Chapter Text
Birds chirped from the canopy of trees sat above the squad members, a sombre lullaby to match the dim atmosphere as it bounced around the soldiers sat either side of me. It was almost ghastly how unaware our surroundings were of the events we had meticulously planned for the past fortnight. We only knew how this would play out from our side, and that was if everything went to plan; Our target needed to be stood exactly where we had anticipated them to be, and we had to silently work as a unit to even the odds.
The forrest was peppered with mines, bear-traps, and a whole host of other things we were unable to anticipate before we actually got here. There were guards, improvised explosive devices, attack dogs, and whatever else laid waste in this shit-hole of the world we ended up in.
Putting it lightly, our odds were against us. But Lieutenant Bradford had faith in our ability, having hand selected the five of us for this very mission.
Often, military squads adorned nicknames, and ours was no different. Across the tours of duty we’d undertaken, we somehow adopted the name ‘Suicide Squad’ — Not to be confused with any literature depiction of the DC Anti-Heroes — comprised of myself and four other soldiers. Those four men had been with me through thick and thin, always at my side and following my every command. We were a well oiled unit that had known and worked alongside one another for years.
And, of course, in true military fashion, we’d been awarded nicknames. Each unique and significant to something we had done during our selected career paths. These were our identity, our names. Our ‘real’ names were only to be used in death, or in church on Sundays. Maybe they’d be used by your mother if you were lucky enough to still have one.
To the left of me, sat Milk. Chestnut eyes scanned over his assault rifle whilst tiny red ants crawled up his muscular arm and danced along the barrel of his rifle whilst he laid belly-down in the foliage. Beneath his sandy bleached-blond hair was a sheen of sweat, beads of which carved through the facial paint he wore and displaced the smear of green onto his brow in a veiny pattern. From what I knew of Milk, he’d grown up not far from me. Hell, we might have even gone to the same High School, though of course neither of us would utter a word of that to anyone else.
His jaw feathered as one of the ants made its way down towards the barrel of the weapon. Even if they were insects, Milk wouldn’t kill anything that wasn’t deserving of it. I’d seen the man well up when we’d hit a jackal in the outskirts Baghdad. In the end, I was the one to end its suffering.
Surprisingly, Milks nickname wasn’t crude in origin. Instead, it came from when he was fresh into basic training as a measly seventeen year old. His older brother, and my first Sergeant at the time, Vinnie, had warned him against drinking the milk, but Milk thought he knew better. Of course, he hadn’t figured out he was genuinely lactose intolerant. He’d thought it was just brotherly banter. That was until he’d drunk a gallon and a half of milk within ten minutes, and then brutally suffered the ill effects of it immediately afterwards.
Though not in my squad, Vinnie was someone I’d grown to like. Now a Lieutenant, he was overseeing our little excursions. He did a damn good job of keeping it clean, scraping our stain off the books and hiding our transgressions. Vinnie was basically a God to us, he was the one we begged forgiveness of, and he was the one who held our hands when we had been hurt. Unfortunately, he wasn’t allowed back on the field whilst he healed from his leg amputation.
On the other side of Milk, nestled behind a boulder covered with moss was Grass, nicknamed for being exactly that. The SAS (or Special Air Service for those who don’t know), had a low tolerance for snitches. So, when Grass went to Lieutenant Bradford with a puffed chest and a folder with evidence of a double agent within our ranks, Lt Bradford was at a loss for words. He’d put Grass on latrine duty for the better half of a year despite being right about the double-agent. He was young, not much younger than me and Milk, I’d say maybe a year or two at most. But he looked older. To those who didn’t know his age, Grass could be easily mistaken for a man in his mid-thirties due to his salt and peppered hair. He was tall, probably the tallest out of our squad, and he had wrinkles marred across his forehead from his bad habit of chain smoking. His wife loved him though, and she was all he ever spoke of.
It was sweet, really. To be loved irrevocably by a man who fought off the evil in the world just so you could be safe for another day. Grass would kill a hundred men if it meant his wife could have a peaceful sleep, let alone a peaceful life. He was utterly devoted to her, and she to him. And that was something all of us secretly envied.
