The compound they cleared was good ground. Eight-foot walls of stone and brick boxed them in, a rust-flecked gate funneling anyone who tried to enter. Two strong corners gave them overlapping angles on the street outside, and the open courtyard in the middle let them move without tripping over each other. No sniper could see them here, no RPG could reach them without exposure. For once, it felt like they had the high ground.
They tried the radios, each man passing his handset around, shifting position, fiddling with the long whip antenna. Nothing but hiss.
"City's chewing the signal," Hutchins muttered, shaking his head. "Too much rebar and concrete. Insurgents run jammers sometimes too. Whole block turns into a dead zone."
"Figures," Ortiz said, dropping against the wall and stripping open an MRE. "Every time we need comms, they die. Every time they need to blast us with IEDs, their shit works perfect."
For the first time all day, the sound of gunfire was distant. They sat in the silence, peeling off armor plates, checking wounds. Hutchins' arm got a tighter wrap; Nguyen flushed grit from a cut on Ortiz's cheek; Ortiz taped a gash on Isaac's knuckles. When Isaac finally pulled off his helmet, Hutchins frowned.
"Corporal… you're bleeding."
Isaac rubbed a gloved hand across his temple. It came back brown and crusted. "It's dry. Not active."
Ortiz snorted. "Half that's Brooks, half that's the hajji you carved up."
Isaac didn't argue. He couldn't even tell how much of it was his.
They settled in, backs to the wall, rifles close. Warm canteen water washed down cold chili mac and peanut butter packets. The quiet felt alien, almost louder than the firefight.
It didn't take long before they started talking.
LCpl Ryan Hutchins stared at the dirt, spoon dangling from his good hand. "My wife found out she was pregnant the week I shipped out. Thought I'd be home before the baby came. I wasn't. Kid's three months old now. Little girl. Haven't held her, haven't heard her cry, just pictures in the mail. You know what scares me? That she won't even know me when I get back. That I'll be a stranger in my own house."
The others let the silence hang before PFC Miguel Ortiz broke it with a grin. "When I get home, I'm not looking for diapers and midnight feedings. I'm looking for carne asada at my abuela's, beer cold enough to hurt your teeth, my cousins talking shit until somebody calls the cops. Family, food, fighting — that's my holy trinity."
Hutchins smirked. "Figures."
Pvt Alex Nguyen spoke quieter, eyes down. "I worked at my uncle's garage in Fresno before this. Whole family depended on me to keep the place open. Thought joining up would mean better money, maybe pride. Now…" He gestured at the dried blood on his rifle. "Now I just hope I walk out of here alive. Feels like I signed up for more than I knew."
Ortiz clapped his shoulder. "You're here, boot. That's what counts. You're doing the job."
Isaac listened, helmet beside him, gloves tacky with dried blood. He wanted to say something. Wanted to tell them the truth. But he didn't. Because the truth was, he didn't miss a garage, or a kitchen, or even a kid's laughter. What stirred in him wasn't longing — it was this. The fight. The clarity. The rhythm of movement and survival. It fit him better than anything ever had. He loved being here. He loved being a Marine.
He almost said it. Almost.
Then the noise drifted in.
At first it was faint, muffled by the walls. Boots on concrete. Doors crashing. Shouts in Arabic. Short bursts of gunfire.
Hutchins sat up fast, eyes wide. "They're clearing house to house."
Nguyen's hands tightened on his rifle, knuckles white.
Ortiz chambered a round and bared his teeth. "Good. Let's make sure this is the last fucking house they try."
Then the radio cracked alive, static breaking into a voice: "Hammer actual, this is command. Acknowledge."
Isaac snatched the handset. "This is Wolverine. Four effectives. Location east canal compound. Request immediate support."
"Copy Wolverine. Cavalry inbound. ETA two-zero mikes. Hold your ground."
The net went dead.
Isaac exhaled slow, jaw tight. Twenty minutes for reinforcements. Maybe two before the sweep found them.
He pulled his helmet back on, tightened his sling. "We've got company coming. Load everything. No one's breaching this compound without paying for it in blood."
The silence was gone. The storm was moving closer.
