I turn to Rex.

His eyes say, I’ve got your back.

I clench my fists and walk inside.

It’s dimly lit, but my adrenaline … it burns. I pivot.

Wooden chairs and desks are organized neatly in rows facing a chalkboard. I’m in a classroom. Posters line the walls, full of anti-American slogans. Bin Laden’s smile graces the largest poster in the center as two planes crash into the Twin Towers behind him. DEATH TO AMERICA!

Lives are dictated with propaganda. The systematic washing of brains.

We clear the room and step out to report.

Onto the next.

It’s a fanatical dedication. They’re pursuing a brand-new type of combat the free world is only beginning to understand. My father fought in the trenches. He rolled across deserts with huge ground forces. But us? We’re up against decentralized cells. Guerrilla warfare on a scale of infinity.

The work is nerve-racking and tedious. Sweat saturates everything from my wool-blend socks up into my North Face jacket. It cools me.

Hours later, our job is complete. We gather what we need before stepping out. Phil rigged each room. When he clicks, it’ll all blow to hell.

We easily hike down in a comfortable quiet.

Phil pushes the button.

The explosion causes a wild fireball against the sky, rocking the ground beneath my feet. The world is an echo.

Have I been here before?

The gunfire begins, and the ground shifts again. Liquid black oozes from Rex’s mouth, and then his face is ablaze. Through a flaming mask, blue eyes stare as his mouth widens in terror. I move to him but fail to go quickly enough. An enemy comes up behind me. I jump and turn, muscles pulsing. I grab his throat with my left hand and my gun with my right. My mind tells me to forget the gunman and go to Rex, but my body is now on auto. Years of training take control away from my conscience.

He’s carrying an AK-47 and a brown wool blanket. Motherfucker is going to die. I squeeze my grip, the world zeroing in on the two of us. He’s thrashing. The smell of burning flesh infiltrates my senses as I squeeze …

Rex. Something in the recesses of my mind knocks frantically. He’s dead. Your friend is dead. You turned away, and now, he’s gone. It’s all your fucking fault. I want to scream, but nothing comes out of my mouth. I’m a dying fish.

The cemetery is cold, and everyone is gone. I’ve killed him. It’s my fault. The sun sets, and I’m on the ground. Take me instead.

Open your eyes. Open them. OPEN YOUR FUCKING EYES, my mind screams.

On an exhale, I do.

A room …

My room.

I drop my gaze. I’m inside a bed where a thick hand is wrapped around a slender, pale neck. My hand? Teardrops pool beneath her pale eyes. The room is still dark, but nature’s light illuminates her in sepia. Bare, pointed breasts quiver, and goose bumps cover her soft flesh. I gently let go, my coiled muscles unraveling as my mind recognizes the pace change. Consciousness is restored.