To my right, practically conjoined, were Dumb and Dumber. They were nicknamed for… well, for being exactly that; stupid. Of course, they had their moments of intellect, but it was by far overshadowed by the sheer idiocy the pair displayed on a day-to-day basis. We’d all been in briefing once, in a scorched tent in Fallujah whilst gunfire echoed around us, sat with various senior officers and any other of the tough shitheads the SAS and USMC wanted to throw at us. It was a briefing before a particularly heinous mission, one that left numerous casualties from both sides. The tension in the room was palpable, at least it was until one of those bastards asked the other why there was mention of a ‘cleaning mop’ on the mission brief. And, of course, the other replied, ‘It means Member of Parliament, dumbass.’ for those of you not in the military, it means neither of those two things; it means Member of the Public. Not a mop. Not a Member of Parliament.
And then, without further ado, was me.
Spencer ‘Fury’ Thompson. Twenty-Five years of age, and according to many, one of the biggest assholes the British Army and Special Air Service has seen in decades. But still, that didn’t stop some idiot getting paid the big bucks from promoting me to Sergeant, did it? And I loathed every single fucking second of it.
So… why ‘Fury’? Well, some say its because of my evident anger and issues with those in authority. But if you were to ask Vinnie, he’d tell you the whole grizzly story, all the gory details of what happened on my first official mission. Before ‘Fury’, I was referred to as Spence. The shortened version of my Sunday name, the one my Father had told me before he died.
The nickname itself wasn’t a big deal, but I hated it. The unfortunate thing for me, though, was it worked. So it stuck.
Back when I was newly Eighteen, when I’d first been sent to the Middle East for whatever war the American’s had waged in the name of freedom, I’d been on an attachment with a Gurkha Solider. All I’ll say is those fuckers are the best of the best. They represent everything the SAS and USMC think they are combined, and if I’m dying in the field, I pray that they will be the ones to rescue me.
We’d been stuck in some shelled out remnants of a family home for close to three days, just me and this forty-something-year-old Gurkha whose name slips my mind. And, as the second day ticked into the third, we’d been surrounded by a bunch of Militia soldiers, none of them trained to the level either of us had been. But what mattered was they out-manned and out-gunned us.
So, we had to improvise. Or die.
And on the dawn of that day, I left the debris as a proper soldier, one of those you see on an Army advert between showings of Coronation Street or Emmerdale, when they try and sell the military to those high-school flunks and people with no job security.
We were miles from base camp, considered MIA or KIA, so you can imagine the surprise on Lieutenant Bradford’s face when I’d walked back the forty something miles and collapsed from dehydration at the gate covered in viscera and sanguine. The Gurkha had collapsed next to me, leant back on his haunches whilst he thanked his God for granting us safe passage whilst I inhaled the scorched grains of sand which embraced me.
Finally, we’d been released from the medical centre, and to my surprise I’d been hailed as a folklore story among men. Practically being painted as a God amongst peers was not something I wanted, but the name Fury was bestowed to me by those I worked and fought alongside. And thus, Fury was born.
What little remaining family I had were not to know of the nickname. They were blissfully unaware of the reasons why I could not sleep at night, or why the fireworks on bonfire night caused me to flinch and hyperventilate despite being thousands of miles away from the torment and in the safety of my own house. My family would be blissfully unaware of the sacrifices made to keep them safe, and in doing so, I felt closer to life than any firefight had made me.
Something tickled my hand, tearing me from the memories whilst a tiny creature crawled along the valley of my knuckles. I watched it with distain as its round, red body crept along my dirtied hands. I carefully flicked it off, and put my gloves back on.
“Alpha team, this is base speaking,” the comms line crackled to life in my ear, a gasp of air whispered past my lips from the shock of the interruption. No doubt they’d be confirming our target identity.
My thumb traced the circular outline of the transmit button attached to my vest before I pressed down, “This is Fury.” I spoke lowly whilst my eyes scanned across the mansion before us. It wasn’t anything crazy, not quite like something Pablo Escobar would own, but it was definitely a drug lord’s mansion.
