Page 18 of The Way We Fell

His volume rises as he reaches the end of his monologue, his breathing heavier. I reach out and grab his flailing hand across the table, squeezing his fingers tight. His eyes are wide and wild, his shoulders rising and falling rapidly with quick, steady breaths. I watch helplessly as his eyes begin to glaze over and he falls away from me, spiralling somewhere deep in a memory I can only imagine he doesn’t want to relive.

“A good man,” I say. “An honourable man. One who served his country and who was ready to come home. You’re a good man, Jay. What you saw, what you did—no one should have to do or see that shit. But you did, and I don’t blame you for wanting to forget it.”

His hand trembles in mine, and the strain on his face tells me he’s working hard to keep his breathing even and steady. I bring my other hand to the table, holding his trembling hand in both of mine. I hold his eyes and force my breathing to remain steady, silently encouraging him to match it. I never lose my grip—on his hand, his eyes, his breath. When we first met, something about him told me he needed me, and maybe this is the moment. It takes a minute, but his breathing finally slows and his face and shoulders relax. He flexes his fingers in my hand, twisting it to grab mine in his.

“Thank you,” he whispers. The mask has gone. Suddenly, he’s not Jay, the quietly guarded army veteran, my best friend’s brother anymore. He’s a beautiful, tortured, vulnerable man with eyes the colour of molten chocolate and depth to rival the oceans. I seeJay, the man.

And he makes my heart skip a beat.

Chapter eight

Jay

“Bestofthree?”Ihold out my fist again, ready for another round of rock, paper, scissors. The cab of the van is nicely warm, and the world outside is grey, the air chilled and heavy with drizzle. Aaron, my partner for the day, tilts his head, a small smirk playing on his full lips, and then he offers a fist, bouncing it on an outstretched palm before showing me two fingers in a scissor imitation.Fuck. He uses them to snip at my open palm before I can pull my hand away.

“Fuck’s sake.”

“Out you get,” he laughs. “I’ll do the bank, if you want.”

“The bank is entirely enclosed,” I grumble. The van will be parked in a secure, underground bay beneath the building for our last stop of the day, so while security is still paramount, the stakes are just a little lower. And neither one of us has to go out in the rain. I climb from the passenger seat into the cargo space in the back and stretch my arms out in front of me, rolling my shoulders. I run my finger along the caged boxes and select everything with the name of the next drop. I tuck them into a metal case and put the case into a small tube on the van’s wall, before grabbing the rest of my uniform from a small shelf.

Helmet. Gloves. Chain.

I clip one end of the chain to my belt as I hop out of the van.Vanis a bit of an understatement. It’s more like a five-ton truck, armoured and modified for cash in transit, filled with locked boxes in cages, and closely tracked. I round the vehicle, unlock the small side door to spin a rotunda and retrieve the briefcase, before clipping it to the belt chain. I clutch the case in my gloved hand, mindful of the timer that began counting down when I left the van, and turn left, weaving through pedestrian traffic as quickly as I can manage as I make my way towards the clothing store. The constant twisting and turning and changing of direction have my leg aching before I’m even halfway there, and I slow my pace a little.

We make this stop four times a week, and over the last couple of weeks, I’ve come to know the staff pretty well. There’s a pretty blonde who’s always humming some pop song I’ve never heard before, and two young men with an earring each and jeans they must paint themselves into every morning. The blonde always gives me two bottles of water—one for me, one for whoever I’m sharing the van with that day—and one of the guys usually sneaks a chocolate or two into my pocket with a salacious wink.

Despite knowing that I’ll be hit on by men and women twenty years younger than me, it’s one of my favourite stops on the route, and I walk with as much of a spring in my step as I can muster, unusually looking forward to a lively chat whilst I exchange their takings for the bagged cash in my briefcase.

My helmet is heavy on my head as I swing my gaze steadily, an eye on everything in my periphery, and my other four senses working overtime on everything else.

Until there’s a loud crash.

It echoes around me like a bomb blast and I lose my footing, stumbling forwards against the shockwave.Ambush.I never even saw it coming. I bring my rifle up, gripping it with both hands as I raise it out in front of me. And then there’s yelling, and I’m stuck, and my weapon is caught on something and I can’t get it free and I’m falling. I’m falling.

I’mf a l l i n g—

I have to get out. I have to get to safety. I have to get us all to safety. My mouth is full of sand and I can’t swallow, I can’t breathe, I can’tsee. It’s just noise. Crashing and yelling, yelling and crashing, and the pain as my body impacts the ground over and over and over.

Something hits my ribs and knocks all the wind out of my lungs. The visor on my helmet cracks as it impacts the ground and that explosion happens again, plumes of dust flying up around me. It’s in my ears and my nose and I still can’t fucking breathe.

Helicopter rotors whir above me, kicking up dust and white noise. I have tunnel vision. The smallest sliver of light guides me as I commando-crawl towards it, but I’m still falling. I’m still being hit. This fucking rifle is still caught on something and I can’t pull it free, no matter which way I turn. Explosions are still crashing around me, the sound echoing in my ears, and the yelling, oh god, theyelling.

There’s a metallic taste in my mouth and it turns my stomach. I swallow against the sand and dirt, trying to rid myself of the urge to vomit. Bile rises in my throat and I force it down.Not now, not now, not now.It’s not the first time we’ve been here. But it’s the first time they’ve been this close. I’m dragging myself and the first of my brothers I can reach.

Everything around us is burning, crackling and howling in my ears, the scarred landscape in flames as I crawl on my belly through a muddy creek. It’s like crawling through wet cement. They’re close enough to touch, almost on top of me, and I fling out an arm, fist closed, one sharp jab. It collides with something solid, something that grazes my knuckles and leaves them bloodied. I know there’s a jeep nearby, if only I can reach it. I can hear its engine idling somewhere in the fray.

And then I’m being pulled to my knees, into the vehicle. I’m in, I’m free… but I’m not. I take another blow to the ribs. What in the mother fucking holy hell is going on? Where the fuck am I? Where is my team? We all jumped together. I saw everyone’s parachute open as we floated down. Where are my men? Caleb was right beside me.

Get me out, get me out, get me out. I don’t want to be here anymore.

I want to go home. I want to argue with my sister. I want to eat my mum’s cooking, I want a boring office job and a boring house and a boring car and a boring life. I want to be ten years old again, when nothing mattered except what snack I’d choose when I got home from school. I just want to gohome.

Another explosion.This one is close, far too close for comfort. It rings in my ears; the shockwave rattles my bones and shakes every muscle. I’m flying. I’m falling. And why does it smell like burning rubber? Am I having a stroke?

Why am I upside down?

Why is it so dark?

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