The voice outside called the name again. Low, uncertain. Once. Twice. A third time. By the fourth, it was quieter, drawn out, heavy with suspicion. Then silence settled, thicker than before.
It broke with the crack of rifle fire. Rounds smacked into the compound walls, chips of stone and dust bursting inward. Tracers hissed across the gate. The calm was over.
Isaac pressed into the corner, rifle snug against his shoulder, eyes locked west. The compound's walls saved them from an RPG frontal shot — too high, too thick for a clean arc. That was a small mercy. Still, the enemy didn't care about what was around them. Mortars thumped in the distance, fat tubes firing blind into the center of the town. Fuckers don't care who they hit. The whole district would bleed before they gave up their kill.
The next five minutes stretched like a fist around his throat. Fire poured in, stone ringing and cracking, rounds chewing at the edges of the wall. Bullets hissed over his helmet like angry bees. Every impact rattled in his bones.
But their defense held. The compound funneled attackers into narrow sightlines, each entry a kill zone.
Ortiz owned the front with his SAW, bipod locked, brass pouring across the tiles. He barked curses with every burst, grinning through the firestorm, eyes alight. The gate was his choke point, and anyone stepping too close was shredded.
Hutchins, pale but steady, anchored the north corner. One good arm cradled his rifle, every squeeze deliberate. A fighter rushed the corner, and Hutchins dropped him with a single shot. He exhaled through clenched teeth, reloaded slow, careful, precise.
Nguyen was tighter wound, young eyes too wide, but his rifle stayed up. He tracked shadows near the east wall, teeth grit, and fired controlled bursts that drove them back. The kid had found his footing.
Isaac watched the west. A cracked stairwell jutted above the wall line, a perfect lane. He built his own kill zone there, crosshairs steady, finger feathering the trigger. When a head broke the line, his rifle cracked. The man folded, tumbling backward down the steps. Another tried, slower this time — same result.
He forced his breathing steady. Focus narrowed. Five minutes of chaos outside, but inside, the compound was theirs.
So far, they hadn't been pegged by RPGs. But Isaac could already hear the dull whump of mortars firing somewhere nearby. The bastards were ranging in. And he knew sooner or later, luck runs out.
Still, Wolverine's eyes stayed fixed on the stairwell, his kill zone painted clear. If they wanted in, they'd pay.
Isaac glanced at his watch, the green glow cutting through the dust. Fifteen minutes to evac. Only five had passed. His gut tightened — five minutes of this already felt like a lifetime.
He toggled the squad net, voice calm, clipped, the kind of tone that settled men under fire. "Ammo check."
Hutchins came back first, steady despite the strain. "Two mags left, Corporal."
Ortiz, grinning through the madness, barked it out between bursts. "Two-fifty rounds. Half a can."
Nguyen's voice cracked before he forced it flat. "Four mags, Corporal. Low."
Isaac checked his own pouches with a glance, then answered. "Half load. Keep it tight. No spray and pray — make every round count."
"Roger."
"Copy."
The words steadied them. It steadied him, too — at least on the surface. He pressed his back against the stone, thumb flicking his rifle to semi. He'd ride single-shot from here on.
The west stairwell was his lane, his kill zone.
The first silhouette leaned to fire wild into the compound. Isaac's reticle settled, breath released, trigger feathered. Crack. The round took the fighter clean through the eye. The body flopped backward like dead weight.
Another crawled low, AK wobbling. Isaac dipped the reticle, squeezed. Crack. The crown of his head blew apart against the stone, his body twitching before going still.
A third popped up, spraying uncontrolled. Isaac exhaled slow, waited for the pause, then squeezed. Crack. Center chest. The man folded, his rifle clattering down the steps.
It felt effortless. Cold. Precise. Ninety-nine percent accuracy. His body didn't question, didn't hesitate — it just did.
And under it all, he felt it. The edge. The thrill. His heart pounded not from fear but from exhilaration. Every shot, every kill, every narrow breath between survival and death filled him with a focus sharper than anything he'd ever known.
He wished it wasn't there. Wished he didn't feel it. But he did. He enjoyed it — the fight, the risk, the purity of the moment with his life on the line.
What the fuck is wrong with me? The thought hit, then was buried under the next target moving into his sights.
