Page 42 of Holding the Line

“Count?”Marsh asked.

“Two teams of five,” Sam answered, his tone unfazed.That put them up against forty men.

Glenn’s voice cut in, amused, “Finally.A reunion with a purpose.We bringing drinks to this party or just fire?”

Hogan added with a low chuckle, “I brought fire—and marshmallows.Thought we’d make it a proper gathering before the fireworks really start.”

Dale came on next.“Oren, you look hot on infrared.Just saying.”

Oren responded flatly, “Eyes on your field, Romeo.”

“Can’t help it,” Dale replied.“You’re basically glowing.It does something for a soldier like me.”

Ty smirked, but didn’t comment.Eli saw the expression on the handsome man’s face.Not jealousy—something else.Maybe curiosity.

Then the tempo shifted.A shot cracked in the distance—sharp, singular.Then silence.

“Contact,” Ezra’s voice said tightly.“Small arms fire.Just a test.”

Another pop.Then return fire from the Pathfinders.The battle hadn’t erupted yet, but the air thrummed with anticipation.

Eli stared at the screen, watching two red figures break formation.

“Watch left flank,” Marsh called.“They’re testing our edges.Good luck with that, boys.”

And then—

Eli watched as a heat signature stepped into one of the cleared corridors near the therapy wing.A sharp click.Then an explosion lit the view in a burst of white across the screen.

Two figures were thrown backwards through the air, landing hard.

Dev’s voice cut in, dry as sandpaper.“Damn, Bateman, I told you you shoulda put up those signs.Trespassers will get blown up.”

Eli stared at the screen, at the way two human silhouettes had flown like ragdolls under the thermal overlay.The heat shimmered, pulsing faintly where bodies had landed hard.

There was laughter in the comms.The kind that sounded too relaxed for what was about to come.But it steadied him.He looked at Blake, then Ty, and neither of them looked away from the screen.

It was surreal.The sarcasm, the bravado, the way they all made room for humor even now—especially now.Like this wasn’t the opening act of a bloody play, one they’d all rehearsed but none truly wanted to perform.And yet, the curtain was already rising.

****

The pop of gunfirecracked like dry wood in the distance, and Marsh didn’t even flinch.

He crouched behind the stack of overturned steel beams at the edge of the construction zone, rifle snug against his shoulder, eyes sweeping the trees beyond the half-finished therapy wing.Around him, the Pathfinders moved with seamless precision—Bateman to his left behind a cinderblock stack, Dale watching their six from the eastern side, Hogan and Ricky flanking the northern arc with a two-man sweep.

“Contact, east tree line,” Bateman’s voice came over comms, low and lethal.“Two down.”

“Confirmed,” Glenn said, from somewhere high and invisible.A single shot echoed a breath later, clean as a scalpel.“Three.Left shoulder, top of ridge.”

“Show off,” Dale muttered, ducking low as a spray of bullets stitched bark nearby.

“Still can’t convince him to go Pathfinder,” Bateman growled.“It’s insulting.”

“Because we have standards,” Dev’s voice cut in.

“You let Dale in,” Glenn replied.

“Hey,” Dale objected.