So, here we were, the monsters in the dark of night, trying to intercept and assassinate the life of the bastard who’d snatched up kids on their way to school before they even reached their classes. He’d forced these kids to smuggle drugs across the border into Russia, transport guns and armaments into Urzikstan. I felt an anger I had never known at the thought of what else these children were subjected to by their abhorrent leader.
Target is approaching from your east. The words were gentle in my ear, a blessing as I heard the background noise of people typing in the command tent. If I listened closely enough, I could probably hear the faint sound of a pen scratching across a map.
"Copy," I responded, my firearm readied as I peered down the scope.
A strong gust of wind parted the foliage from behind, and with it carried the sound of footsteps approaching us from the rear. We were vulnerable here, we’d fallen prey to their plan we hadn’t anticipated. It was a fatal error, one I could be sure would most certainly decimate my team and send us home in body bags. It was not for the faint of heart, and it was not for the good of heart and the pure of soul. It ruined me, and no doubt ruined them.
I checked my weapon, fusing with the gunmetal and becoming one with it. My chosen instrument was not the piano, not the guitar, but the bringer of death; a firearm. It didn’t matter what it was, it could have been an AK-47 for all the difference it would make, but I opted for ‘Bertha’ my trusted M4 Assault Rifle. It was reliable, it did the job without question. It got me home safe.
Discretely, coveted by foliage and desperation, I turned to face Milk. My second in command. Corporal Milk. If you had told anyone else that name, or inferred they were the only salvation you had in a place of torment, no doubt they would have laughed in my face. “Gas,” I warned lowly, my voice breathy and agitated from the pollen in the air.
The burn of smoke filled my nostrils, the acrid taste tainted my palette as it was inhaled and passed towards my lungs, scorching the tissue. It caused a blindness beyond comparison, my eyes simultaneously watered and burned at the same time, the particles of smoke rendered my vision useless as I pushed myself upwards into a crouched position.
As I stood up, the air clung to me, thick and suffocating. It swirled around in dense, ashy clouds, isolating me from the rest of my team. I was blind beyond the haze - only vague shadows or shapes of others visible. Just me, the enemy, and the pounding in my chest. I was alone.
Without hesitation, I reached down and pulled the Kukri from its sheath strapped to my leg. The blade felt familiar, solid, and lethal in my grip. It wasn’t flashy or sophisticated—just a curved piece of sharpened steel. But it had never failed me.
This was it.
The moment that would test me, push me beyond anything I’d faced before. It was the last chance to prove that I was worth something, that I wasn’t just another body in the affray. I had to go further, dig deeper than I’d ever dared. Not just for me, but for all of us to get home and survive the night.
I gripped the Kukri tighter, the weight of it grounding me as I prowled through the smoke, listening, feeling. Moving like a predator hunting in its element, every sense focused, every muscle taut. The smoke was thick enough to suffocate, but I was used to it now. I could almost feel the enemy before I heard them, a shift in the air, the faint rustle of movement.
Then I struck.
The blade found its target—a soft spot just beneath the Kevlar vest. I plunged it deep and dragged it sideways, the resistance of muscle and organs giving way under the sharp edge. The assailant choked out a guttural noise, his body convulsing as the Kukri shredded through him, blood pouring out in hot waves washing over me. He managed to fire his weapon in reflex, and I heard the bullets slam into flesh nearby. I didn’t need to look to know at least one of us wasn’t making it out of here alive. The familiar dread settled in, but I forced it aside. No time for grief now.
Another soldier lunged at me from the side, his pistol whipping down toward my head. The impact hit hard, a sharp crack of pain exploding at my skull as stars danced in my vision. It burned, sent rage coursing through me. My knife hand was locked in his grip, my arm twisted at an awkward angle. Instinct took over—I didn’t think, I just reacted.
I rammed my forehead into his face with all the force I could muster. A sickening crunch followed as his nose shattered beneath the blow. His grip loosened slightly. That’s when I saw it—the slick, sweat-soaked skin of his neck exposed just above his collar.
This was going to suck.
