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SIX

GAGE

The warehouse looms ahead, its cold, concrete exterior barely visible against the backdrop of dense trees.

My boots thump heavily on the dirt as I lead the squad into position, my mind hyper-focused, like a machine processing each new bit of data.

Every second counts. Every movement needs to be precise.

The Marines in my unit move with the same sense of urgency; our every action is rehearsed over and over, each one honed to perfection.

But this isn’t just another drill. This is different. This is for real.

“Everyone in position?” I murmur into the comms, the gravel in my voice not needing any extra volume to cut through the quiet. The guys know when I speak, they listen.

“Good to go,” comes the quick response from Lieutenant Alvarez, our platoon commander, his voice steady as always.

He’s right behind me, leading from the front, just like a good officer should.

The way he moves through the trees reminds me of how we’ve been trained—quick, quiet, and effective. No wasted motion.

The squad’s been locked in for the past two weeks, but this exercise is a different beast. It’s as close to the real deal as we can get without being on deployment. Live fire, role players acting as hostile forces, heavy intel-gathering, and extraction. The whole shebang.

I glance back over my shoulder at the team: Master Sergeant Callahan, the backbone of the HQ element, walks with Staff Sergeant McMahon, one of our best SNCOs, eyes constantly scanning their surroundings.

They’re the ones making sure all the logistics are covered, keeping the comms running smoothly, and feeding us intel.

Behind them, Sergeant Morales and Corporal Palmer fall in line, their movements just as sharp as anyone else’s.

And then there are the corpsmen—Doc Taylor and Doc Murphy—always ready to patch us up, no matter how bad the situation gets.

Everyone in their place. Everyone is doing their part.

“Alright, let’s move." I growl, the words simple but commanding. I’m the operations leader, the one running the tactical side of this mission. But right now, the team is what matters most. It’s not just about individual performance—it’s about getting this done together.

I take a step forward, my rifle tight against my body, every sense alert but not too tense.

The calm before the storm—that’s what we call it.

I motion to Captain Alvarez to lead, and we begin our approach.

The warehouse is still over a hundred yards away, and even though the wind’s calm, the tension between us all is thick, like a storm just waiting to burst.

We fall into our staggered formation. My eyes flick to the rear, where the support team is waiting in position, keeping watch. There’s a lot riding on this. The smallest mistake could throw the entire mission off.

“Morales, set up overwatch on the east side,” I order, already knowing where the threats are likely to come from. The structure’s too exposed for a clean infiltration from all sides.

“Roger that,” Morales responds immediately.

I keep my eyes forward as we close the gap, feeling the weight of my responsibility.

It’s a damn heavy thing being the Gunnery Sergeant—the one who coordinates the entire team’s actions.

I’m responsible for making sure everyone’s equipment works, that everyone’s in sync, and that the plan is executed flawlessly.

No matter how prepared we are, things can go sideways.

It’s my job to steer the ship back on course when that happens.

“Palmer,” I call over to my corporal as he approaches the target building. “Get those breach charges ready. We’re moving on my mark.”

I see Palmer’s nod, swift and sure. He moves toward the door in a quick, precise motion. He’s a professional. I trust him with my life.

We’re getting closer. As the seconds tick by, I check in with each Marine, mentally running through the checklist in my head.

Callahan and McMahon have the HQ covered.

Morales has eyes on the east. Palmer’s got the charge set, and McMahon’s keeping the building covered. We’re ready. We’re locked in.

“Breach in 5,” I call out, moving my hand from my rifle to the comms button. The charge goes off with a loud crack, and the door blows wide open. It’s the signal for everyone to move.

I’m at the front, leading the charge. I’m not asking anyone to do something I won’t do myself.

My hand goes to the doorframe, and I’m through in an instant, sweeping right.

The team follows, close on my heels, no hesitation.

We split—Alvarez goes left with Master Sergeant Callahan, while I head right with McMahon and Palmer.

The goal is simple: neutralize any enemy personnel, gather intel, and get out clean.

“Contact!” McMahon calls as we round a corner, ducking behind a pile of crates. “Two tangos, center stage!”

I don’t even think twice. “Engage,” I shout.

