Chapter Ten

Briggs

I search for my weapon, patting my chest and coming up empty. I’m completely unarmed. Reaching into my boot, I grab the only thing I have left, my KA-BAR, which is great for slicing and dicing in hand to hand, but shit for open fire. My entire body begins to shake in trepidation, and for the first time since arriving in Iraq, I feel helpless.

Lifting my throbbing head, the heat from the flames sear me as they engulf Morrero’s truck.

“Jones!” I yell into oblivion, hoping for any sort of backup. Growing dread races through me with the knowledge no one made it out of that thing alive.

Morrero.

Pressure builds behind my eyes, but I bite back the emotion. There will be time to grieve when we get out of here. That’s the way with war. We’re taught to push our feelings aside and to deal with them later. To dwell on it would change nothing but could cost us our lives.

I hack, attempting to cough the smog from my lungs as I survey the area, spotting my own Humvee burning about ten yards away.

Unable to stand without making myself an easy target, I drag my body slowly across the shrapnel-covered ground, back to my truck. Thick black smoke billows from the right side and I know that it could explode at any moment, but I won’t leave any soldier behind. When I reach the truck, I pull myself to stand. It’s a Herculean task. Everything fucking hurts. Pushing the pain aside, I grind my teeth while trying to balance myself on my good leg, unsure of what I’m dealing with on the other. With a chest full of dread, I yank the door open and find Jones’s body consumed by flames. I will never, for as long as I live, be able to erase the stench of my best friend’s burning flesh from my memory.

Gripping the hot metal door in both hands, I lean over and puke as uncontrollable tears run from my eyes. I let go and collapse to the ground.

How will I tell Mandy?

I lay there in a pool of my own vomit, in too much pain to move, unable to process the devastation of losing my two best friends. Unable to accept that with one glance into the back seat, I cost those children their father. This is my fault.

If I hadn’t looked back at Scottie …

Scottie. Where the fuck are Scottie and Mullins?

Shielding my hands over my eyes, I squint and search for them, but it’s so hard to see through the haze of smoke.

A scream echoes in the distance, and I follow the sound, unable to see two feet in front of my face. Still on my stomach, I pull myself up and away from the truck to find Scottie against a tire that was thrown from one of the Humvees, Mullins’s head cradled in her lap.

She’s hunched over her body, tears streaming down her cheeks, her mouth open in a soundless scream. The need to protect her gives me the strength to take command of the situation. “Scottie. It’s me…It’s Briggs,” I call out when I’ve managed to bridge the distance, attempting to sound more in control than I feel. “Scottie, look at me.”

She can’t hear me through her fear and grief. She blinks, and panic mars her features as Mullins begins to convulse in her arms.

“Scottie!” I snap.

I am afraid to touch her—so instead I do my best to jar her out of it. “Scott!” I shout, and her head swivels in my direction. “You need to get it together, Soldier. We’re under fire.”

The relief in her eyes when she finally sees me makes me feel ten feet tall—indestructible, if only for a second. The hope in her gaze conveys trust. I feel her conviction to my bones, and I want to believe it too. She gives me a sharp nod before jumping into action.

“Briggs …I have to get my bag from the truck.” She shouts, rolling Mullins onto her side, before pushing her fingers into her mouth to clear her airway. “I need my supplies.”

“The truck’s on fire, Scottie,” I reply with a sand-covered tongue. “The supplies are gone. Everything is gone.”

She shakes her head, her voice full of fear. “She’s seizing too hard.” Scottie closes her eyes as a bullet whizzes past her head.

“We need to get out of here, now.”

“I’m not fucking leaving her!” Her eyes command mine.

“We’re not,” I promise her.

“Give me your belt,” she orders. I rip it off as fast as I can manage and hand it to her. She wraps it around Mullins’s gaping thigh. She’s still for the moment but remains unconscious. I assume it’s due to massive blood loss.

“Scottie, we have to move fast. Your pistol isn’t going to defend us against those machine guns. I have nothing,” I say, knowing everything we had for weapons went up in flames. “Do you hear me?” I ask, lifting her tear-soaked chin, feeling as it begins to tremble between my thumb and forefinger.

I survey the area, finding a shed not too far out in the distance, which may buy us a little time. “See that shed? That’s where we’re heading.” I scan her body. “Can you walk?” I’m unsure of the extent of her injuries, but it seems the two of us fared better than the rest, being on the left side of the truck. “Are you injured?”

“My wrist is broken, and I think a few ribs are cracked, but I can manage.” She winces, bringing her good arm up to her chest.

There’s my soldier.

“On three,” I whisper, positioning Mullins between us so that Scottie can help hoist her up. “One …Two …Three!”

We lift and run as fast as two broken bodies hauling dead weight can, but it’s not enough. It’s our only shot out of here, and it isn’t nearly enough.

Large hands grab me from behind, and instantly I react—dropping Mullins in the process—breaking the arm of the threat before gripping him in a choke hold and cracking his neck. Scottie screams, and I reach for my blade, lunging for her attacker. I have him down with two flicks of my wrist and the twist of my blade. Choked in horror, she looks to me with helpless eyes before they widen at something over my shoulder. Her lips part to warn me, but I’m already in action.

“Scottie, look away!” In two moves, I have him on the ground as I twist the knife into his jugular. Before I can get to my feet with a newly retrieved AK, I’m blinded by a hood and being choked on the feel of the noose that follows. I’m dragged a few feet before I’m struck in the temple by the butt of the rifle that’s been snatched from my hands. Disoriented, I yell for Scottie as I scuffle on the ground with my captor.

Through rapid Arabic orders being barked at me, I scream my own. “Scottie, don’t fucking tell them anything, do you hear me?!”

“Briggs!”

“Don’t tell them anything, Scottie!”

“Briggs!” Her cries strike like blows.

“I’m so fucking sorry!” Unrelenting pain circulates through me at the loss of her, at the idea that she’s in hostile hands. Enraged, I thrash and fight with every bit of strength in me.

“Don’t tell them anything!” I shout again as they drag me to the back of a running truck.

“Scottie!” I manage to scream as she answers next to me.

“I’m here, Briggs! I’m right here.”

Relief and terror fill me in equal measure as Mullins moans out in pain before she’s thrown to the bottom of the truck at my feet.

Our captors are speaking, but there are too many conversing at the same time for me to make out a single word. Not that I would be able to understand much, anyway. Seconds later, I decide ignorance would have been bliss because when I do manage to catch a few words, it turns my stomach. “Fuck.”

Flexing, I fight against the rope that binds my hands behind my back and feel my flesh begin to tear with my struggle.

“W-what is it?” Scottie asks in panic next to me.

“Just stay calm. Okay?”

“Tell me, Briggs,” she whispers sharply.

“I don’t think they’re army.”

Morrero was our terp, and I don’t know enough Arabic to be certain. But if what I’m thinking is right, we’re in far worse shape than I’d originally thought and about to be delivered straight into the bowels of hell.

When the back of the truck finally slams shut, I feel Scott’s body quivering against my own.

“They’ll come for us; they’ll find us,” I lie.

Not for one fucking minute do I believe that either of us is getting out of this situation on the outside of a body bag. But, I will fight for her with everything I have, even if it costs me my last breath.