Before I could second guess myself, I sank my teeth into his jugular. Hard. His blood gushed into my mouth, hot and metallic, spraying over my face and neck as I jerked my head back, tearing through flesh and muscle. He screamed—a horrible, strangled sound—before collapsing onto the ground, writhing and gasping through his last breaths. I spat out the blood and bile that clung to my lips, my pulse thundering in my ears as I wiped my face clean with the back of my hand.
I couldn’t stop.
There were too many of them there to count. After the first two, it became a blur of viscera and the hollow sound of flesh as it tore under my blade. They just kept coming — endless, faceless as they rushed towards me, each becoming more desperate than the last. I’d lost track after nine. I could barely keep myself upright, my limbs trembled from exhaustion and adrenaline as the reality started to kick in.
When the smoke finally thinned, I stood there alone, surrounded by carnage.
The stench of death was suffocating. The bodies—lifeless, twisted—were strewn around me like broken dolls. Nine men, or maybe more—I couldn’t even be sure anymore. Their faces were indistinguishable in the blood-soaked dirt, their eyes frozen in that awful, final moment. And yet here I was, still breathing, still standing. The worst part wasn’t even the blood on my hands; it was the emptiness. That hollow realization that I had survived, and all it meant was that I would carry this nightmare with me long after the smoke cleared.
I took in a deep, heaved breath as the smoke began to dissipate, revealing the shallow grave that I would soon fill with what was left of this massacre. The silence around me wasn’t peaceful— it was suffocating as it wrapped itself around my chest like a vice. Every breath I took jagged and sharp, scraping against the dread lodged in my throat whilst I blankly stared down at the disfigured remains of my team.
They didn’t look human anymore.
Just heaps of bloodied flesh underneath tattered shreds of uniform, scattered across the forst floor like discarded trash. Yet all I could do was stand there, too numb to scream or cry.
“Sarge…” Grass’ voice rasped through the choking air, his eyes wide and glazed over, pupils blown with fear and adrenaline. His hand reached out for me in blind desperation, trembling as it clawed at nothing. Dumb and Dumber were gone— No one could tell where their bodies ended and the gore began. “Sarge… I can’t see,” Grass gasped, his breath a wheeze as it rattled deep inside his chest. Each word sounded as though it tore him apart, leaving nothing but desperation behind as he called out for me. It’s not that I could do anything.
I couldn’t save him.
My voice cracked, barely more than a whisper, “I’m here…” I stumbled to my knees beside him, the mud clinging to me as though it desired to pull me down with him. My hand found his, slick and warm with blood, fingers sticky and trembling. I held on as tightly as I could. His grip was the only thing that kept me from drowning in this nightmare, “Samuel, I’m here.”
“Tell Cora…” He croaked, his voice slipping away, leaving only broken breaths and frothy spit clinging to his lips. He grimaced, shivering, his skin already losing its warmth. “Tell her… I’m sorry.”
I shut my eyes, my chest heaving, trying to swallow back the scream rising inside me. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for,” I forced out, but it was a lie. We both knew it. He was sorry. Sorry he’d never see his child, never hold that baby or kiss Cora’s cheek again. Sorry he wouldn’t be there to keep his promises. And I couldn’t change it. All I could do was listen to his apologies as the life slipped out of him. As he died in my arms, suffocating on his regrets.
And I couldn’t save him.
I was useless.
All the training, and in the end, I couldn’t even save one damn person. His body was riddled with holes, his flesh torn apart by bullets, his heart pierced beyond repair. Nothing could’ve fixed it. No amount of medical training, no act of heroism could’ve patched him up. But if I could’ve traded places with him, I would’ve done it in a heartbeat. Without a second thought.
But I couldn’t. So I did the only thing left for me to do.
I held him.
I cradled him as his life slipped away, rocking him gently in my arms like a child I never had the chance to raise. I held onto him as his breath faltered, then stopped altogether. My hand trembled as I reached beneath his collar, feeling for his dog tags. I pulled them free, holding them tightly in my fist before tucking them into my pouch. It felt like such a small thing to take when everything else was already gone.
Milk was dead by the time I reached him.
