Thicker Than Water

"Chamo, my fucking guardian angel." Spurrio moves to put his back against the outhouse building wall.

"Copy," I reply austerely. I focus on aiming...and breathing.

The two guards walking between the main building and the presumed outhouse presently have their backs to Spurrio, who is a pretty candid presence despite slinking along the wall. He slowly encloses on them, his steps quiet and covertly trained. The guards talk amongst themselves, adding to his stealth.

The two by the front gate have their backs turned to the others and the whole of the outpost, thus facing the entrance they're guarding and the wilderness beyond. The two in front of the barracks are absorbed in conversation, their lines-of-sight focused on each other and occasionally the ground. The lone and last of the guards standing on the stoop of the main building with a Hawk shotgun in his hands is slowly sweeping his gaze right to left—that is, barracks to outhouse. Much like the spotlights, it seems that his eyes will likely be the things that ultimately blow Spurrio's cover.

And then my fellow Talon is upon the two ambling guards in front of him.

One-handing the Vektor in his left hand, his right draws a combat knife from its thigh sheath, plunging six inches of serrated carbon steel into the side of a guard's jugular. Blood fountains into the air to his right, and his voice is forfeited. At the same time, I drop the other guard before he has any idea what's happened, with a precise shot to the left side of his chest, just under his arm midstride. The large-caliber .408 provides ample stopping power, killing him instantly and with less mess than a headshot.

You're welcome, Spurrio.

The Talon squats and sheaths the knife, Vektor in both hands, prepared to return any alarmed enemy fire.

But, there is none.

Just silence and distant chatter coming from the idly unfazed guards by the barracks and the front gate.

"Six left...and then—oh shit, wait!" my whisper cuts off harsh and just as the guard on the outpost stoop spots Spurrio twenty feet to his left, I align the CheyTac's crosshairs. I squeeze the trigger before his voice can spurt from his mouth. The bullet enters this same orifice, splattering his brains all over the stoop and the double-doors behind him. Unfortunately, the .408 didn't stop or disintegrate with the man's skull, so it impacted the doors and penetrated them easily.

This wasn't a loud incident, but whoever was behind those doors would be immediately alerted.

Spurrio realized this without openly acknowledging it, simply saying "thanks, Oil" through his earpiece and gaining haste. He rushed the front doors of the building, standing to the side with his back to the wall, like a predator lying in wait for its prey to come rushing by unbeknownst.

Meanwhile I took care of the guards by the barracks, which was easier said than done. I knew I had four rounds left in this magazine, and even though I'm fast with the bolt-action feed, I wasn't certain I could nail the second hostile before he got a word out.

I try.

The first one went down, gore from the gruesome headshot covering his comrade's face, temporarily blinding him. He let out a croak of stunned awe as I cycled the bolt and chambered a fresh .408 round, adjusting my aim by mere centimeters through the scope. The guard raised his MSMC submachine-gun with no idea where the shot came from, and that's about all the chance he got before I squeezed the trigger. The CheyTac's recoil was pretty substantial, but with the corpulent suppressor its typically booming report was but a susurrant grunt.

Considering the effect the weapon had, this was outstanding tech.

The guard went down satisfactorily, clueless as to who or what killed him, let alone from where exactly, and most importantly—without alerting the remaining two guards by the front gate.

So far, a success in stealth.

Unfortunately, that was about to end.

As I aligned the scope and, accordingly, the CheyTac's barrel in my still-prone position, ready as ever to eliminate the last two guards by the front gate with the last two rounds from this magazine—

The outpost's front doors burst open and out poured three armed hostiles with INSAS assault rifles and one MSMC, to Spurrio's right, shouting in alert. Spurrio easily mowed down two of them with his suppressed Vektor, riddling their unarmored bodies with a relentless.45-caliber barrage. The third guard pivoted and knelt, surprisingly nimble for a Cambodian gunman in the middle of the jungle, raucously spraying his Uzi rip-off in Spurrio's direction. The Talon, however, was far defter; he rolled off the sidewalk that bridged the outpost stoop to the structure behind him, controllably tumbling across the dirt.

