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Mike
swerved around a Prius that pulled out of a 7-Eleven on his right. Apparently
the driver didn't care about right-of-way, choosing to place his tiny hybrid in
front of Mike's five-thousand-pound Ford pickup just to make Mike swerve. As
Mike cruised past him, a hipster with a scruffy beard and a frown flipped him
off and shouted something about Mike's gas guzzler.
Typical Prius
owner, Mike
thought. More interested in making a
political statement than learning how to drive.
It
wasn't like Mike drove a pickup by choice. It was simply the vehicle best
suited for a handyman's job. The truck was clearly marked, too, so the jerk had
to have known it was a work vehicle. Some people protested just to have a cause.
Traffic
on East Colfax had thickened more than Mike expected on a holiday, making his
drive to his next job site slow-going. He hated working on Memorial Day, but he
needed the money, and his customer—an older woman whose husband had just passed—needed
help. This day he normally reserved for remembering his fallen comrades, the
men he'd lost in that God-forsaken, overheated litter box called Iraq. Men—boys
in some cases—who'd died in gruesome, horrible ways, usually screaming or
frightened out of their minds.
Guys
Mike would never forget.
Guys
like Kyle.
They'd
been on patrol in a suburb of Fallujah, a squad of Marines working to keep
looters at bay and insurgents hunkered down. Corporal Kyle McElroy had point,
with Mike following about ten yards behind. The sun turned their Kevlar into
slow cookers, boiling their bodies and simmering their minds. They were
professionals, but even pros struggled in that kind of heat.
Mike
was looking up at a rooftop when the car bomb detonated, slamming him to the
ground. His ears rang, and his vision blurred. He struggled to his feet to find
Kyle on his back beside him, blown backward from the blast. Where Kyle's right
leg had been only a bloody stump with a jagged spear of bone remained, the rest
gone from just above the knee. Blood oozed from Kyle's nose and ears, and his
left arm was bent underneath him, twisted almost beyond recognition.
Mike
knew what would come next. The staccato firing of AK-47s erupted all around
them, bullets whizzing past, ricocheting off the street, surrounding buildings,
and vehicles. Mike managed to drag Kyle's limp body into an alley, while the
rest of the squad ducked for cover. Mike applied a tourniquet to Kyle's leg,
stopping the loss of blood, but they needed help fast. Kyle was alive, but not
for long.
He
heard Sergeant Ortiz on the radio, calling for air support to suppress enemy
fire. Mike raised his M-4 carbine, peeked around the corner, and found himself
staring down the barrel of an AK. A lone insurgent, scarf covering his mouth
and nose, aimed at Mike's head.
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