thumb Point, Department 77, the assault.
The missile.
My boat—gone, blown to splinters, my rifle with it, sunk to the river’s depths.
I treaded water, heart hammering, my ribs aching like they’d been cracked in half.
Scanned the dark, eyes stinging, and spotted twoshapes bobbing nearby—Carter and Jace, clinging to a jagged chunk of debris, faces pale under the starlight.
“You okay?” I shouted, voice raw, swimming toward them through the current.
Carter grimaced, hand clamped on his thigh. “Shrapnel in the legs. Hurts like hell, but I’ll live.”
Jace coughed, spitting water. “I’m good. You?”
“Fine,” I lied, pain spiking with every breath, but I shoved it down. “We gotta move.”
The battle raged on the peninsula—muzzle flashes strobing through the treeline, shouts and explosions tearing the night apart.
My brothers were in there—Ryker pinned, Atlas closing, Marcus dropping from the sky—and I’d be damned if I let them fight without me.
I swam hard, arms slicing the water, eyes locked on the shore, the water and rising adrenaline numbing my wounds but not the fire in my chest.
A flicker caught my eye—parachutes, black against the stars, Marcus and his team descending like specters.
Hope flared, sharp and fleeting, but they dropped through the treeline, vanishing into the dark, and I was alone again, just me and the river’s pull.
My feet hit mud—shallow, solid—and I staggered up, water streaming off me, boots sinking into the mire.
My pistol was still holstered, a miracle, but my rifle was gone, leaving me half-naked for a fight like this.
The in-ear comms crackled, static slicing through—snippets of chaos, Ryker’s growl, Atlas’s calm orders, Marcus’s wild laugh.
I pressed the earpiece, voice low, urgent. “This is sniper, on the point, coming in from the river. Don’t shoot me.”
No reply—just more static, gunfire popping like a storm I was running toward.
I moved fast, crouched low, reeds brushing my legs, the ground sucking at my boots with every step.
First thing I saw was a body—Department 77, sprawled in the mud, throat gashed wide, eyes bulging and empty, blood pooling dark.
I dropped beside him, checked quick—automatic rifle, M4, still warm, three extra magazines in his vest.
Snagged the weapon, checked the chamber and the full magazine, the weight steadying me, and stuffed the mags in my pockets, my hands moving on muscle memory.
I ran toward the first house, where Ryker’s team had breached, the air thick with cordite, death, and the acrid bite of burning wood.
More bodies—scattered, broken, blood soaking the dirt like oil.
One was ours—Dom, a good man, half his head gone, blown open like a cleaver had split him.