He toggled the net again, voice steady, the leader his Marines needed. "We're holding. Keep it disciplined. Don't waste a round."
Outside, the fight raged on. Inside, Wolverine was in his element — whether he wanted to admit it or not.
Time crawled, every second stretched into rope about to snap. Isaac's world had narrowed to sights, shadows, and the steady crack of rifles outside. Then it happened—sudden, violent, final.
A sharp crack cut through the courtyard. Nguyen's head jerked back. For a heartbeat he was still upright, rifle tight to his shoulder. Then half his skull burst in a red spray that splattered the wall behind him. His body went slack, dropping forward, helmet clattering across the tiles.
Isaac felt his heart twitch hard in his chest, but his voice came out flat, commanding. "Hold the line! Stay on your sectors!"
They couldn't afford to break formation. Couldn't afford to scramble for a man who was already gone.
But Isaac's eyes flicked to the body, just for an instant. The right eye was gone, a hollow crater leaking dark down his cheek. The left, wide open, already glazed, staring at nothing. Blood pooled fast under his head, mixing with the dust until it was a black smear.
Ortiz swore under his breath, teeth clenched as he leaned back into his SAW, laying down a burst that shredded a shadow at the gate. "Motherfucker!" he spat, voice hoarse, jaw locked tight. He didn't look at Nguyen again. He couldn't.
Hutchins sat tighter against his corner, face pale, jaw flexing. His wounded arm trembled but he kept his rifle steady. He muttered something low, half prayer, half curse, then squeezed off another round. The shot cracked true, dropping a man who'd exposed too much shoulder.
Isaac swallowed hard, dragging himself back into his sights, west stairwell clear in his scope. His chest ached, but his finger stayed sure. Another head poked up above the steps. Crack. The skull snapped sideways, painting the wall with brain and bone.
The enemy fire didn't slow. Dust rained from the walls, chips of stone biting at their skin.
Inside the compound, the squad was down to three.
Isaac forced his voice calm, cutting through the noise. "Stay on target. He's gone. Don't waste it. Make every round count."
Nguyen's body lay where it fell, eyes open, blood spreading wide. Isaac shoved the sight of it deep down. He couldn't carry it now. Later, maybe. Not now.
Now, he had to kill.
The fight had a rhythm now — Isaac's steady single-shots, Hutchins' slow, precise fire, Ortiz's short SAW bursts chewing the edges of the gate. Brass tinkled across the courtyard tiles, the acrid haze of burnt powder hanging low.
Then Isaac caught it: two shapes hugging the wall, slipping under his sightline. He leaned, eyes narrowing through the dust. One of them shouldered an RPG, angling it toward the compound wall.
Fuck…
An RPG in this close would turn the courtyard into a coffin. No time for precision fire. He dropped his rifle against the sling and yanked a frag from his vest. Spoon clamped in his palm, he exhaled slow, counted the rhythm in his head. He'd been trained for this.
He rolled his shoulder, snapped the grenade sidearm, a dead-on throw. It landed right between the two fighters.
The kid with the launcher looked down, eyes going wide. His mouth opened, but no sound came.
BOOM.
The blast ripped the air apart. The pressure wave slapped Isaac back against the wall, the sound a thundercrack that rattled his teeth. Smoke and dust burst upward in a gout of fire.
The two fighters were shredded instantly. One's chest blew open like a split carcass, ribs turned into jagged white spears. His arm tore loose, flung across the dirt in a wet arc before smacking against the wall. The other's head vanished in a red mist, his body crumpling like broken scaffolding, legs twitching as blood pumped from what was left of his neck.
The RPG tube split and curled from the heat, shards of steel clattering into the compound. A piece the size of a knife buried itself in the tiles just feet from Hutchins' boots, hissing as it cooled.
Blood rained down in thick drops, spattering the wall, streaking Isaac's cammies and helmet. The stink of burnt meat rolled in, choking and heavy.
"Holy motherfucker…" Hutchins muttered, his face a hard mask as he chambered his next round.
Ortiz whooped, voice breaking into a laugh that was half-mania. "Direct fucking hit! That's how you do it!" He slammed a short burst downrange, brass cascading around him.
