Isaac Anthony counted the days on a small, sweat-stained notebook he kept tucked inside his pack. Today marked the start of his last month in Iraq. A year in the desert had blurred together into a rhythm of patrols, radio calls, and the constant hum of generators behind the wire. The Marines had hardened him in ways that high school never could. Now, with three years of service under his belt, he wore the chevrons of a Corporal. It was a rank that put him in charge of a fire team—four men whose lives were tied to his judgment and steadiness under pressure.
His work was technical and relentless. Each morning began with checks—rifles stripped, bolts oiled, optics cleaned of dust that never seemed to stop blowing in from the desert. Radios had to be tuned to the right frequency, GPS units tested, gear weighed and distributed. On patrol, Isaac was at the front more often than not, leading his men through narrow alleys in Fallujah or Ramadi, the muzzle of his M16A4 sweeping doorways and shadowed rooftops. His headset crackled with clipped voices, his job to make sure his team kept its spacing, its arcs of fire, and its composure when adrenaline turned minutes into seconds.
That level of responsibility had been unthinkable just a few years earlier. He had grown up in a sagging trailer outside a nowhere town in Mississippi. White paint peeled from the walls, weeds curled up through the cracked driveway, and most nights ended with a fight over bills that would never get paid. Isaac had been fast, strong, and agile, the kind of athlete who could've pulled down scholarships if he had stayed on track. But discipline never came easy. He clashed with coaches, let his temper run hot, and walked away from the one thing that could have been a clean escape.
The car wreck when he was seventeen had nearly ended him. He remembered the squeal of tires, the crunch of metal against a guardrail, the ringing silence after. He was lucky—lucky that no one was hurt, lucky that no sheriff's report stamped him with a criminal record before he'd even turned eighteen. The crash shook him awake. He realized that hanging around the same friends, drifting through the same broken routines, would carve him into a man who never left Mississippi. He wanted discipline, and he wanted distance.
He walked into the recruiter's office and signed the papers. The Marines stripped him bare and rebuilt him. On the obstacle courses at Parris Island, he found that his natural athleticism thrived when paired with iron discipline. He learned to shoot tight groups at 500 yards, to field strip a weapon blindfolded, to keep moving when every muscle begged him to stop. Drill instructors broke down his hot-headedness and refocused it into aggression that had purpose, channeled into the mission. By the time he deployed, he was the kind of Marine who took the hard jobs without complaint.
Now Iraq tested all of that. Convoys stretched across dusty highways, turrets scanned for IEDs, and every footstep outside the wire carried weight. Isaac's men trusted him, because he was steady—never panicked, never sloppy. He was a Corporal of Marines, and every day of this deployment had proven he was exactly where he needed to be. One month left, and he carried himself with the certainty of someone who had been forged by fire and found he could withstand the heat.
The word rolled through the platoon like static over the net—new lieutenant was taking them out on patrol. Every Marine had the same instinct when it came to fresh officers: eyes narrowed, ears open, watching for cracks. Butter bars were notorious. Some came in humble, willing to learn from their NCOs. Others strutted like they had a chest full of ribbons after a week in-country.
Isaac clocked this one quick. The man had that sharp, stiff posture straight out of Quantico, voice carrying a little too loud, eyes darting like he was eager to prove he had it all under control. Too much book, not enough dirt under the nails. Marines had a way of saying it—he knew the manual, but he hadn't eaten enough sand yet. Isaac could already tell the guy was itching to show he belonged, which made him the kind of officer that could get people smoked in the wrong alley.
Word was his father wore eagles back stateside, a full-bird colonel. That explained why he carried himself like someone who'd never been told no. Fine. Isaac had no say in who handed out the orders. His job was simpler—keep his team tight, keep them alive, and work around whatever mistakes this lieutenant might try to turn into lessons.
He tugged his body armor into place and adjusted the sling on his M16. Around him, his fire team checked weapons, racked bolts, and pulled on helmets. Isaac gave them a short nod. However this officer wanted to play it, the fire team would follow Isaac's lead when it mattered. The Corps drilled it into them: officers planned, NCOs kept the wheels turning. Isaac knew which part of that equation actually brought his men home.
The squad bay pulsed with its own rhythm, Marines killing time in the sliver of space between boredom and the next patrol. A beat-up fan clattered overhead, stirring the smell of sweat, gun oil, and yesterday's chow.