Concurrent to this havoc, I put down one of the two guards by the front gate with an easy shot, but the second went amiss due to distraction of Spurrio's endangerment. I hastily reloaded the CheyTac, ejecting the spent magazine and fumbling with a new one. I use the word fumble loosely; I was merely less dexterous and smooth with it than I had been in the past, or in preparing for this mission days ago. Finally I slammed it home and cycled the bolt, expending the last spent shell which trailed a curl of smoke, chambering a fresh .408 and returning my eye to the scope's lens.

In those three seconds I spent reloading, a lot had gone down.

Two of which were the MSMC-wielding gunman on the stoop and the other—Spurrio. He had apparently killed the guard on the stoop, but now his Vektor laid on the ground out of his reach and he rolled back-n-forth clutching his side. I couldn't spot any blood, but in the intermittent darkness from the cycling unmanned spotlights, it wasn't really prominent. Nor did I quite have the time.

Spurrio's shooter was the surviving guard at the front gate, who now cautiously but ominously approached him with an INSAS hipped.

In spite of all the action and tenseness that had transpired over the last minute—if it had even been that long since Spurrio infiltrated the perimeter—we hadn't exchanged any words during. This was likely a smart decision considering the pressure of remaining focused, let alone quiet in the moments leading up to the alert gunfight.

Even now, no words were shared between us.

That said, my mouth started to move and offer Spurrio a means of reassurance as I placed my crosshairs on the approaching hostile, but I was interrupted.

"Hold. This motherfucker's mine."

Spurrio's fourth word was punctuated by him springing to his knees nimbler than expected for his size, drawing that hefty Taurus revolver like a fucking gunslinger. It went off with a thunderous report, blowing a sizeable hole through the guard's chest, knocking him back but somehow still on his feet. A second shot from the revolver struck him in his shoulder, spinning him like a top before he fell and eventually bled out.

Relief.

I took a much needed breath, eye away from the scope's lens to blink a few times and readjust. When I returned to it, I saw Spurrio get to his feet clutching his side. The gunshots he'd taken appeared to have gotten him in the ballistic vest he and I wore, a sturdy yet flexible Kevlar. But that didn't mean the impacts don't hurt like hell.

"Solid?" I asked simply.

"Copy. Vest stopped 'em. Lucky me—"

The door to the barracks building on Spurrio's right—he'd stood facing the front gate, essentially my direction—suddenly burst open. Out funneled three hostiles wearing T-shirts and white underwear, not to mention expressions of panic. They must have woken at the sound of gunfire, albeit a little belated, and their lingering grogginess from being asleep was a flaw that would follow them into death. Between the three of them they wielded two pistols and one MSMC. I capped the one with the submachine-gun first, just below the ear, my .408 sufficient for the kill. The other two screamed and scattered, firing at Spurrio with their pistols and absolutely no aim. He dropped to his knee and opened up with the Taurus Raging Bull. Again the hefty stainless steel revolver boomed in the night, erratically illuminated by the cycling spotlights when not by its own plume of muzzle flash. Spurrio's first two shots were quick; one in the leg of a hostile before he accepted the recoil to climb his aim, and the second struck the wounded man in the stomach. He fell backwards, pistol tumbling out of his hand, likely to bleed out within the minute. The third hostile from the barracks stumbled all on his own, but only because of that was missed by my shot from the CheyTac. Spurrio took care of him, empting his revolver into the man's center mass.

It had been an unexpected foray that ultimately lasted less than thirty seconds, but definitely took us by surprise nonetheless. This only added to our accumulating fatigue, but as it were the mission wasn't over yet and we had a task to complete.

TWO

"Reloading," Spurrio said, and I watched him through the CheyTac scope as he ejected the moon-clip from his Taurus only to load another, holster the revolver, retrieve his Vektor, and reload it as well. With both hands on the sturdy sub-machinegun, he turned his back and proceeded toward the central outpost building, whose double-doors atop the stoop hung open but unoccupied. As he summited the stoop and peered in using only his vision and not yet his body, Spurrio paused to speak a single word that left me on high alert and anticipation: "Advancing."

"Copy. Use caution." It was all I could say, SOP really, however no-shit-Sherlock obvious it was. Standard operating procedure, call it whatever you want, I call it common sense.

I'm sure Spurrio said something along those lines in his head after I voiced it, too.

Regardless, he'd take it to heart all the same, vigilantly entering the building with Vektor shouldered.

