Cillian
Something that ordinary people don’t realize about the chaos of combat: there’s beauty in it.
I’ve always been able to appreciate the choreography of it all. There’s nothing rehearsed or controlled about a true fight to the death. It’s always no-holds-barred, desperate and bursting with the desperation of survival.
Every single man before me wants to win. The only thing that trumps that desire is the will to live.
My men hold the advantage at this moment. The Cavern is manned by about twenty-five soldiers holding it down, none of whom were expecting us. Hell, half of them look like they’ve been forced awake by the grenades blowing their front fucking door to bits.
They’re shooting, but they’re not aiming properly. They’re fighting, but they’re on the defensive.
The O’Sullivan men, on the other hand, are prepared. Their faces are masks of focus and concentration.
And nine times out of ten, they find the target they’re aiming at.
With a wordless roar, I throw myself into the fight. Both my guns are out now, and I’m swiveling around as I move into the center where the fighting is most concentrated.
I can see Rhys and Collin, pressed against one another back to back as they turn slowly on the spot. It’s a move I’ve done with Artem countless times.
Collin notices me from the corner of his eye. “Are we finishing them off?” he yells. “Or quitting while we’re ahead?”
I’m itching to choose the first option. But I know that’s the boy in me talking. I can’t allow pride to risk the lives of my men.
“We can’t afford to be here when their back-up arrives,” I yell back. “Move out!”
I twist my arm around and fire twice, hitting a guard in the stomach twice and foiling his attempt to shoot at Rhys.
“Where the fuck is Rory’s team?” Rhys demands as he reloads.
Dust and ash clings to everyone’s faces. I’m probably no different. I can smell blood. Thick pockets of smoke rise into the air, coating the sky in ugly mismatched plumes.
“Bring the jeeps around!” I order.
The designated drivers jump into action at my command. I cover them as they run to their respective vehicles.
That’s when I notice Rory.
He appears from a building to the right, looking relatively untouched by the chaos unfolding around us. But that’s not what catches my attention.
His expression does.
He looks pained. Like a man who’s about to do something that he knows no one else will like.
There’s resignation on his face. A certain amount of reluctance.
And a fuckload of guilt.
As I’m trying to puzzle that out, I watch him raise his gun. Except he’s not aiming at our enemies.
He’s aiming at Collin. His best fucking friend.
Collin sees Rory, but he makes no attempt to take cover or shoot back.
Because he doesn’t see a threat. Even with Rory’s gun pointed right at him, he doesn’t grasp that he’s the target Rory is aiming at.
People cling to trust until they have no choice but to let it go.
Rory’s bullet hits Collin in the leg. He crumples to the ground with a shout that’s half-pain and half-disbelief.