"This is not good... this is not good!" The panicked words came from a private, fresh out of SF school, his voice trembling with despair. "No one's responding to our radio calls! LT, what the fuck do we do now?!" a corporal bellowed, his voice straining to rise above the relentless hammering of gunfire raining down on their position. "Op is compromised—switch to the main channel and send mayday. I don’t think there’s anyone else left on the shadow channel," I said, keeping my voice steady despite the chaos.

  "They knew we were coming… How the hell did they know we were coming?" the first sergeant growled, a mix of anger and despair in his voice. I was asking myself the same question. This was an off-the-books operation, deep in hostile territory. Legally, we weren’t even supposed to be here. No one outside a handful of senior officers and the men on this mission should have known about it. So, who the hell leaked the intel? "The fuck... LT, I can't get on the main," the first sergeant said, his voice tense. Blood rushed from my face. "What the hell do you mean you can't get on the main channel?" I snapped. "The bloody radio—it's busted! I can't switch frequencies!" My stomach twisted into a knot. We were completely cut off.

  "GRENADE!!"

  Somebody screamed the warning as a 40-mike-mike from a launcher arced into our position. The moment stretched, a split-second of terrible clarity. We ran. The explosion ripped through the air before most of us could take cover. It wasn't a standard HE round—it hit harder, felt sharper, something different. One of those prototype rounds. One of the many reasons we were in this shitshow to begin with.

  I tried to move, but something was wrong. I couldn’t feel my left arm. Or my leg.

  Gone.

  I was on the ground. Smoke. Screams. Blood. Last seven men standing from my team of twenty-five. Or was it twenty to begin with? I couldn't even remember anymore. What I did remember was the bodies. The ones it killed instantly. The ones still screaming. Two of my men were still on their feet, trying to fight back, but we were overrun. I saw it happen. The private—the new kid—his face disappeared in a burst of red as a rifle round punched through his skull. The corporal went down screaming, his body convulsing under a storm of automatic fire. There was nothing left but death.

  Then I heard them. "Is it all of them?" Someone asked in a foreign accent. "Let me check first." A voice I knew. One that sent ice down my spine. Footsteps crunched toward me. I could still hear the occasional shots being fired. Finishing off the wounded. Someone stood over me. I couldn’t make out his face, then he squatted down, and I saw him clearly. The brigadier, he smirked. "You’re one persistent fucking cockroach, aren’t you, Lieutenant?" He raised his pistol and pressed it to my forehead. "So long, Lieutenant." I exhaled, accepting it. Damn…. I brought this on myself.

  Since the day I joined the army, I’d been a pain in the ass for my senior officers. Always butting heads with them, calling them out for being incompetent pieces of shit. I wouldn’t say I was the best officer. The best leader. But I was respected by the enlisted men under my command. I stood up for them. And because of that, I was never liked among my peers. They made sure I would never get promoted. It was a miracle I even made it to Second Lieutenant. I believed if you did the right thing, no matter how bad the situation, it would work out in the end.

  This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Man… how stupid I was.

  They transferred me from one unit to another. From one base to another. Always the worst assignments. I went through recon school. Then SF school. Earned my badge. At least that went well. And then, somewhere along the way, I met a girl. Was it a club? A bar? I couldn't even remember anymore. What I do remember is that we drank, had fun, went back to her place. Then there were more dates. A lot more. Eventually, I proposed. We got married. And just like that, she became part of my idealistic, fucked-up life. Every time I got transferred, she begged me. "Please… don’t do something stupid. Don’t make enemies with your CO. Even if he’s the most incompetent motherfucker you’ve ever met—just let it go." But I never listened. I always ignored her. I kept fighting battles I couldn’t win. Kept screwing up both of our lives at the same time. "Honey, please… I can’t keep living like this. Our lives aren’t supposed to be this way… please." She begged me. Every damn time. And every damn time, I ignored her. Because ‘a man should be true to his ideals’ How stupid can one man be.

  First, I was deployed to a non-hostile base near a city, where families were allowed. We were close, Argued sometimes. But it was okay. Then came a shit base in the middle of nowhere. Our arguments turned into fights. Then I was deployed to hostile territory. No leave for months, sometimes almost a year. Somewhere along the way, we started growing apart. A part of me knew our marriage was over. But I denied it. Until one day, I got unexpected leave. I wanted to surprise her. Walked into our house. Saw her kissing another man.

  I lost it.

  She tried to calm me down, but it was too late. I don’t even remember how many times I hit him. But the aftermath?

  Dislocated jaw, Fractured skull, and Shattered ribs.

  Not something I’m proud of. One ugly fucking divorce.

  After ruining my marriage and barely dodging criminal charges, I threw myself into my work—because the only other option was drinking myself into oblivion. Day in, day out, it was the same routine: work, barracks, repeat. No purpose, no direction—just grinding through each day, too numb to care. I thought I had hit rock bottom. But I was too blind to see that my worst mistake was still ahead of me—one I had walked straight into, all on my own.

  One day, I had nothing to do, and the boredom was eating me alive. So I decided to hit the range. I headed to the armory, where a lone quartermaster was on duty. He snapped to attention as I entered. I waved him at ease and asked for a DMR. He nodded and disappeared into the back to retrieve it. As I waited, my eyes drifted across the room and landed on a fresh shipment of gear.

  That’s when I saw them—the new prototype rifles. Sleek, futuristic-looking, designed to fire some cutting-edge sci-fi ammunition. Part of a classified project aimed at revolutionizing infantry combat. I never understood the exact science behind it, but what I did know was this: greater range, devastating stopping power, lighter, sturdier platforms—hell, even the recoil was somehow absorbed on its own. And it wasn’t just rifles. The shipment included mortars, LMGs, HMGs, grenades, even new body armor. All of it distributed to SF regiments for field testing.

  Then I noticed the manifest lying on the table. Just out of curiosity, I picked it up. Wanted to see what else they had sent us.

  That single moment—one casual decision—would turn out to be the worst mistake of my life.

  “The fuck?” I muttered, frowning as I scanned the manifest again. The numbers didn’t add up. The rifles in the crates were fewer than listed. The ammo count was off too—several boxes missing. That’s when the quartermaster returned, rifle in hand. "Here’s your rifle, Lieutenant. How much ammo do you need?" he asked. I ignored his question. "Where’s the rest of the rifles and ammunition?" "Sorry?" His voice wavered. Something was off. I met his eyes, my tone turning sharp. "The prototype rifles and ammunition—where are they?". Something wasn’t right. And for the first time in a long time, I had a very bad feeling.