The cue ball hit the rail, curved back, and sank the eight in the corner pocket.
Marcus didn't even smile. He straightened, chalked his cue, and let the groan from the corporal on the other side of the table fade into the noise of the bar.
"Double or nothing," Jaro muttered.
"You're already nothing," Marcus said. "Save your hazard pay for ammo."
The bar was a low concrete box with a tin roof. Neon lights hummed. The place smelled like dried beer and popcorn. The pool table sat in its own side room, half a wall cut away so the guys could see the main bar and the door at the same time. Habit. You never turned your back on anything in this town.
Raina slid through the opening with a tray balanced on one hip, moving like she had done it a thousand times.
"Four more," she said, voice low and rough. "On the house if somebody finally lets Jaro win a game. He's going to start crying and then it gets awkward for all of us."
She was mid-twenties, long legs under a black skirt, white crop top knotted just above her navel, dark hair in a loose braid over one shoulder. Pretty, sure. But her eyes were what people noticed first..bright, sharp, always checking exits, corners, faces. Like she had spent enough time around soldiers to know exactly what could go wrong and how fast.
"Don't encourage him," Marcus said.
She leaned in to set his beer on the rail, close enough that he caught the smell of sweat, cheap perfume, and underneath that a clean note of soap.
"You're the sergeant, right?" she asked quietly. "Marcus?"
He didn't remember telling her his name.
"Maybe."
She smiled like that answer was exactly what she'd wanted.
"Well, 'maybe,' I saw the way you cleared that last rack. You boys don't shoot that straight when you're sober?"
"Boys don't," Jaro said. "He's a machine."
Raina laughed, low and real, and moved around the table. As she turned, her hip bumped the tray. One of the bottles tipped and spilled, dark beer washing over the green felt, running down onto the cue ball still spinning in the corner pocket.
"Shit…sorry," she hissed, grabbing bar towels off her tray and blotting fast.
"It's fine," Marcus said. "Really."
But the manager had already seen. He was behind the bar, in his forties, soft around the middle, thinning hair slicked back, shirt half unbuttoned over a gold chain. Local heavy. He'd been watching the squad all night, weighing them.
Now he slammed his hand on the counter.
"Raina!"
She flinched.
"It was an accident," she called. "I'll.."
He came around the bar fast for a man that soft, pushing between chairs, red creeping up his neck.
"You stupid bitch."
He backhanded her before Marcus's brain caught up. The crack of skin on skin cut through the jukebox. Her head snapped sideways, braid swinging. The towels fell from her hands.
Marcus was already moving.
Rook and Jaro hesitated that half-second..chain of command, bar rules, too many guns in too small a room. Marcus didn't care. He stepped between them, between the manager and Raina, one hand on the big man's chest.
"That's enough," Marcus said.
The room tightened. Every drunk with a gun turned slightly in his chair.
The manager's eyes dropped to the uniform, the patches, the rank. To the pistol on Marcus's hip, the knife on his vest. He sneered, but there was a small shake in it.
"This is my bar, soldier."
"And that's your problem," Marcus said. "You want to yell at your staff, do it without your hands."
Behind him, Raina's fingers curled into the back of his shirt. He could feel her breathing, fast and hot.
"Marcus, it's okay," she said quickly, pressing her palm flat between his shoulder blades, then stepping around to face him. Her cheek was already reddening.
"It was my fault, I wasn't watching the tray, I'm fine, really." She put a hand on his chest, eyes wide, asking him without words to let it go. "Please. Don't. He'll throw me out and I need this job."
The manager heard that and grabbed onto it.
"Yeah. She needs this job." He puffed himself up, backing off half a step but trying to look like he was still in charge. "You boys wanna drink cheap in my place, you don't tell me how to handle my own."
Marcus held his stare a long beat. He could take the guy apart in three moves and leave him on the floor. It would feel good. It would also make life worse for his squad, for every patrol that used this bar as a neutral spot.
He let his hand fall.
"Then handle it without making a scene," Marcus said.
The manager huffed. "Buy another round or get out."
He grabbed Raina's arm, hard enough to leave fingerprints, and pulled her back toward the bar. She glanced over her shoulder once, meeting Marcus's eyes. For a second something moved there..embarrassment, gratitude, and something else he couldn't read. Then the door to the back room swung shut behind her.
The mood in the room never came back.
They played a few more distracted games. The beer tasted flat. Jokes stopped halfway and died. When they finally walked back to the base, the air felt heavier.
The next day twelve hours later, the only light was from gunfire.
The squad moved in a staggered line through scrub so dry it crunched under their boots, heat rising from the ground in waves. Smoke rode the wind from somewhere ahead, dark and thick. Gunfire rattled in uneven bursts, echoing off low concrete shacks and rusted sheet metal.
"Contact still two blocks north," Rook said in Marcus's ear. "Locals say mercs moved in last week. Using the village as a shield."
