Page 10 of Freeing Lark

Voodoo looked toward the rooftop. “Damn.”

Atlas let out a low whistle. “Nice shooting.”

Bullet shrugged with exaggerated modesty. “What can I say?” He tapped his own chest. “That’s my good deed for the day.” He pointed toward Hoot with a crooked smile. “Saved your hide.”

Hoot shook his head. “I had it.”

“Sure you did.” Bullet grinned wider. “Karma’s definitely putting that one in the plus column.”

Even Voodoo laughed. “For once, the kid might actually be right.”

Bullet spread his arms dramatically. “See? Good deeds⁠—"

An unexpected non-suppressed rifle cracked. The sound split the night. Bullet jerked. His smile disappeared. For one impossible heartbeat, he simply stood there. Then blood blossomed across the front of his plate carrier. His knees buckled.

Hoot lunged forward. “Bullet!” He caught him before he hit the ground. The young SEAL’s weight crashed into him. “No...” Blood seeped between Hoot’s fingers as he searched desperately for the wound. “No, no, no...”

“Where?” Voodoo shouted.

Another burst of gunfire erupted as Atlas and Voodoo engaged the unseen shooter. Ma was beside him in an instant tearing open his med kit. Dell sprinted from the opposite direction with Flint’s team. Rounds cracked overhead. Someone yelled they’d found the sniper.

Hoot barely heard any of it. His world had narrowed to the young man in his arms. “Stay with me.”

Bullet coughed. Blood touched the corner of his mouth. His eyes struggled to focus until suddenly widening as if he’d just remembered something. Bullet’s gaze searched Hoot’s face with surprising determination. He struggled to speak, his lips forming shapes that never became sound.

“Don’t talk. We’re getting you home.”

The intensity of his stare was locked onto Hoot, conveying a sense of urgency, as if a crucial final word was waiting to be spoken. As Bullet’s lips moved, Hoot stooped, angling his ear towards the man’s whisper. One word. “Pray.”

Hoot frowned. “What?”

“P-Pray...” The word was barely audible and felt unfinished to Hoot.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, kid.” Bullet’s gaze intensified as if desperately urging him to understand. Their hands were clasped together and Hoot could feel the strength draining from his teammate’s grip. “Listen to me. We’ll pray,” he vowed, his voice breaking. As much as you want. You hear me? We’re getting you home.”

Bullet didn’t answer. His eyes remained fixed on Hoot for another second. Then... the tension left his body. The grip eased. The weight changed.

Every combat veteran knew that terrible shift. The exact instant life became memory. “No.”

Hands reached in. Bandages. Chest seals. Commands. It all swarmed around him. But Hoot already knew. The battlefield had gone strangely quiet. Someone rested a hand on his shoulder. He couldn’t remember who. He never remembered who.

And that unfinished sentence echoed through Hoot’s mind.

Hoot jerked awake with a ragged gasp. His bedroom was dark. The digital clock on the nightstand read 3:17 a.m. His T-shirt clung to his skin. His heart pounded so hard it hurt.

Instinctively, he looked at his hands. No blood. Just trembling fingers. He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring into the darkness.

Eight years.

Eight years, and the dream refused to leave him alone. It wasn’t history. Not really. The mission had happened. The HVT had been captured. The data secured. PSG celebrated a successful mission. The SEAL team was left with grief.

Hoot leaned forward, rubbing his face with both hands. He remembered the conversation before that mission as clearly as any firefight.

“Do you believe in karma?”

At the time, he’d said life kept score. Now he wondered if life even knew how to count. What kind of cosmic justice let a young man perform the most selfless act imaginable... Only to kill him seconds later?

If that was karma... Then karma was cruel.