On the couch, Hutchins and Ortiz were locked into another Xbox firefight. Hutch's wiry frame bounced with every button mash, freckles standing out under the harsh fluorescent light. Ortiz sat heavier, shoulders hunched, jaw tight, eyes glued to the screen with quiet stubbornness.
Across the room, Sarah Greene had her ankles hooked under the bottom rung of the pull-up bar, snapping through sit-ups in perfect rhythm. Sweat ran down her temples and darkened her shirt at the spine, her focus ironclad.
Beside her, Darnell Brooks sat cross-legged on his rack, paperback balanced in his broad hands. He barely glanced up when Hutch cursed at the screen, though the twitch of a grin betrayed he'd heard it all.
Jamal "Ski" Kowalski leaned against the wall, cleaning carbon from his M203 with the patience of a man who'd done it a thousand times. His shaved head gleamed under the lights, and every now and then he tossed in a smart remark toward the Xbox crew, grinning when they snapped back.
At the other end of the bay, Thomas "Mac" McCaffrey paced like a caged bull, voice carrying as he barked at Ethan Carter about his loose straps. Carter, tall and sandy-haired, scrambled to tighten them, face red with the mix of youth and inexperience. Sam Haddad sat nearby, calm as ever, checking over extra belts of ammo with quiet precision, ignoring the noise.
Javier Morales sprawled on his bunk, tattoos visible under his rolled sleeves, field-stripping his SAW piece by piece. He hummed to himself as the weapon came apart, ignoring Mac's barking.
At the edge of it all, Doc Riley lounged with his kit open, reorganizing bandages and vials. His dark blond hair stuck out from under his helmet, and he muttered to himself as he worked, only pausing to crack a one-liner that made Morales chuckle.
The door clanged open, metal on metal, and Corporal Isaac Anthony stepped inside. Dust clung to his cammies, helmet tucked under one arm, M16A4 hanging easy at his side. Conversation dipped. The Xbox paused mid-round, Greene sat up from her last rep, Mac stopped pacing. Isaac didn't raise his voice; he didn't need to. His presence pulled their attention the way only a proven NCO could.
He swept the room with a quick eye—gear, posture, the little things that told him if they were ready. These were his Marines. In minutes they'd be stepping into a neighborhood that had turned nasty with insurgent activity. Isaac was running the op until the new lieutenant arrived, and that was just fine by him.
"Gear check," he said flatly.
The room shifted instantly. Xbox shut down, rifles lifted, armor plates tightened, bolts racked. In seconds the casual hum of downtime bled into the sharp cadence of readiness.
Isaac slung his rifle across his chest and moved toward the door. His squad fell in behind him without a word—thirteen souls bound together by routine, trust, and the unspoken understanding that once they stepped outside the wire, every detail mattered.
The squad gathered around the map board, rifles propped against the wall, gear half-strapped while they listened to the rundown. Isaac kept it sharp—grid coordinates, sector sweeps, comms channels, checkpoints marked with grease pencil. He didn't waste words. His Marines didn't need a speech; they needed clarity.
As he talked, the usual chatter hummed underneath. Kowalski leaned back against his pack, smirking. "Bet the new LT gets lost in the first alley. Guy probably still uses his map like a compass." That earned a low laugh from Hutchins, who shook his head. "He'll be the type to call a nine-line just 'cause a dog barked."
From the back, Morales chimed in while reassembling his SAW: "Word is he's riding with us today. Green as fresh cammies." His tone carried that mix of humor and edge—nobody liked rolling out with an untested officer.
The noise drew Mac's attention. He snapped around, voice carrying over everyone. "Knock it off. Button it up." The bay went quiet. A beat later, the Marines answered in chorus, "Yes, Corporal."
From her corner, Sarah Greene tightened her plate carrier and said evenly, "Doesn't matter. Wolverine's leading the way." Her tone was flat, but the name carried weight. A couple Marines grinned. Brooks even let out a short chuckle.
"Wolverine"—that was Isaac. The nickname stuck after the first time someone saw him in a fight, dropping an insurgent in a tangle of elbows and rifle-butt strikes like something out of an MMA cage. Isaac never played it up, but the squad never forgot. He wasn't just steady on patrol; he was lethal up close and precise at distance. His rifle skills put him near the top of the company, and more than a dozen confirmed kills marked his record.