His task was simple, but mine was simpler: to cover his back and make sure nobody entered the building behind him. Considering the elimination of hostiles in the area as far as our scrupulous eyes could see, there really shouldn't be any more surprises. But that still left all of the jungle up to interpretation; for all we knew, there could be perimeter patrols attentive to the sound of gunfire and cautiously making their way back to base. Meanwhile I couldn't help but regard a hunch that suggested someone was playing coward inside the outhouse, but there was no certainty so long as I remained in my current position.

Which was just what I had to do. Lie and wait.

Spurrio's duty, on the other hand, involved more motion and caution. As he infiltrated the outpost building, in addition to clearing-and-securing it—that is, neutralizing any lingering hostiles—he needed to locate the 'package' we were here for. According to Intel, the easiest method of retrieval would be absconding with the hard-drive itself, removed from a central processing server somewhere in the structure. I knew Spurrio wasn't that tech-savvy, but there was a reason we spent the last forty-eight hours in a Thailand-based Agency training facility. Preparation for such a mission was key, and it didn't just involve getting our combat nerves up to par after previous missions and erratic R&R. Due to my seniority and approach to retirement, I got a lot more 'break-time' than most Talons, but also unlike them, I tended to value mine more. The majority of the younger Talons, as much as they loved being with their girlfriends or partying and whatnot, were typically adrenaline-junkies that savored combat more than anything else. Like I said earlier, I had days—years, really—spent with that mindset. But this time has passed me, and it isn't just an age thing; it's a family factor.

Again, I stopped myself from getting distracted.

I focused on focusing.

Simultaneously, somewhere inside the outpost building, Spurrio navigated his way toward the objective. And it wasn't long before I heard the echoes of gunfire, however staccato and brief. Since his SMG was suppressed like my rifle, this meant the gunshots came from a hostile source. I waited to hear confirmation that Spurrio hadn't been shot or at least was still alive, but nothing. Just silence. Then I started to speak, realizing I should've asked immediately, and hated that I had gotten distracted...

As if there was even anything I could've done from here.

"Hostiles neutralized," Spurrio's voice, healthy and keen, came in through my earpiece. He then added with a bitter mumble: "Fucking campers."

I couldn't help but smirk with satisfaction. "Copy. And the package?"

"Eyes are open. Still looking."

"Copy." As I said this, movement caught my peripheral vision, and I shifted the scope along with the rest of the rifle.

There—I fucking knew it.

The door to the outhouse building opened and a hostile inched into the open, gawking at the aftermath of mayhem in the area. All of the bodies and blood—moreover important to him was that they weren't the enemy. Which meant that whoever had done this—Spurrio and I, unbeknownst to him—was still in the vicinity. But how many was there? This man was clueless, as discernible on his face. All he had was a 9mm Cordova pistol, like the other two from the barracks, but dissimilar to them he was pure cowardice. He had been hiding in the outhouse, alert to the gunfire but too craven to investigate until everything had died down. Literally. Now he slinked outside, slowly approaching the outpost building, completely unaware that I had my sights on him...

Just as he raised the pistol in the direction of the outpost's gaping front doors—as if he had someone dead to rights—I squeezed the trigger. His skull misted the side of the building, body dropping like a sack of potatoes.

I cycled the bolt and spoke in a firm whisper.

"Hostile neutralized."

"He came from the shitter, didn't he?" Spurrio said simply.

"Copy."

A guttural sigh came over the COM link. "I fuckin' knew it."

"Secured the package yet?"

"Copy. C4 armed, ETA three minutes. Five with cushion."

"Copy. Holding." I took a breath and removed my eye from the scope's lens for a moment's relief. As I put it back, something made me pause. A sound from behind me; like a twig snapping or...bark crunching.

I withdrew my hands from the bipod-propped CheyTac and rolled onto my back in time to see a Cambodian patrol with an INSAS in his hands—the weapon aimed at my head. I swear, in that split-second I stared right into its barrel and faced death without flinching. I felt more submission than fear. However, it was only the first of two split-seconds; in the next, I acted, because I knew I wasn't going to give up so easily. If ever at all.

Not when I have something to live for.

