Getting shot wasn't the worst thing he had experienced. Mostly because Mack couldn't remember it all that well.
Blood pounded in ears, sweat seeped into gloves, cargo pants crackled with dry mud. An image through the scope, down the sandy hill; a man dressed in all black and holding the signature pistol of their troops. Finger moved to trigger, perfectly static, never allowed to tremble even a millimeter.
The nervousness would be saved for after the shot, where finally a breath was allowed to shudder moist and wheezing through his lips.
The figure stilled. It would prove a fatal mistake.
Mack readjusted his scope through the sandbags, feeling the weight of the barrel press against him.
Crack!
The enemy soldier didn't fall in slow motion, didn't scream or beg for life. His head just snapped back with the momentum of the bullet, and his body crumpled into a heap on the sand. Mack went to reposition when he felt something slick on his clothes.
At that moment, Mack realized his quarry wasn't the only body that had been hit. The thin beige tarp below him was speckled with blood.
It took less than a minute for his vision to fade to black.
~~~~~
Mack and Gram entered the War Room. Eight pairs of eyes were instantly upon them, scrutinizing the situation.
Though it was a temporary building, the detail of its construction was leagues above the barracks or medical tent. It was like Mack was back in civilization.
An office table decorated the corner, equipped with a kitschy vase to match. Stacks of files filled to the brim with paper sat by its side. The ground even had a carpet, though it was scuffed with the dust of a thousand standard-grade boots.
At the back of the room rose a wide teak desk, gleaming with authority. A warm-hued lamp stood at one side, and, like the office table, stacks of papers littered the structure. They rose to nearly the head of the figure sitting behind them.
He sat hunched forward, fingers crossed and thumbs twiddling over one another. Flanking the man's shoulders were two oil paintings depicting vague scenes of war and battle, shining with varnish in the dim light. A permanent scowl carved wrinkles into his chin.
General Holmes.
Analyzing the man's face, Mack had the thought he was the type to be happy anywhere as long as he got to see people killed.
"Soldiers," Holmes spoke. Everyone who had been staring at Mack immediately turned their heads back. His voice had a quality that made it impossible to ignore; gruff and steady with the confidence only an old man in a violent profession could have.
"The enemy is faltering. If they cannot fell our outpost in the coming weeks, then they will have no choice but to retreat."
A breath. Mack's fellow squad members glowed radiant with hope.
Holmes licked his paper-thin lips and spoke again, "Our intel says they will arrive from the east at dawn in two day's time. With the rising sun to their backs, they will have the advantage in terms of visibility.
"Scouts have counted three main forces, with a small group of snipers backing them up. Their vehicles have been abandoned thanks to our pit traps," he gave a nod towards Mack, whose chest swelled with pride. The pits were his idea, dug ten feet deep and covered with an arch of cement just stable enough for people to walk over and armored vehicles to shatter.
"So they will be coming on foot. Our mid-range gunners, McKinsey and Sanders, will provide cover fire. Scout Beckett will provide you guidance on enemy locations.
"Assault members Winford, Langley, Norton, and Knox will attack from the north. Your bulletproofing should last for a few hits before it cracks, but if it does, fall back and grab your closest firearm. There is no room for retreat.
"Lastly, Perez, Klein, and Captain Gram will be providing ambush support.
"You will be collaborating with Squad No. 10 on this mission to conduct a pincer attack on their first battalion. They will be attacking from the south in tandem with you."
Another breath, this one deeper, more contemplative.
"Leave no man alive."
Gazes grew stern. Resolved. Save for one, who just looked mildly annoyed.
It was none other than the reeking shit stain on Lucky No. 9's roster: Jared Knox.
With the way everyone around him acted like brainless sycophants, Mack supposed he must've had influential parents. If they were former officers, it would be reputation-ruining to help him dodge the draft, but pulling strings to put him in a simultaneously influential and somewhat safe position would be well within their authority.
Noticing his expression, Holmes unfolded his hands and placed them flat in front of him. "Do you have something to say, Knox?"
"Not much. Just thinking bringing along a cripple who can barely lift a gun to this mission is r******d. His 'cover fire' won't cover so much as a flat girl's nips." A caustic smirk spread on his lips. Everyone was silent, staring blankly at Jared.
"What? I thought that was a good joke."
Nobody made a move to retort. Not even so much as a disapproving lok of disgust.
"More people have died covering your sorry behind than you can probably count to, asshole." Mack muttered, cold with fury, controlling his volume so Jared could just barely hear.
"Oh?" the man raised an eyebrow. "Did they now?" There was an amused look upon his face, one that Mack couldn't decipher. It was one he'd seen before, as if Jared was in on some grand inside joke that nobody else understood. One not of simple entitlement or superiority, but as if Mack were a toy he could discard at any time.
It unsettled him.
Before Mack could fire back, Holmes spoke, "Well, it seems you all understand. Two days. Save your energy for battle." It was as if Jared had never opened his foul chasm of a mouth. There was no acknowledgement of the exchange the two shared.
"You're all dismissed."