He didn't wear it like a badge, though. It was just the job—one he did well enough to catch the eye of the Navy's special operations pipeline. His application for BUD/S had already been approved. After three months back home, he'd head west to see if he could make it into the SEALs. He didn't doubt himself for a second. The Corps had honed him, Iraq had tested him, and the next step was waiting.
For now, though, Isaac nodded at the squad, his voice low and firm. "Check your gear. We roll in twenty."
The squad moved with purpose. Straps cinched, bolts racked, mags seated. The banter gave way to focus. Outside, the rumble of Humvees warmed up, diesel exhaust drifting into the bay. Isaac adjusted his helmet, the callsign Wolverine echoing quietly in his mind—not as bragging rights, but as a reminder of the trust his Marines carried in him. And that mattered more than anything else.
The Humvee rocked over broken asphalt, suspension groaning under the weight of armor plates. Inside, the air smelled like hot canvas and sweat mixed with gun oil. Ortiz had the gun, perched behind the M240 on the turret ring, his broad frame steady as he scanned the rooftops. His eyes never left the horizon, one hand tight on the butterfly grips, the other resting near a belt of 7.62 link.
Isaac sat across from the new lieutenant. Second Lieutenant Daniel Mercer wore his rank like body armor—crisp uniform, chin high, posture stiff as a drill field. Fresh out of Quantico, barely a month in-country, he had that shine most butter bars did. His kit looked squared away—plates polished, mags lined perfect, helmet strap clipped like it was straight out of a training video. But to Isaac, he looked too clean. Mercer's eyes jumped from the route map on his lap to the window and back again, like he was rehearsing lines he hadn't practiced enough. Even during the briefing, his voice had been clipped and sharp, talking over NCOs instead of listening. Isaac swallowed his irritation and kept his tone professional. Orders were orders.
The convoy rolled north, engines growling in unison, rotor wash thumping overhead as two UH-1s shadowed their route. Somewhere out of sight, a sniper team had already taken overwatch. The village ahead wasn't mud huts and alleys—it was suburban sprawl, block houses with satellite dishes, streets lined with sun-bleached sedans. That meant more eyes on them, more places for trouble to hide.
The Humvee jolted as the convoy braked. Radio chatter crackled—lead truck had halted, the IED-detection team picking up something suspicious in the road. Isaac's gut tightened. He glanced east: open field, waist-high scrub rippling in the heat haze. West: three-story apartments, big for the area, balconies cluttered with laundry lines and satellite dishes. Too many windows, too many angles.
Isaac leaned forward, watching the buildings through the armored glass. His instincts prickled—the kind honed by months outside the wire. He tapped Ortiz on the leg, pointing toward the upper floors. Ortiz adjusted the gun, barrel sweeping slow arcs across the apartments.
Something about it sat wrong with Isaac. The village might look suburban, but the setup screamed ambush.
The convoy sat dead still, engines rumbling like chained dogs. Heat hammered down, shimmering off the asphalt. The Husky up front had stopped, crew hunched over a patch of disturbed road with their probes. Everyone else sat locked inside their trucks, sweating under armor, waiting to see if the ground was about to fucking explode.
Inside Isaac's Humvee it was quiet except for the low growl of the motor. Ortiz manned the turret, body half-out, hands locked on the butterfly grips of the M240. Sweat streaked his cheeks, dripping down onto the receiver. "I don't like it," he muttered, eyes sweeping the horizon. "Too fuckin' quiet."
Hutchins bounced his leg so fast the seat rattled. He fiddled with his mag, snapping it in and out of his rifle. "C'mon, man, either blow it or don't."
Nguyen didn't answer. He was staring out his window, jaw clenched, eyes locked on the apartment block to the west. Three stories of cracked concrete and balconies cluttered with satellite dishes. Curtains shifted in the hot breeze, but no faces, no kids, no locals watching. Empty. Wrong.
The radio snapped: "Alpha One, we've got possible pressure plate. EOD en route. Convoy hold."
"Copy," Isaac said into his mic, but his stomach was already turning.
Then the silence ripped open.
BRRRRTTTT. Gunfire poured out of the upper floors, tracers screaming down into the kill zone. The Husky lit up, rounds sparking off its armor. Marines shouted, rifles came up, the convoy thundered back. Ortiz bellowed, "CONTACT LEFT!" and ripped a long burst, the 240's roar shaking the Humvee, brass raining down in fistfuls.
"Holy fuck!" Hutchins shouted, shouldering his rifle out the window, muzzle flashing. Nguyen leaned across him, firing tight, controlled shots.
