[Location: Al-Qa'im, Iraq – May 17, 2008]
The briefing was short and ugly.
"High-value target holed up in a mosque," Captain Riggs said, pointing at a grainy satellite photo. "Abu Tariq—IED specialist, responsible for the deaths of 12 Marines last month. We take him out today."
Jay exchanged a glance with Reaper. Mosques were off-limits. Usually.
"Rules of engagement?" Ruiz asked, voice tight.
"He's not surrendering," Riggs said flatly. "Do what you have to do."
The squad geared up in silence.
The mosque's minaret loomed over the dusty streets. Locals scattered as the Humvees rolled in.
"Remember," Reaper muttered, "he's inside holy ground. Civilians might be shields."
Jay's stomach turned. "Yeah."
They stacked up at the side entrance.
"Breach on three," Ruiz whispered.
One. Two.—
The door exploded inward.
The mosque was dark, cool, and full of death.
Abu Tariq's men opened fire from behind prayer mats, their AKs lighting up the shadows.
"CONTACT RIGHT!" D-Block roared, his SAW cutting down two gunmen mid-prayer.
Jay dove behind a pillar as bullets chipped stone near his head. He returned fire—a man in a checkered scarf fell screaming.
Then he saw them.
Women and children, huddled in a corner, terrified.
"FUCK! NON-COMBATANTS!" Jay yelled.
Ruiz's voice was ice. "Stay on target! Tariq's upstairs!"
They pushed forward, stepping over bodies.
Abu Tariq stood at the mihrab, a pistol in one hand, a detonator in the other.
"You defile this place!" he spat in broken English.
"Drop it!" Ruiz shouted.
Tariq smiled. Pressed the button.
Nothing happened.
"Wrong wire, asshole," Snark snarled, pulling the trigger.
BANG.
Tariq collapsed, his blood staining the Quran beneath him.
Silence.
Then—a child's wail.
The squad stood amidst the carnage.
Four insurgents dead.
Two civilians caught in crossfire—a woman and an old man.
Jay's hands wouldn't stop shaking.
A little girl knelt beside the dead woman, sobbing.
Reaper lowered his rifle. "Jesus Christ."
Ruiz radioed command, voice hollow. "Target eliminated. Collateral damage confirmed."
Jay stared at Tariq's corpse. "Was this worth it?"
******
[Location: Forward Operating Base Delta, Iraq – June 21, 2008]
The morning was quiet—too quiet.
Jay sat on the edge of his cot, scribbling a half-assed letter to Chloe. He'd promised to write more. He hadn't.
"Hey shitbird. Still alive. Tell Mom—"
Then the world exploded.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
Mortars rained down on the FOB, shaking the ground like an earthquake. Jay's pen went flying as he dove under his cot.
"INCOMING! GET TO THE BUNKER!" someone screamed.
Jay grabbed his rifle and sprinted outside—just in time to see the next shell hit.
The mess hall took a direct impact, flames erupting skyward.
"MEDICS! WE NEED MEDICS NOW!"
The dust hadn't even settled when the second wave of attacks came—insurgents swarmed the breached perimeter, AK-47s blazing.
Jay and Reaper took cover behind a flipped Humvee, returning fire.
"Where the fuck did they come from?!" Jay yelled over gunfire.
"Intel fucked us," Reaper growled, dropping an insurgent with a single shot. "This was coordinated."
D-Block laid down suppressing fire with his SAW, his usual grin replaced with a snarl. "They're going for the ammo depot!"
Jay's blood ran cold. If those explosives went up, the whole FOB would be toast.
Ruiz's voice crackled over the radio: "Price, Hayes—hold that line! Reinforcements inbound!"
Jay peeked over the hood—a dozen insurgents were sprinting toward the depot.
"Oh, hell no."
He lobbed a grenade.
BOOM.
Bodies flew. The rest scattered.
———
The firefight lasted forty-five brutal minutes.
When the reinforcements finally arrived, the insurgents fled like roaches under light—but the damage was done.
Eight Marines dead.
Twelve wounded.
The mess hall—gone.
Jay slumped against a bullet-riddled wall, his ears ringing.
Then he saw the body bag.
Merwin's name was written on the tag.
Later, when the adrenaline faded, Reaper handed Jay a crumpled, bloodstained envelope.
"To my dumbass squad (especially Price),
If you're reading this, I'm either dead or finally got that discharge for 'being too sexy for the Corps.'
Tell my ex-girlfriends I died heroically (lie if you have to).
And Jay—write your damn sister back.
—Merwin (Skids) Callahan
P.S. – D-Block, you still owe me $20."
Jay laughed until it turned into something worse.
That night, Jay sat alone on the FOB's roof, staring at the stars.
Reaper found him there, holding a stolen bottle of whiskey.
"You gonna drink that or baptize yourself with it?"
Jay took a swig. "He never shut up. Now I'd give anything to hear one of his shitty jokes."
Reaper sat beside him. "War takes what it wants."