"Copy," Marcus said. "Eyes up, safeties off. We're ghosts…get in, get the intel, get out."
He lifted a fist. The line froze.
Under the chatter of gunfire, he heard something else..thin, muffled. A sound you didn't forget once you'd heard enough of it.
Crying.
He tilted his head, tracking. Left. Down the alley between a cinderblock wall and a stack of rusted drums. There, half-collapsed against the wall, was a shack of warped planks and corrugated metal. The sound came from inside, weak but steady.
"Rook, Jaro." Marcus jerked his chin. "On me. The rest hold perimeter."
They moved up the alley, boots silent now, staying close to the walls. Bullets chewed the far end of the street, but none aimed their way yet.
The door to the shack wasn't really a door, just a sheet of metal on a rope. Marcus eased it aside with his boot and stepped in first, rifle up.
Dim light pushed through gaps in the wall. It smelled like rusted, burned old equipment.
And there, tied to a chair with rough rope cutting into her wrists, a dirty rag shoved between her teeth, hair loose and wild..
Was Raina.
Her eyes went wide when she saw him. For a heartbeat he thought he'd imagined her, dragged her out of last night's bar into today's war. But the bruise from the manager's slap was still growing across her cheek. She thrashed once at the ropes, making a muffled sound.
"Jesus," Jaro breathed behind him. "That's the bar girl."
Rook swore softly. "What the hell is she doing out here?"
"Later," Marcus snapped. "Cover the door."
He slung his rifle, moved in, fingers fast on the knots. The ropes had been tied to hurt, not to hold well; whoever did it wanted her to fight them and feel every second of it. His jaw clenched.
He pulled out the rag first. She spat, coughed, dragged in a full breath.
"You…you," she rasped. "Marcus."
"Yeah. You get into trouble everywhere or just the places I drink?" he said, because if he didn't make a joke his hands were going to start shaking. "Who did this?"
"Guys from the hills," she said, voice rough. "Big talk about 'purifying' the town, throwing out off-world scum. They took me because they thought I knew where you kept your guns. I kept telling them I only know where you keep your tips."
She tried to laugh. It came out broken. Fear sat under the humor, clear and sharp.
Outside, someone shouted. A burst of automatic fire answered, too close.
"Time's up," Rook called. "We got movement."
Marcus cut the last rope. Raina pushed herself up, legs unsteady. He caught her around the waist without thinking. Her body was warm and shaking against his.
"Can you run?" he asked.
"I can do better than that," she said, putting one hand on his chest again. "I can show you where they won't be."
"Good enough. Stay behind me, talk later."
They ran.
Out the back of the shack, through a narrow gap between buildings only locals would know about. Raina pointed left, right, down, stop, go. Twice she saved them, once from a sniper's nest Marcus hadn't seen, once from an alley that filled with gunfire five seconds after they passed it.
By the time they reached a crumbling stone wall at the edge of the village, everyone was breathing hard. Sweat ran down Marcus's spine. His helmet mounted display flashed warnings about ammo and heat.
Raina bent over with her hands on her knees, laughing between breaths.
"That's twice now," she said, looking up at him through strands of sweaty hair. "You keep showing up when I'm in trouble. I'm starting to think you're stalking me, Sergeant."
"Yeah," Jaro puffed. "He planned this whole op just to see you again."
"Shut up, Jaro," Marcus said, but the corner of his mouth moved.
He checked his map, checked the squad.
"All right. We're splitting," he decided. "Rook, Jaro, you take Raina to the evac point. Get her on the next bird out. I'll loop with the rest to hit the data shack.."
"No."
Raina's voice was sharp now.
"I'm not leaving yet."
Marcus turned. "You don't get a vote."
"Think about it," she said, stepping closer, eyes locked on his. "You walk me to evac, you lose time. You cut through the market, they'll see you. Let me take a side route. I grew up in these streets. I know every hole. I can be gone before they even realize I'm missing."
She was close enough that he could see the flecks of gold in her eyes. Close enough that he could feel her breath on his neck.
"And what if they grab you again?" he asked quietly.
"They won't," she said. "Because I won't be where they expect."
Another shout in the distance. Another burst of gunfire. The village was waking up around them.
"Fine," he said. "You run. Stay low. If we make it out, you owe me a drink somewhere that guy can't slap you."
Her grin flashed, quick and sharp.
"Deal."
But instead of running, she caught his vest and pulled him into the shadow of the wall, out of sight of the others.
"Hey.."
Her mouth hit his.
There was nothing careful about it. She kissed like someone who thought she was going to die in that shack and refused to waste any of the time she had left. Hot, hungry, all teeth and tongue and fingers curling into the back of his neck.
For a second he stiffened. Then his whole body reacted at once. He dropped his rifle on its sling, hands going to her waist, her hips, dragging her closer. She fit against him easily, soft curves pressed to hard armor, moving against him with a steady rhythm.