Then came the whoosh—an RPG hissed out of the apartments and slammed into the second truck. The blast tore the Humvee apart, fireball rolling down the street. The concussion slammed into Isaac's chest. Over the net came the screams: "Truck Two's hit! Casualties! DOC! Get the fuck up here!"
Isaac snapped into the radio: "Stay mounted! Keep your sectors! Suppress west, suppress west!"
But Mercer's voice cut across him, panicked, too loud. "Dismount! Assault the building! Take the fight to them!"
Isaac whipped his head toward him. "Sir, negative, that's a kill box—we stay in the armor and burn through!"
Mercer's face was pale, sweaty. His hands shook around the map on his lap. His voice cracked, but he barked louder: "Execute the order! Alpha Two, dismount and clear those buildings, NOW!"
Isaac's gut clenched. He keyed up to stop it—but Alpha Two had already moved. The truck's doors banged open and four Marines bolted into the open.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Ortiz growled, hammering the top floor to give them cover.
The squad sprinted across the asphalt, SAW barking from the hip. Immediately they were raked—dust and sparks exploding at their boots. One Marine went down face-first, head cracking the pavement. Another dragged him two steps before a burst stitched across his back, flipping him sideways, blood spraying in an arc.
"Cover 'em! COVER 'em!" Hutchins screamed, firing blind out the window.
The last two kept moving, desperate, when another RPG screamed down. BOOM. It landed right in front of them, the blast shredding them. One Marine was torn in half, his legs blown clear. The other staggered, screaming, clutching at his chest where shrapnel punched through his plate. He crawled three feet before a burst from the second floor cut his head open. His helmet rolled into the gutter.
"Jesus Christ!" Nguyen shouted, voice high, almost a scream. "They're fucking gone—"
The net was chaos, voices overlapping, "Alpha Two is down—fuck, they're all down—"
Isaac slammed his fist against the dash so hard his knuckles split. Rage burned in his chest. Half a fire team wiped in under a minute, bodies smoking in the street, all because of one stupid fucking order.
Ortiz yelled down, voice raw: "They're fucking dead, Wolverine! They didn't even make the fucking curb!" He sent another long burst, chewing the balcony into rubble, but it felt empty.
Inside, Mercer sat stiff, face chalk white, staring through the windshield like he wasn't even there. His map shook in his trembling hands. He didn't look at Isaac, didn't look at the street full of bodies his call had just created. He just froze, sweat pouring down his temple.
Isaac wanted to grab him by the collar and slam his face into the armored glass. Instead he keyed the mic, his voice flat, deadly calm. "No more dismounts. Hold your positions. Guns up. Anyone steps out of their truck, they're fucking dead too."
For a moment the only sounds were gunfire, the churning of the 240, and the dying screams of Alpha Two carried over the net. Then Isaac leaned back in his seat, eyes locked on the apartment block, jaw like stone. Wolverine would carry their weight now.
The street was hell. Two Humvees burned where RPGs had split them open, fuel tanks cooking off in dull whumps. Smoke rolled thick and greasy, stinging eyes, carrying the sweet-copper reek of blood. Marines screamed over the net, calls for Doc layered with the rattle of rifles and the hammering of PKMs from the apartments.
Then the sky roared.
A Black Hawk screamed in low, rotors chopping the air to pieces. Both miniguns spun up, tracers pouring into the building fronts. The top floors shredded, glass and concrete vomiting outward in sheets. Insurgents flew off balconies like broken mannequins, their bodies twisting before hitting the pavement below. The ground shook under the strafing runs, the bird hosing the entire block.
"Fuck yeah!" Ortiz roared from the turret, brass cascading around him.
For a moment, they had breathing space. The ambush faltered, Marines firing back with renewed rage. Hutchins was howling curses, rifle barking from the window. Nguyen's face was pale, but his hands steady on the trigger.
Then a white streak arced from a rooftop. WHOOSH—CRACK! The RPG smashed into the Black Hawk's tail boom. The bird lurched, banking hard, rotors biting air wrong. Smoke vomited from the rear. Over the net came a scream from the gunner, "We're hit! Taking fire! We—" static swallowed him. The Hawk staggered, one engine coughing black smoke, limped south and out of the fight.
"They're gone!" Hutchins shouted.