The sunburn on his cheeks had faded into a ghastly pale, his freckled nose stark against the drying blood caked to his skin. His face was half-submerged in a thick pool of his own blood, warm and sticky like it had choked the life from him. I rolled him over gently, his head lolling into my lap, eyes still open but empty. They stared up at the sky, glassy and wide, as though he were looking for something in the stars. Something I couldn’t see.
I wondered, in that moment, what kind of man he would have been if fate had been kinder. Would he have been a father? A husband? A lover? Now, it didn’t matter. All of those possibilities bled out with him, seeped into the ground beneath us, lost forever.
Now, he is doomed to haunt my memories, waiting to ambush me when I least expect it. I never got to say goodbye. Never got to say his name—he was always just “Milk” to me. Even when he took me home to meet his family, I never once called him anything else.
And now, all that’s left of him is the silence. That terrible, suffocating silence.
I cried. The hot tears scorched my face as they slipped down my cheeks whilst I cradled his body in my arms, pleading to a God who’d no longer listen to me. My words vanished into silence; No Mercy, no answer. Silence.
This was bullshit, it wasn’t fair. Death is never fucking fair. It takes and it takes and it takes until you’re left with nothing to show for it. It doesn’t make sense of who's good and who’s bad, it just takes those who least deserve it, tears your friends from you and orphans you. You end up trying to piece together the fragments of yourself that no longer exist. You live with the Ghosts of who you used to be.
It’s often said that you go through the five stages of grief when someone dies.
Yet there is no denial of what laid before me. I’d seen death before, was practically acquainted with the bastard at this point. But it’s different when it's your own— when the ones who fought beside you are reduced to nothing. My anger burned with grief, a rage I couldn’t tame. I was pissed off with myself, at the universe, at all of the injustice.
Depression and anger fused into something unbearable, coiled tightly around my chest, squeezing out any air. My head couldn’t keep up with the thoughts that ran rampant in my mind. Reality blurred with emotion, making it impossible to tell where the nightmare ended and where my failures began.
There’s no acceptance in this kind of death—it’s too vicious. It feels like a mockery of everything they stood for. How could men like them, so full of life, be taken while so many worthless bastards still walked the earth? How could the universe be so twisted?
I didn’t bargain.
I couldn’t.
I wasn’t even sure I believed in God anymore. What was there to bargain for when their bodies were stiffening at my feet? All I could do was collect their dog tags, each one heavier than the last, a chain of grief that anchored me to this cruel reality. They didn’t deserve this—none of them did.
As I gathered the tags, the numbness began to creep in. My mind shut down, unable to bear the weight of it all. But beneath it, the fear lingered—an ugly, insatiable terror. Whoever had come for us knew exactly what we’d planned, knew how to gut us from the inside. And that realization sent a shiver down my spine. I was still breathing, but for how much longer?
“Is anyone still alive?” My voice ghosted across the battlefield, the sound of it fragmented around the woods whilst an SUV pulled up at the top of the ditch I knelt in.
As if by fucking magic, or some karmic slap to the face, Alexi Volkov stood and peered into the clearing. He stared down at me, a mixture of amusement and pity across his aged features whilst his silver hair reflected the sunlight, his eyes concealed by the sunglasses he wore. Worse still, he was in a freshly laundered three-piece suit. “Well,” I laughed, tears seared down my face, “this is unfortunate.” my attempt of humour was cut short as he tutted down at me, as though I was some child he desired to scold for petty misbehaviour.
“Look at you, little lamb,” he remarked whilst he crouched to look me at almost eye level, “All of your friends are dead, yet you still stand defiant before the wolf?” the barrel of his pistol was cool as he pressed it into my forehead. I did not flinch.
If he wanted to execute me, he would have put me out of my misery already.
I shut my eyes, the lump in my throat caught on my tongue whilst I felt the warmth of the sun soothe me, “Just get it over with.” I told him, defeated.
“Where’s the fun in that? I could let you live.” his voice was mocking as he watched me, face covered in splatters of blood whilst tears streaked it down my jaw and neck. My hair frizzed around my forehead, tugged from the neat up-do by those trying to kill me.
I knew there would be conditions to my survival, I would be a fool if I believed otherwise.
