Two more soldiers are with us—I turn and look at them. One is Black, the other is white. Italian or Greek, perhaps.
“What are your names?” I ask.
“Dyson, ma’am,” the Black man says.
“Juice, ma’am,” the other answers. “Giuseppe. Juice.”
“Dyson and Juice.”
Duke nods at me, not sure why. He points at the intersection—we’re stopped around the corner. “Nest around there.”
“Where are the others?” I ask.
“Hallway split back there.” Duke points back where Murph and Dutchie are. “They’re checking it out.”
I hear gunfire then, muffled by multiple echoes.
“What do we do?” I ask.
Duke plucks something from his chest, a metal cylinder. “This.” He points at the corner. “Duck and cover, babe.”
I turn away and cover my ears. A moment later there’s a blinding flash and a deafeningBANG!I’m pulled into motion, and I bring my rifle up, focusing. Duke is ahead and to my left, the other two behind me. Duke is firing—I can’t see. My flashlight hits a face—swarthy, acne-scarred, bearded—and I fire in surprise. It vanishes. Something burns past my ear, and I duck; my flashlight hits another something—an arm, a hand, a gun. My rifle kicks. Behind me, Juice and Dyson are in motion, swarming to either side of me, moving with the grace and speed of professionals. Around another corner before I can catch up, following Duke, who’s always first. Gunfire. Rattling, chattering, echoing. My ears ring. I round the corner and it’s over.
Everything is dark. The floor is crumbling underfoot. I see a pile of bodies, four or five. Juice is digging a bandage from his rucksack and winding it around Dyson’s arm.
Dyson’s face, nearly invisible in the darkness, splits into a white grin. “Just creased me, ma’am. No worries.”
“We’re nearly there, I think,” Duke says. His voice is tight.
I move up beside him. “You okay?”
He indicates the top of his left shoulder with a jerk of his thumb. “Nicked me good. It’s a seeper, but I’ll be fine.”
“Let me see.”
He snorts. “Babe, been gettin’ shot at since I was nearly too damn young to shave. I know when I’m good, and I’m good.” He looks down at me, winks in the darkness. “You good?”
“Murph took bullets for me.”
“He did.”
“He saved my life. They would have killed me.”
A nod. “He’s like that. Thank him later.” He points ahead. “I’ve got a feeling we’re about to reach the boss level.” He hums a theme song—the music that plays when you reach Bowser in Mario.
“How do you know?”
“A feeling.” He points back at the piles of bodies. “Multiple nests in layered locations. Last line of defense.”
Footsteps scuff in the darkness. Flashlight beams sweep. Oddly, I smell him, first—my Apollo.
I walk to him in the darkness with my beam aiming at the floor. I feel him. I know the rhythm of his breathing. I wrap an arm around him; he’s not surprised.
“Good?” he murmurs, kissing my hair.
I inhale him. Soak up the calm of his presence. “Good.”
I know nothing of my surroundings—stone underfoot, low ceilings. That’s it.
