The Brit was inches from asking another question when the gate-man waved them on and the battered Toyota farted its way into drive, belching and complaining past a network of potholes until it hit a relatively straight chunk of asphalt.

“Only a few minutes now, jefe,” Manny said. “The PPA’s forward position is about five minutes out. You’ll be in ‘the shit’ then. Or at least shit-adjacent.”

The journalist’s face washed over in an even mix of anxiety and pride. One of the first lessons Manny had learned at this job was that phrases like “the shit” made rich gringo writers unreasonably excited. And excited journalists always called Manny the next time they were in-country. Giving white kids in keffiyahs a lifetime of bragging rights for surviving a couple days in his home killed his soul, just a little bit. But Manny pushed down the anger and told himself that a chip on the shoulder was a lot less useful than money in the bank.

The technical rolled off the old highway. Manny could see “23” and “Spring Valley Road” emblazoned on a weather-beaten, bullet-scarred sign. The technical pulled to the right. The gun swayed in its mount. Manny couldn’t help smiling as the Brit instinctively pulled away from it.

They rolled up to what had once been a strip mall and was now a forward operating base for the People’s Protection Army. An old laundro­mat, a bookstore, and a half-dozen restaurants now had their roofs ringed with barbed wire and machine-gun emplacements. Manny could see a line of bullet holes stitched across three of the shops. None of the windows were intact, but otherwise the buildings had weathered the war rather well.

Three M198 Howitzers were parked next to a taco shop that had once served the local college kids beer and cheap grub. There was a flag pole out in front of the shop, and from it hung the blue-and-white starburst flag of the SDF. Three men in uniforms stood, waiting, as the old Toyota rolled to a stop and Manny and Reggie disembarked.

Two of the men were officers in the PPA, Colonel Jakob Milgram and Major DeShawn Clark. Milgram was a boring, tight-lipped, nerdy type, but DeShawn was one of Manny’s favorite sources. He was an old infantry guy, a consummate brawler with a face full of scars and three published books of poetry to his name. He actually had a base of international fans, mostly in Spain. The third man was Hamid Mohammed, an advisor from Syrian Kurdistan. The Kurds had been giving aid to the sundry militias of the Secular Defense Forces for years now. Manny considered Hamid almost a local.