Isaac didn't smile. He didn't flinch. He eased back behind his cover, checked his lane, and spoke steady into the net. "Two down. Hold the line."
He reloaded with smooth precision, eyes back on the west stairwell, smoke still curling upward. His pulse was steady, too steady. He could feel it in his veins, the truth he didn't want to name: he'd been born for this.
And outside the walls, the enemy kept coming.
The compound shook under the steady fire. Isaac glanced at his watch — twenty-one minutes. They should've heard rotors by now, seen friendlies pushing through. His gut clenched.
Then Hutchins went down.
"What the fuck—?" Isaac snapped, eyes flicking over.
Hutchins dropped to his knees, rifle slipping, his face slack and pale. He blinked like he was waking from a dream, disoriented, head bobbing.
"Stay on your sector!" Isaac barked, rifle still locked west. He couldn't peel off — they were already stretched thin.
Ortiz cursed and raked a short burst across the gate, brass spilling hot over his knees. "Goddamn it, Hutch, not now!"
Isaac's voice cut sharp, desperate. "Marine! Get the fuck up! Cavalry's coming! Hold your post!"
Hutchins swayed, then straightened, shoulders squaring like muscle memory had forced him upright. For half a heartbeat he looked solid again.
Then the bullets tore through him.
Rounds punched across his chest, two cracking into his neck. He staggered backward, mouth open in shock, blood spraying from the exit wounds. He dropped hard, back hitting the tiles with a thud, his rifle skittering away.
Isaac's heart seized, but he kept firing, teeth clenched. He risked a glance anyway — and saw it.
Hutchins wasn't gone yet. His throat was a ruin, half-collapsed, blood pumping out in thick jets that spattered across his chest plate. His mouth bubbled red with every labored breath, wet gurgles rattling deep in his lungs. He pawed weakly at the wound with his one good hand, trying to clamp it, but his fingers slipped in his own blood.
He coughed, gagging, eyes wide and glassy. The sound was grotesque — half breath, half drowning. A pink froth sprayed from his lips, pooling beneath his head until it spread across the tiles in a wide black smear.
"Fuck…" Isaac muttered low, forcing himself back into his scope. There was nothing to be done. They couldn't reach him, couldn't save him, not here.
Hutchins twitched once, gurgled again, then went slack. His eyes stayed open, staring past the sky.
Ortiz slammed another burst out the gate, face twisted, voice hoarse with fury. "They're gonna pay for that!"
Isaac bit down the burn in his throat, his tone clipped and flat. "No breaks. No gaps. We hold. He's gone—don't waste it."
He racked another mag, pressed back into his corner. The blood kept spreading behind him, Hutchins lying in it.
Now it was just two left.
And Isaac knew the line was breaking thin.
The courtyard was hell. Walls cratered, every breath full of dust and cordite. Two of their brothers lay in pools that spread darker by the minute — Nguyen with half his skull gone, Hutchins staring glassy-eyed at the sky, blood still bubbling faintly from the ruin of his throat.
It was just Isaac and Ortiz now.
Isaac pressed into the corner, his last mag rattling when he seated it. His watch glowed — twenty-seven minutes. The cavalry was overdue, maybe pinned, maybe lost. He felt the truth in his gut: the compound was finished.
Ortiz was still holding like a madman, short bursts from his SAW ripping through the gate. His grin was wild, smeared in soot and blood, but his fire was disciplined. "We got this, Corporal! We'll hold till the end!"
Isaac fired a single shot, dropping a silhouette that had gotten too bold at the stairwell. He shook his head, breath steady. "No. We're not holding. We're moving."
Ortiz snapped a glance his way, teeth bared. "Move? Where the fuck—?"
"Roof," Isaac cut him off. "Only chance we got. Sightlines. If the birds come, they'll see us up top. Down here we're buried with the rest."
Ortiz fed the last belt through, laughed sharp and bitter. "Christ almighty. Higher ground it is."
Isaac chambered his rifle, glanced once at Hutchins and Nguyen. No time for grief. No time for words. He shoved the weight down deep. "On me."
Ortiz slung the SAW, boots crunching through brass and blood. The two of them moved quick, rifles up, into the stairwell that spiraled toward the roof.
The compound was dead ground now. If they were going to make it, it would be from above.