******
[Location: Iraq & Arcadia Bay – July to September 2008]
[July]
The heat was unbearable. 120 degrees by noon, the air thick with the stench of sweat, diesel, and something rotting beneath the sand.
Jay's squad was down to four—Merwin dead, two others transferred out after the mortar attack. Replacements came in, fresh-faced kids who flinched at gunfire. Jay didn't bother learning their names.
They ran patrols. They got shot at. They shot back.
Nothing changed.
Except—
Jay stopped writing letters.
Chloe's last one sat crumpled in his footlocker:
"Hey asshole. You ghosting us now? Dad keeps asking if we've heard from you. Just… call or something. – Chlo"
He never replied.
[August]
A suicide bomber hit their convoy on the 14th.
Jay's Humvee flipped.
When he woke up, D-Block was dragging him to cover, blood running down his face from a shrapnel gash.
"You good, brother?" D-Block panted.
Jay spat out sand. "Peachy."
They lost three more men that day.
That night, Jay sat on the roof of the FOB, staring at the stars. Reaper found him there.
"You're gonna drink yourself to death," Reaper said, lighting a cigarette.
Jay took another swig of stolen whiskey. "Worked for Hemingway."
Reaper exhaled smoke. "Hemingway shot himself."
Jay laughed. It wasn't funny.
[September]
The chaplain found Jay in the barracks.
"Price… you need to call home."
Jay's stomach dropped.
Joyce's voice was raw, broken.
"Jay… it's your dad. He—" A sob. "Car accident. He's gone."
Jay didn't speak.
"Jay? Jay?!"
He hung up.
Then he punched the wall until his knuckles split.
Command gave him 72 hours of emergency leave.
"Go home, Marine," the captain said. "Bury your father."
Jay stared at his boots.
"No."
Reaper grabbed him by the collar. "The fuck you mean, no?"
Jay shoved him off. "I'm not going back."
"Your family needs you—"
"I SAID NO!"
Silence.
Reaper looked at him—really looked—and saw it. The truth.
Jay wasn't afraid of the war.
He was afraid of home.
Joyce called again. Begged.
Jay ignored it.
Chloe left a voicemail:
"You selfish bastard. Dad's dead, Max is leaving, and you're hiding over there like a coward! Fuck you, Jay. Fuck you."
He deleted it.
D-Block tried to talk to him. Snark made a shitty joke to lighten the mood. Reaper just watched him, silent.
Jay didn't care.
He went on patrol.
He got shot at.
He shot back.
Nothing changed.
******
[Location: Combat Outpost Ironclad, Al Anbar Province – November 15, 2008]
The summons came at dawn.
"Price. Captain wants you," the comms officer said, tossing Jay a crumpled MRE coffee packet like it was a consolation prize.
Jay squinted against the rising sun, his body aching from another night of half-sleep. "What for?"
The officer shrugged. "Either you're getting a medal or a court-martial. Place your bets."
Reaper, leaning against a sandbag wall sharpening his knife (as usual), didn't look up. "Probably both."
Jay dragged himself to the CO's tent, his boots kicking up dust.
Captain Riggs stood over a map, his face lined with exhaustion. "Price. You're alive."
"Barely," Jay muttered.
Riggs ignored that. "We're promoting you. Corporal, effective immediately. You'll take over Second Fire Team."
Jay blinked. "Why?"
"Because your squad's kill-to-loss ratio is the best in the battalion," Riggs said flatly. "And because Hayes won't stop recommending you."
Jay's jaw tightened. Reaper had put him up for this?
"Sir, I'm not—"
"I don't care," Riggs interrupted. "Your old team leader's being transferred. You know the men. You know the terrain. And you don't panic when shit goes sideways." He leaned in. "That's rarer than you think."
Jay wanted to argue. To say he was broken, bitter, barely holding it together.
But the Corps didn't care about that.
"Yes, sir," he said instead.
When Jay walked back to the squad's corner of the outpost, D-Block was arm-wrestling Snark over a pack of cigarettes, while Reaper watched, amused.
"Guess who's a corporal now," Jay said dryly.
Snark snorted. "Oh fuck no."
D-Block whooped, slapping Jay's back hard enough to bruise. "Bout damn time! Does this mean you get extra MREs now?"
Reaper just nodded, like he'd expected this all along. "Try not to get us killed, Corporal."
Jay rolled his eyes. "No promises."
Later, when the others were asleep, Reaper found Jay on watch, staring into the desert night.
"You pissed at me?" Reaper asked, lighting a cigarette.
Jay took the offered smoke. "Nah." Paused. "Just don't get why you'd recommend me."
Reaper exhaled slowly. "Because you're the only one who doesn't want it."
Jay frowned.
"Guys who want power?" Reaper continued. "They're the ones who get people killed. You? You just wanna keep your team alive." He smirked. "Even Snark."
Jay laughed, despite himself.
The next morning, Jay sewed the two new stripes onto his uniform.
D-Block saluted him mockingly.
Snark "accidentally" called him "sir" for the rest of the week.
Reaper just handed him a stolen bottle of whiskey and said:
"Don't fuck it up."
Jay took a swig. "Too late."