1
AMOS
As I run the cloth over the metal barrel of my .338 sniper rifle, I marvel at the steadiness of my hand that only an hour ago took a life.
There are flecks of dust in the chamber, and I take the metal bore brush and poke it inside to get every last speck of grit and sand and gunpowder.
"You know it's my job to clean the guns." Petty Officer Diaz leans on the metal bench in the middle of the gear room.
I push my cleaning line through the barrel and pull it out the other side. I don't doubt Diaz's ability to do her job. We'd be lost without her making sure we've got the gear we need, but a sniper should be responsible for his own gun. And if I make a kill, I’ll damn well clean up after myself.
"I'm good, thanks."
"How did I know you were going to say that?"
There are footsteps outside, and a moment later Commander Briggs enters the gear room. He glances around with a frown on his face, and Diaz straightens up.
"I'll check the rest of the gear in." She picks up a clipboard and turns to the corner, checking over the ammunition.
"You did good today." Briggs nods curtly. "Nice work."
"I did my job." I lay my rifle across my lap and reach for a pot of oil and a small cloth.
"It's a job that isn't always easy."
"Nope." I pin the tiny cloth square to the end of my cleaning rod and drop a few spots of oil onto it as I wonder where this is going. If he's going to send me back to the psych doctor, I'm not going. I did the required counseling after Jake died. That was nine months ago, and while not a minute goes by that I don't think about my kid brother, I've talked it out with enough military shrinks to know I'm good. At least, as I'm going to get.
His death will haunt me forever, and I'll never stop feeling responsible. But I've learned to live with the guilt, the anger, and the bitterness. If every kill I make is a tiny lead ball weighing down my heart, then Jake's death is a giant fucking anchor, pulling me down every single day. But I'm a Navy SEAL. We're trained to get the fuck on with things. So here I am, coming to the end of another deployment. Posted somewhere off the coast of Yemen, going on missions, killing bad guys, doing my job.
"A call came in while you were out."
My head snaps up. "From home?"
"From your mom."
"Fuck." I lurch out of my seat and set the rifle down on the bench, almost knocking over the bottle of oil. "Is everyone okay?"
He holds up his hands, palms up. "They said not to worry but to call home as soon as you can."
"Fuck." I stride across the room and hand the rifle over to Diaz. "Can you finish this up for me?"
"I thought you'd never ask."
She grins, but there's concern behind her smile. I've worked with Diaz and Briggs for the last several years. They know what happened to Jake and the toll it took on my family.
"I've authorized a video call for you," Briggs calls after me.
I stride out of the cabin and head to the living quarters. My mind goes over the possibilities of what could’ve happened back home. The last thing my family needs is more heartache.
Mom is used to military life, having been married to a rear admiral for almost forty years. She wouldn't call unless it was important.
My mind turns in agonizing circles. Dad could have had a fall or an accident.
Please don't let it be Avery.
I pray to a god I abandoned years ago—or he abandoned me, I'm not sure who gave up on who first—but if there is a god out there somewhere, I pray to them that my kid sister is okay.
She's got Ed, that big silent lump, to look out for her now. I've never seen love like he has for my sister, and that's a comfort.