Gunfire poured again from the apartments, fresh bursts slamming the convoy. The last Humvee still running rattled under the impacts, armor plates ringing like a steel drum. Marines were dragged bleeding from the wrecks and shoved against its doors, blood running onto the street. Doc Riley was on his knees in the open, hands slick as he tried to clamp a tourniquet on Morales' shredded thigh.
Mercer stumbled forward, face gray, one hand clamped on his side. His glove came away red. He was bleeding, but not down. "Load the wounded!" he barked, voice hoarse. "Get them in—Doc, you're with me!"
"Sir—" Isaac started.
Mercer's eyes were wild, sweat pouring. "I'm hit, Corporal. I'll get them back to base, spin up QRF, get CASEVAC rolling. You hold here!"
It wasn't a suggestion. Marines grabbed Morales, Greene half-dragging him by his flak, his leg a mangled mess. Another Marine with half his jaw gone was shoved in after him, Doc climbing in last, kit still open, gloves crimson. Mercer hauled himself into the driver's seat, knuckles white on the wheel.
"Stay alive," he rasped, and then the Humvee roared. Tires screeched, the vehicle tearing down the road, armor clanging as rounds smacked against it. In seconds, it was gone, trailing smoke and dust, the last truck rolling straight out of sight.
"Fuckin' convenient," Ortiz spat, dropping from the turret, M4 snapping up. "We're on our own."
"Eyes forward!" Isaac barked. His voice cut sharp even through the ringing in his ears.
Then the world ripped again. A sniper's crack split the air. The round took Brooks in the throat, spraying Isaac with hot arterial mist. Blood coated his faceplate, spattered his vest in steaming sheets. Brooks clutched his neck, gurgling, crimson pumping between his fingers, before crumpling to the ground twitching.
"Brooks is down!" Hutchins yelled, voice high.
Isaac shoved past the shock, wiped his eyes clear with a gore-soaked glove, and forced his voice steady. "We're moving. Now. Get the fuck out of the kill zone."
The four of them broke contact under a hail of fire, boots pounding over rubble and brass. Bullets snapped past their ears, cracked into the walls, showering them with chips of concrete. Hutchins took a graze across the arm, blood streaming but rifle still up. Nguyen kept tight to Isaac's flank, firing short, disciplined bursts at muzzle flashes in the windows. Ortiz laid down raw hate, screaming as he dumped a mag at the upper floors.
They dove into an alley, lungs burning, rifles hot. The sound of the kill zone still roared behind them—machine guns, mortars, and screaming men—but in the narrow shade of the alley, they had a sliver of cover. Four left alive, four dragging each other deeper into the maze.
Isaac—Wolverine, drenched in Brooks' blood.
Ortiz, still cursing with every breath.
Hutchins, arm torn open, teeth gritted against the pain.
Nguyen, pale but steady, eyes burning.
Everyone else was gone.
Isaac spat copper from his mouth, adjusted his rifle, and growled, "We fight out, or we die here. Stay on me."
The three nodded, jaws tight, weapons ready. They'd follow Wolverine into the fire.
And together, the last four Marines disappeared into the alley's shadows, leaving behind a street of burning trucks, shredded bodies, and the echo of a Black Hawk limping away.
The alley stank of piss and smoke. Cpl Isaac "Wolverine" Anthony threw up a fist, halting the three Marines behind him. His face was streaked with Brooks' blood, his jaw locked like stone. He ran the map from memory in his head — two blocks east, cut north by the canal, a walled compound with thick corners they could defend. Afternoon sun burned down hard, and the streets outside were a goddamn kill zone.
"Through the houses," Isaac said, voice clipped. "We don't risk the open."
LCpl Ryan "Hutch" Hutchins hissed, clutching his bleeding arm. "Roger. Just don't make me sprint."
PFC Miguel Ortiz spat in the dust, eyes wild, SAW clutched in a death grip. "I'll clear the fucking way."
Pvt Alex Nguyen, smallest of the four, swallowed hard but said nothing, his sharp eyes sweeping the narrow lane.
Isaac picked the nearest door, shouldered it hard — CRACK — the wood splintered, frame shattering. They stormed in, rifles raised.
The smell of lamb stew and bread filled the cramped room. A family froze around a low table — father, mother, two kids, bowls half-full. Afternoon light spilled through thin curtains, cutting across the scene.
"GET THE FUCK DOWN!" Isaac barked, muzzle leveled.