She broke the kiss just long enough to breathe against his ear.
"I watched you at the bar," she whispered. "The way you stepped in. The way you didn't back down. I couldn't stop thinking about you."
Her hands slid under the edge of his vest, fingers tracing the line of muscle along his ribs, nails drawing light lines over his skin. He groaned despite himself, head tipping back against the stone.
"Raina…"
"Shh. We don't get many heroes out here," she said. "Let me thank you properly."
She pushed his shirt up, lips moving down his throat to the hollow of his collarbone, teeth grazing, tongue following. Heat built low in his gut. He cupped her ass, pulling her fully against him. She gasped, rolling her hips, pressing into him like they were dancing to music only they could hear.
The next bullet snapped off the stone a few inches from his head.
The world jumped back into focus.
"Down!" he barked, dragging her with him as he dropped. They hit the dirt hard, his body over hers.
"Guess the universe hates foreplay," she laughed, still a little breathless, reaching for her fallen sandal. "Go. I know another way out. I'll draw them off you."
"You're not.."
"Marcus!" Rook shouted. "We've got incoming! Move!"
Raina grabbed his face, kissed him once more..quick and fierce, tasting like smoke.
"Trust me," she said. "Third time's the charm."
Then she slid out from under him and bolted down a side path, bare feet hitting the dust, disappearing between two broken walls before he could stop her.
He swore, hard, and scrambled up, pulling his rifle back into his hands.
"Rook, Jaro, with me!" he snapped. "We take the data shack and get the hell out. We regroup at evac in fifteen. Move!"
They never made it.
The building they used was a one-room storage shed with bullet holes already across the front. They flipped tables, shoved crates, made a rough barricade, breathing loud in the sudden quiet.
For a minute it worked. Enemy fire came in short bursts, testing. He counted three shooters, maybe four. It felt manageable.
Then it changed.
The next volley was exact, controlled, shots moving across their cover in small steps. Grenades bounced in the dust outside the door, not close enough to kill but close enough to shake them and push them back from the entrance.
"They're herding us," Rook shouted over the ringing in his ears. "How the hell do they know our angles?"
Marcus's stomach went cold.
He crawled to the shattered window and looked through a crack in the boards.
At first he saw only smoke, flashes from muzzles, bodies moving. Then the smoke cleared for a second and he saw her.
Raina stood in the doorway of a building across the street. No ropes. No gag. No fear. Her hair was tied back tight. She wore a different top, lighter and practical. She talked to a tall man with a rifle hanging on his shoulder, pointing..there, there, there..with the same hand that had been under his shirt.
The tall man nodded, lifted two fingers, pointed at the shed.
A fresh wave of gunfire pinned them at once.
"Boss?" Jaro's voice shook. "Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me that's not.."
"It's her," Marcus said. The words tasted bitter.
Another grenade hit the wall outside, spraying dust and splinters.
They fought.
Of course they fought. That was their job. Short, controlled bursts. Moving between cover. Counting shots. Watching for patterns. They dropped two of the attackers when they made mistakes. They pulled Rook back by his vest when a bullet hit his leg. They held longer than they should have.
It didn't matter.
Every time they shifted, the enemy was ready. Every side route they tried was blocked. Every escape path snapped shut.
Because she had told them. Where they'd go. How they moved. How he thought.
The shed finally gave under the pressure. The front wall fell inward in a cloud of dust and broken brick. Jaro went down first, a clean shot to the throat. Rook took two rounds in the chest plate, another in the arm, still shooting until his rifle clicked empty.
In the end, when Marcus burst through the back door in a storm of splinters, he was the only one still moving on his own feet.
He ran without thinking..down alleys, over walls, through yards where families hid behind thin curtains. Bullets followed him, close enough to hear and feel, breaking concrete around him. He lost all sense of direction and time. The only thing that mattered was not stopping.
Somewhere behind him, someone shouted for the shooters to hold fire.
He didn't look back. If he looked back, he might see her. He wasn't ready for that.
The mission was classified offically as "completed."
Then came Marcus's discharge and in his mind it was all a blur.
Debrief rooms with bad lighting and old coffee. Officers who wanted simple reports and simple stories. A short list of dead and wounded. A longer list of "unanswered questions about local assets."
The phrase "operational judgment" came up a lot. So did "clouded."
In the end they called it what it was: honorably discharged, fit for civilian life, not recommended for redeployment.
He signed the papers because there was nothing left not to sign.
When they asked where he was going next, he said he didn't know.
A short while later, an old friend called with an offer to help reopen a half-dead restaurant near a backwater station back home. I had a stupid name..the Slipgate..Marcus said yes before he could talk himself out of it.
At a place like that specializing in "comfort food", all kinds of people showed up.
Maybe he'd finally learn to stop trying to save them.