Gunfire erupts immediately, the sound of suppressors taking the edge off, but there’s no mistaking it—the rounds are real, and we’re not here to play. We engage, and within seconds, the area is clear. McMahon moves to the front again, monitoring the opposite side of the room.

“Clear,” McMahon calls after a moment, stepping forward.

“Moving,” I say, pushing ahead.

We move through the building systematically, like we’ve done in a hundred training exercises before. But there’s a hum of intensity today—like the whole team can feel the stakes, even though we know it’s just an exercise. It’s in the air. I hear Alvarez’s voice crackling through the comms.

“HQ is secure. We’ve got the intel, but we need to exfil now,” he reports, steady and precise.

I signal for the team to move out, checking the rear one last time.

We retrace our steps, backtracking to the point of extraction.

The SARCs fall in line, moving quickly and efficiently, checking their surroundings.

The extraction vehicle is close, and once we’re back there, we’ll be back to base. Mission complete.

But that’s when the comms light up again—Gunnery Sergeant Burns, back at HQ.

“Gage,” he says through the radio, his voice clipped and urgent. “The backup radio in the vehicle malfunctioned. It’s affecting the secure channel.”

I let out a low growl of frustration, but I can’t lose focus now. “Understood. I’ll deal with it once we’re on the way back. For now, keep the comms open with the other teams. Don’t let anything slip.”

“Got it.”

The last thing I want is a comms failure when we’re on the move. But there’s nothing I can do about it until the mission’s over. The men need to be my priority now, and they’re moving fast, doing exactly what they’ve been trained to do.

The warehouse is behind us now, and I hear the hum of the extraction vehicle approaching.

I’m not one to show too much emotion—there’s too much at stake to get lost in that—but today feels good.

I know it’s just a drill, but we executed it with precision.

The team performed like I knew they would, and that’s all I can ask for.

We pile into the vehicle, and I let out a breath I didn’t even realize I’d been holding. Alvarez gives me a nod, his face impassive as always, but I know he feels the same.

“Good work,” I say, my voice rough from the exercise. “Everyone did their part. No casualties, no mistakes. We’re ready.”

I can feel the weight lifting off my shoulders, but there’s no time to relax. The next mission is always on the horizon. We’re not done. Not yet.

As the vehicle rumbles toward the base, I think about Zoe and Alejandra, back home.

It’s been a while since I’ve been able to focus on anything other than the job, and part of me wonders what’s happening back home.

But I can’t afford to think too much about it.

I’ve got a team to lead. I’ve got men to take care of and a job to do.

When I get back, I’ll check in. But right now, there’s nothing else that matters.

The hum of the vehicle engine fades as we pull back into base, and I let out a long breath.

My mind is still on the team, running through what went right and what could’ve gone smoother, but there’s one thing I’m really looking forward to: the video call with Zoe and Alejandra.

It’s a brief window of normalcy, the one time today I can be sure of something besides the job.

I make my way to the comms tent, the noise of Marines prepping for the next phase of training humming around me. I slip into a small corner, pulling out my phone and hitting the video call button. The screen flickers for a second before a familiar face appears.

Alejandra’s smile hits me like a punch in the gut, warm and comforting.

She’s sitting on the couch with my daughter cradled in her arms, swaddled in a soft pink blanket.

Zoe’s little eyes are wide, taking in the sight of me like she’s trying to place me, because God knows we’re still both strangers to each other, even though biologically we are connected.

Her tiny hands grasp at Alejandra’s shirt as she wriggles in her arms.

“Hey, baby girl,” I say softly, my voice thick with the feelings I don’t let show on missions.

Alejandra’s gaze shifts from the screen to Zoe, and I catch the softness in her eyes—the way she looks at my daughter like she’s her own. Something inside my chest tightens—a feeling that I only get when I see her look at Zoe like that.

“Hey, Gage,” Alejandra says, her voice warm but tinged with something else. “Is everything going okay?”

She’s worried.

Zoe makes a soft gurgling sound, and my heart feels like it’s pulling in every direction at once. Seeing her—seeing them together—it’s a reminder of everything that’s bigger than this mission. Everything I’m fighting for in this world.