The kids shrieked and scrambled under the table. The mother threw herself over them. The father stood, shouting in Arabic, hands flailing, trying to shield his family.
Ortiz surged forward, shoving past Hutchins. "Down, motherfucker!" He slammed the butt of his SAW into the man's face. CRACK. Bone gave way. Blood burst from his nose and mouth, teeth skittering across the tile. The man crumpled, twitching, groaning through a mask of red.
"Jesus Christ, PFC!" Hutchins snarled, his voice high with pain and fury. "What the fuck are you doing?"
Ortiz's chest heaved, eyes blazing. "He wasn't listening! You want him grabbing a rifle?!"
The mother screamed, dragging herself across the floor to the bleeding man. The kids wailed under the table.
Isaac grabbed Ortiz by his harness and yanked him back, shoving him into the wall. "Lock it the fuck up, PFC! You pull that shit again and I'll put you on your ass myself."
Ortiz's nostrils flared, but he nodded, jaw tight, still wired.
The father groaned, blood pooling under his head. The mother pressed her shawl against the wound, her cries echoing sharp and shrill.
Nguyen flinched at the sound, his rifle wavering. "Corporal… they're gonna bring the whole block down on us."
Isaac's gut twisted. He wanted to drag the family quiet, wanted to make it clean — but there was no clean in this. Not here. He kept his voice flat, clipped. "We're not here to kill civilians. Stay the fuck down and stay quiet!"
But the screaming didn't stop. It bounced off plaster and rattled in their skulls.
Isaac spat grit, voice steady. "We cut through. Now. Two more houses and we're at the canal. Compound after that. Once we're walled in, we can hold until QRF finds us."
He stepped over the bleeding man, boots leaving dark prints in the blood, and led them deeper into the house. Hutchins limped behind, pale and sweating but rifle still up. Nguyen stayed tight on his flank, eyes wide, finger trembling on the trigger. Ortiz followed last, head snapping back to glare at the family, rage still sparking in his eyes.
Behind them, the wailing carried — a soundtrack of fear, blood, and broken teeth — chasing them into the next fight.
They cut down the alley in a tight wedge, weapons up, boots crunching over rubble. Afternoon light carved sharp shadows across the walls. Cpl Isaac "Wolverine" Anthony had the map in his head — two blocks east, hook north, canal, compound. That was survival.
Movement flashed on a balcony. LCpl Hutchins, pale and bleeding, didn't hesitate. He snapped his rifle up one-handed, muzzle barking. The man crumpled over the rail, his AK clattering to the street below. Hutchins gritted his teeth and muttered, "Still got it."
"Hell yeah you do," Isaac said, sweeping past him.
Two fighters broke from a doorway ahead, firing wild. PFC Ortiz roared, SAW hammering, tracers shredding plaster. One insurgent went down screaming, the other staggered into the open just in time for Isaac's shot to punch through his chest and fold him backward.
"Cleared your lane, Corporal!" Ortiz laughed, feeding another belt through the gun.
"Good coverage," Isaac shot back, eyes already forward.
On the left, Pvt Nguyen froze as another man leaned out with a pistol. His hands trembled, but he steadied, fired twice. Both rounds hit center mass. The fighter dropped like a sack of bricks, pistol clattering across the tile. Nguyen blinked, chest heaving.
"Nice shot, boot," Hutchins called, grin flashing through the sweat and blood. "You're buying beers when we get home."
Nguyen swallowed hard and kept moving, but his chin was up now.
The courtyard was still. Laundry snapped overhead, a pot of food sat steaming on a low stove. Isaac's gut was already tight when the door blew open — a wiry fighter came barreling out, AK barking on full-auto.
Muzzle flash strobed, rounds snapping past Isaac's ear close enough to burn. No time to shoulder the rifle. He let it drop on its sling and closed the distance like he'd trained for this his whole damn life.
The two collided with a bone-jarring thud, Isaac's shoulder driving the man into the wall hard enough to rattle plaster loose. The AK clattered to the floor.
The insurgent lashed back immediately — a wild hook that cracked into Isaac's helmet, rattling his skull. His vision flared white, but he stayed on him. He drove an elbow up into the man's jaw, once, twice, the sound of bone snapping under the blows. The fighter spat blood and clawed for Isaac's vest, nails tearing at his cammies.
Isaac shifted, fluid and vicious. He slid his forearm under the man's chin, crushed his throat back against the wall. The man gagged, eyes bulging. Isaac's other hand pulled the Ka-Bar free.