My right leg kicked out, thankfully not fully extended as it were. The treaded sole of my boot struck the man in the knee so hard that it snapped back, compound fracturing his tibia through the top half of his calf. Blood misted the night-cloaked fallen tree upon which we stood. Well, upon which I rested supine while he fell screaming. The searing pain from his floppy leg would've distracted most men from my presence, but instead the goddamn patrol fell onto me. Moreover, he still had quite some fight in him, wrestling with me and snarling like a rabid dog.

I grabbed a handful of his lapels and drove my forehead into his. The pain wasn't necessarily mutual, but I did retain a surge of dizziness. I don't know what I did to get jumped by this mad-dog Cambodian patrol, but fucking hell he was ruthless.

Although he'd dropped the INSAS completely off the side of the raised yet fallen tree that I occupied for overwatch, he wasn't entirely disarmed. I had years and brute strength over him, but somehow he still managed to overpower me. The head-butt didn't do much, so I reached for my holstered pistol. The man's fist drove into my nose, busting it and dropping my head back with a whack. My hand fell shy as the pain in my face and the dizziness intensified. I raised my legs to kick and knee, but the patrol had straddled my abdomen so that my legs were rendered useless.

I managed to elbow him a few times to get some space between us, and then reached for my abdominally-sheathed knife.

My head was suddenly squeezed by the man's hands before being lifted and driven back down into the tree trunk. Hard. Once, twice...

Senses started to fail me. My vision blurred and perception spiraled as if being sucked down a drain. Hearing distorted.

Three, four times the man slammed the back of my head into the bark.

If there was a fifth time, I didn't feel it.

My whole world went black.

My eyes open. I'm in bed and I feel somewhere between great and really fucking good. My body is relaxed, my mind swimming in a state of placidity. I yawn and ache for more sleep, although I know being awake in certain company is even better.

I look to the left and see her standing beside my bed, leaning over me. Her hands are on my shoulders, and I realize she has shaken me awake. Her long black hair dangles in my face, subtly tickling but in a sort of soothing way.

A smile occupies my face.

"What...what're you doing here?" I ask groggily.

"You were making weird sounds in your sleep."

"Oh...just a nightmare." I take a breath and glance around my bedroom. The lights are on, but dimmed. I look back at her and reach out to cup her cheek, subsequently brushing a lock of her hair over her ear. "But now it's just a regular dream."

"You're silly," she giggles, and then makes a pinching gesture with her left hand. "And just a bit too sweet."

I smile. "One of those might be true."

She laughs and leans back, turning away from the bed. She's about 5'6" with pale skin and colorful tattoos from shoulder to elbow on both arms, plus a small one on her right oblique, and her earlobes are gauged with small hollow silver plugs. She's wearing a black tanktop with spaghetti straps and matching panties.

But I don't let this mirage of beauty get too far away.

I reach out and snag her hand, giving a gentle tug. She stumbles back to the side of the bed, dramatically as if I'd lassoed her. Or perhaps she, too, is groggy.

"I didn't wake you, did I?"

"You kinda did," she admits, albeit smiling a touch.

"Damn. Well...you can go back to sleep, if I can."

"Is that a deal?" she asks, cutely pensive.

I simply shrug, but don't release her hand. She finally lets out this soft chuckle and climbs onto the bed, crossing over me on all fours. She curls up to my right, snuggling close to me with her head on my chest. She crosses her right leg over my knees and gets comfortable. I can tell her eyes are already shut and slumber is on the horizon—at least for her.

At this point that's all that matters.

I curl my right arm around her back and squeeze her bicep.

"Goodnight, daddy," she exhales.

"Goodnight, Lyssa. Sweet dreams, baby."

"You, too."

I smile contentedly down at her placid face, now not wanting to shut my eyes.

But eventually I do, and a familiar darkness envelops me.

"Considering you just got knocked the fuck out," Spurrio's voice was the first I heard as I crawled out of unconsciousness. And it wasn't in my earpiece; he was standing over me, extending a hand to help me to my feet. "You're smiling awfully big."

My smile, which I hadn't realized occupied my face, dispersed.

I took Spurrio's offered hand and stood up with his assistance. My head spun but at least I was conscious and not terribly sick or wounded.

I patted down my body, thankful for feeling no bullet or stab wounds. There was, however, a wet warmth running down my nape. I reached to the back of my head and cringed upon feeling the wound there.