Page 22 of Misery In Me

GAGE

The air smells like smoke, gunpowder, and blood. There’s no other way to describe it. It’s thick, suffocating—the smell that sticks to your clothes, your skin, and the inside of your lungs. My ears are still ringing from the explosion, the gunfire—everything coming at us too fast. Too hard. The shockwave of the blast sent me sprawling, but I can’t tell if I’m still on the ground or if I’m standing. I’m still holding my rifle, but the world’s moving in slow motion around me, everything spinning and shifting. There’s a tightness in my chest, a sharp burning sensation in my side, but the worst part is the panic I feel clawing at the edges of my mind.

The ambush came out of nowhere.

It was supposed to be a simple reconnaissance mission. We were supposed to be in and out, tracking a high-level target who had been skirting the edge of our area of operations for too long. But they were ready for us. They knew we were coming. And now, we’re left in the middle of a firefight, taking on a force that’s far too large for our team to handle head-on.

I don’t know how long it’s been. Minutes? Hours? It doesn’t matter. The moment McMahon went down, everything turnedinto chaos. I saw him take the round—straight to the side of his neck—and saw him hit the ground with that final, fatal thud. He didn’t even have time to scream.

I try to shake the memory off, but it sticks to me. He’s gone. One of the best we had.

I fight to focus, to ignore the blood seeping from the gash in my side. I know I have to get up. My team’s counting on me. They need me. But the pain is sharp and jagged, and it keeps pulling me back down. I bite down on the inside of my cheek, forcing my body to move and my legs to push me upright.

“Donovan!” It’s Morales, his voice cutting through the haze of ringing in my ears. “Donovan, talk to me, man!”

I blink, trying to clear the fuzziness from my vision. I see him crouched down beside me, looking at me with eyes that say everything without needing words. There’s panic in his gaze, but I don’t have time for that. I’ve lost too many men already. I don’t want to be next.

“I’m still breathing, Morales,” I grunt, my voice rough and dry. It feels like gravel scraping against the inside of my throat.

Morales doesn’t bother with a response. Instead, he gets right to work, pulling out a trauma bandage and pressing it against my side. The pressure is cold and immediate, and I wince, my vision blurring for a second before I force myself to stay alert.

I feel the tightness in my chest worsen, a vice closing around me. My fingers shake, but I force them to grip the rifle again. I need to get back to the fight. But first, I need to check on the team.

“McMahon…” I say, struggling to get the words out. “Is he?—”

“He’s gone,” Morales says quietly, without looking up from where he’s working on my wound. His voice is low, resigned. “I couldn’t save him, Gage. I tried, but...”

I hear the rest of his words in the silence. It’s done. McMahon is gone, and there’s nothing we can do to bring him back. A pit forms in my stomach, and it has nothing to do with the injury I’m fighting to ignore. McMahon was family. A good guy, a better Marine. And now he’s not here.

I pull in a ragged breath and push myself to my knees, gripping the side of the vehicle we’ve taken cover behind. “What’s the situation?”

Morales glances down at me. His eyes are dark with exhaustion, but there’s no time for hesitation. “We’re not getting out of here without reinforcements. We’ve been compromised, and the enemy’s too damn close.” His voice hardens. “We need to get the hell out of dodge before we lose anyone else.”

I can’t argue with him. The mission’s gone sideways. And we’re not going to make it without serious backup. But I don’t want to leave McMahon like that.

I force myself to stand, the world spinning a little as I steady myself. My ribs scream, but I don’t have the luxury of feeling it right now. “We pull back to the extraction point,” I order, my voice tight. “I’ll make the call. We get out. Now.”

There’s no argument, no back-and-forth. My team’s been through enough to know when to listen and when to act. We move quickly, retracing our steps through the heavy brush, staying low and silent. My mind is running at a thousand miles an hour, trying to process everything, trying to figure out what comes next. McMahon is gone. I’m still here. We all are, but that could change in the next five minutes.

The firefight is still raging behind us, and I know we’re not out of the woods yet. But I keep moving, pushing through the pain, focusing on the next step. The extraction point is close, but I’m not sure if we’re going to make it. Not with the way things are going.

We’re less than fifty yards from the extraction point when it happens.

A second ambush. The enemy’s waiting for us. They must’ve been tracking us the whole time.

I don’t see it coming. All I hear is the scream of gunfire, the sharp crack of an assault rifle, and then something slams into my side. It’s not enough to drop me right away, but the impact sends me reeling, and my rifle flies from my hands as I stumble, trying to regain my balance.

There’s no time to think. No time to react. I hit the ground hard, pain flaring throughout my body. I feel the blood welling up again, soaking into my shirt, but I don’t have time to worry about that.

I hear shouting, but everything is muffled, like I’m underwater. I see Morales moving toward me, his face a blur of urgency, but I can’t focus. The pain is overwhelming now, and I can barely keep my eyes open.

I feel hands pulling at me, trying to drag me back to safety, but the world is slipping from my grip.

Not yet.

I force myself to stay conscious, to stay in the moment. My men need me.

My daughter needs me.

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