The knife flashed in the afternoon light, then disappeared into flesh. One hard thrust under the ribs, angled sharp. The man's body arched, a wet gasp exploding from his mouth. Isaac twisted the blade and yanked it free in a clean arc, blood spraying across the wall.
The fighter sagged, knees giving out, but Isaac wasn't done. He grabbed a fistful of hair, rammed the blade again — this time straight up under the jaw. The steel punched through soft tissue, bursting out the back of the skull. The man's eyes rolled white, body spasming once before going limp.
Isaac ripped the blade free, shoved the body down, and came up already pulling his rifle back into position. The entire sequence had been seconds — brutal, fluid, practiced without practice.
"Holy fuck," Hutchins breathed, face pale but grinning even through the pain. "That's why they call him Wolverine."
Ortiz laughed, manic and sharp, feeding a fresh belt into the SAW. "That was fuckin' beautiful. Textbook kill, Corporal. Shit, I'll buy you a steak when we get back."
Nguyen stared for a heartbeat, wide-eyed at the blood pooling under the twitching body, before forcing himself forward, boots splashing through it. "That was…" he started, then cut himself off, swallowing hard. "Clear, Corporal."
Isaac wiped the blade on his cammies, slid it home, and said flatly: "Move."
They rolled past the corpse without another look, stepping over blood and bone fragments as if it were nothing. Marines in motion, feeding off each other, feeding off the violence.
And Isaac — Isaac was born for it.
The insurgent slid down the wall, blood pooling around his boots. Isaac yanked his Ka-Bar free, wiped it on his cammies, and snapped his rifle back into position without missing a beat. "Move," he barked, voice low but steady.
They flowed through the courtyard, stepping over the twitching body. PFC Ortiz led with his SAW, muttering curses under his breath, face set in a feral grin. He laid a burst into a darkened window where movement flickered. The glass exploded, and a body toppled out, landing hard in the dirt. Ortiz chuckled, feeding a fresh belt through. "Clear enough for me."
LCpl Hutchins, his sleeve soaked crimson, still shouldered his rifle one-handed. They turned into a narrow alley, and a man jumped from behind a trash pile, shotgun up. Hutchins didn't flinch. He fired twice, one round catching the man in the chest, the other blowing out his cheek. The fighter spun, smearing blood across the wall before collapsing. Hutchins spat blood of his own and muttered, "One arm's all I need."
Pvt Nguyen froze as a teenager — couldn't have been more than fifteen — scrambled out of a doorway with a pistol shaking in his hand. His eyes were wide, terrified, but the barrel lined right on Isaac's back. Nguyen snapped his rifle up. Two tight shots. The kid dropped, pistol clattering, body convulsing on the tiles. Nguyen's face went pale, but he didn't look away. He stepped over the twitching form, jaw tight.
"Good reaction," Isaac said, flat but firm. "Keep your head in it."
Nguyen swallowed, nodded once, and kept moving.
They cut through another house, boots thudding across rugs, the air heavy with incense and old food. An insurgent lunged from a side room, blade in hand. Isaac barely broke stride — parried the slash with his rifle, slammed the stock into the man's face, cartilage crunching. The fighter went down screaming, teeth scattered on the floor. Ortiz ended it with a three-round burst, the man jerking once before going limp.
The Marines rolled over him like he wasn't even there, rifles already sweeping the next room.
By the time they hit the canal, the block behind them was a graveyard. Fighters bled out in alleys, slumped in doorways, sprawled under laundry lines. The four Marines didn't look back.
The compound loomed ahead, sun casting long shadows off its tall stone walls and rusted iron gate. Defensible. Hard corners. The kind of ground they could hold until QRF showed.
Isaac raised his fist, halting them in the shadow. His voice was clipped, calm in the chaos. "Stack up. Breach, clear, hold. This is home now."
Ortiz racked the bolt on his SAW, grin sharp. "You lead, Corporal, I'll light the way."
Hutchins leaned against the wall, pale but steady. "Still got a mag left. I'll cover the left."
Nguyen's knuckles were white on his rifle, sweat dripping into his eyes, but his voice was clear. "I'm ready, Corporal."
Isaac nodded once, face streaked with blood that wasn't his, eyes cold but focused. "Alright then. On me."
They stacked on the gate — four Marines, bloody, bruised, but still breathing — ready to punch into another fight.