The blood on my skin itched beyond comprehension, most of it had since congealed and dried against my skin like makeup. “I will never make a deal with a terrorist.” I spat back, my eyes forced open whilst I stared at him, testing him and waiting for the trigger to be squeezed by his gloved hands. “Let me die.”
He squeezed, the pistol was empty. “I’ve heard stories about you,” he started, putting a magazine into the pistol so that he was well equipped to kill me. “It would really be a shame to end the life of someone so,” his tongue clicked whilst he cocked the pistol, “magnificent” he practically crooned whilst his right hand crept within his blazer to retreat an envelope. He waved it slightly, almost as though debating passing it across to me.
“Do I look like an errand boy to you?” I asked.
A wicked smirk told me he did, he viewed me to be beneath him, to be a stain on the world and a waste of resources, “Take this to your boss, tell him El Sin Nombre is waiting.” he menacingly said, his eyes lit up with mischief, “Go now, Little Lamb,”
The envelope fell to my feet, and part of me guessed it would be filled with Anthrax. No doubt it would kill us all just because some Narcos wanted to have a little fun. But, then again, Volkov had it pressed into his chest for who-knows how long. “Before I go and deliver this,” I held the envelope up.
Volkov turned to face me, his eyes visible from the glasses he had pulled down. His eyes were charcoal pits of nothing, void of any emotion as he stared back at me, “Go on.”
“You dare call me Little Lamb one more time, an’ it’ll be your throat I tear out next,” I snarled at him. It was all I could do. There was nothing else I would be able to do which would rectify this mess and bring them back to life. So I threw mud in his face, reminded him that I would be a threat.
He didn’t acknowledge me, just counted his dead before he drove off to leave me with the remnants of my comrades.
As I waited for the exfil vehicle, I felt numb.
I couldn’t cry.
I busied myself by dragging their bodies to the roadside, apologising as I did do for the brute force it required. Once I had done that, and exfil was still nowhere to be seen, I remained sat with Milk, my hand wrapped around his. And it still was, the entire ride back to base.
“Sergeant Thompson, where the hell are the others?” General Shepherd yelled, his forehead covered in sweat and his cheeks rosy as he bounded towards me on some warpath. The American Officer was notorious amongst the British for being an arsehole. Most of us gossiped about it, even with the American Soldiers.
I carried on walking to where Lieutenant Bradford would be, sat in his tent waiting for his brother to walk in. He wouldn’t expect it to just be me.
“Sergeant, answer me when I talk to you!” he yelled, which attracted the attention of a few nearby British Soldiers who just silently watched whilst I picked up my pace and stormed towards the command centre. “I am your superior officer!” his American accent was callous as he spoke, jarring even.
A scoff escaped my lips whilst I ground to a halt, “Like fuck you are,” I turned on my heel to face the overbearing, sweaty pig of a man, “You are a Senior officer, but in no way are you superior to me or anyone else in this fucking compound.” I sternly answered, the helmet pulled from my head and then launched across the road as anger built inside me, “Fucking Yanks.” I muttered.
My hands shook as I tore the tarpaulin covering the entrance to the command centre. The envelope tucked in my vest did nothing to soothe my nerves as Vinnie’s coffee brown eyes met mine, stress lines evident on his forehead. For a moment, his brother was alive. I could see it in his face as he waited for Milk to enter the room, but the moments ticked on, and as it disappeared, so did his hope.
“Sir,” I breathed out slowly.
His fist tapped at the edge of the table, something I had seen him do when he had lost his leg and tried coming to terms with it. “Spence,” he said, not because I was dying, but he knew he had to speak in simple terms. Rip the bandage straight off.
“Jake… died.” I whispered, my eyes daren’t meet his as the silence devoured the room.
If I listened deeply enough, I could hear his heart breaking into a thousand pieces as his tormented brain pieced it together crudely. He could not grow comfortable with the idea of a world without his brother. It was as though he had lost a part of himself, yet all he could say was, “Okay.”
Before I looked at him, I would have thought he didn’t care. That his answer was neither upset nor joyous, but when I looked at him, it was evident he had started to cry. His head bowed slightly to conceal his reddened eyes and dripping nose from me, his furrowed brows and tensely set jaw made it obvious. I watched as his shoulders shook with grief, whilst the sorrow ate at him.
There were no words I could say to ease his suffering, all I knew to do was wrap him in a hug, my hand pressing his face into the crook of my neck. Whilst he towered above me in stature and status, in this moment he was reduced to a child. He clung to me, and I him whilst we both breathlessly sobbed with the understanding Jake Bradford would never make it home.
My Lieutenant leaned back, withdrawing from the hug before he picked up a cup of coffee and tipped the remnants of the drink into a nearby plant pot, “Figured you’d want a coffee, now I think you need sommat stronger,” he offered before he stood up and produced a bottle from the interior of his bureau.
Under different context, I could consider Vinnie to be handsome. He had thick brown hair that curled in the warmth of the summer air, his brown eyes reflected darkness whilst he looked at me with a sense of… longing? No. Jealously. It was a venomous type of jealousy, one that was rooted in the desire to have been there when his brother died, not me.
The air in the room changed, and I no longer felt welcomed. “I had a run-in with our good mate Volkov,” I remarked, my hands reached for the space between my body armour and my chest, prising the manila folder from within. It was crumpled, conformed to the shape of my body, “I know I’m as good as fired, but please let me at least be the one to kill that fucker.” my voice wavered. A beg.
Reality set in as he took the folder from my hands and opened it, “He’s gone to a lot of trouble to get this to me.” he stated, soullessly. “Look, I know you wanna see him die, but you’re not staying here. Shepherd’s decided to send you to another task force.”
What?
I knew what he meant. He meant this other task force, only one that was notorious for a high mortality rate. The higher powers, God or whatever you believed in, would not be able to save us here. Task Force 141— An elite operational team comprised of only the best the British Military had to offer. They were menacing, faceless and lawless, life and liberty taken into their own hands.
They moved silently, coveted by darkness and doused in high-tech equipment. The 141 were Legends, something every soldier aspired to be a part of.
A bitter laugh left my throat, “May as well start digging me a grave,”
“Spencer, I suggest you clean up and get rid of that attitude.” A half smile. When Vinnie half smiled, it was never good. It was resentful and full of regret whenever this man half smiled. He did it to offer pity or even offer an animal one last friendly face before ending its suffering, “But first, you’ve got a lot of explaining to do, and a lot of reports you need to write.
By the time I had finished explaining to an entire board of senior officers, and the bastard that was General Shepherd, why I was the sole survivor, I was exhausted. I didn't even have time to shower off before I was being put on a plane with the coffins and sent first class back to the UK. There was, however, a shower on board, which I had been permitted to use.
The water pressure was shit, to say the least, but my body needed whatever water it could get in order to clean myself from the blood and mud and shit that coated my skin and darkened my complexion beyond what was tolerable. Water spread across my aching shoulders and dripped down the valley of my breasts, I could hear the other Soldiers outside, the ones that had time to dress into their smartest uniform and groom themselves to an acceptable standard before the procedure had begun.
I allowed myself to wash my hair, I scrubbed my scalp raw, my fingers coming away with heaps of hair in it, probably due to the stress I felt whilst out here in the Middle East. I shampooed the best I could, and that's when I dropped the bottle. My heart rate flooded my ears with a cacophony of rushing blood, my hands balled into fists and started to shake violently whilst I fought to regain control. It was just shampoo, just a stupid bottle that had caused me to overreact. I could feel everything I was touching, the roughness of the anti-slip mat under the balls of my feet, the water clinging to every part of my skin, the damp hair suffocating my neck.
I picked the bottle up and threw it, the small travel sized item rattled into its death in the sink, and I was still shaking.
It's fine. It's fine, you're okay. The words I repeated in my head managed to ground me to the present moment, and the feelings subsided. It was normal, I was okay. I was fucking fine.
Without another incident, I finished up my shower and dressed into my smartest uniform, the Army green jacket itching my neck as I straightened my posture. I cemented my hair to my scalp with hair gel and forced a smile in the mirror. I looked fine. It's fine. It's fine, you're okay. I repeated.
If only that mission had killed me, the rest of this story would never have happened. And I’d have never met Simon Riley.