Page 31 of Rescuing Mary

“Don’t move, asshole,” Truck ground out.

“What the fuck?” Lefty said, but obediently raised his hands in surrender.

Within seconds, Trigger, Oz, Grover, and Lucky appeared, and quickly had their weapons drawn, which made Coach, Beatle, and Blade pull their pistols.

“Everyone calm the fuck down,” Ghost ordered, holding his hands up and stepping in front of Lefty, facing Truck. “Put down the gun, Truck.”

“Who the fuck are they?” Truck asked, not lowering the gun.

“What do you mean, who are they?” Ghost asked.

“I mean, who the fuck are they? When we came in here, it was just the six of us. Speaking of which, where’s Hollywood? Do you assholes have him?”

Ghost stared at Truck in dismay. “Truck…Hollywood’s not here. He stayed back stateside this time.”

“No, he didn’t. We were talking right before we called in for air support to kill these motherfucking terrorists.”

Ghost swallowed hard. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. “What were you talking about?” he asked.

“About tonight. About how we’re finally gonna get some R&R, pick up some chicks, and get some pussy.”

“Oh, shit,” Fletch said, and Ghost saw him lower his weapon.

“Truck, put down the weapon,” Ghost demanded again and took a step toward his friend. “I’m ordering you to stand down.”

Truck’s eyes met Ghost’s and the confusion was easy to see. And the pain. “Did they get Hollywood? What aren’t you telling me?”

Just then, one of the girls in the truck sobbed loud enough to be heard from where the standoff was happening. Truck turned toward the sound, his brows furrowed in confusion.

Ghost didn’t hesitate. He leaped toward his friend and slammed his hand down on Truck’s forearm, making him grunt in pain and, more importantly, drop the pistol he’d been holding. Ghost swept his leg out, taking Truck’s feet out from under him.

The large man fell to the dirt like a rock and grunted in pain once again when he landed. Ghost immediately went to his head and cradled it, while Beatle, Coach, and Trigger leapt on top of him to keep him down.

“Watch his ribs!” Ghost yelled. They needed to subdue and control their friend, but not hurt him more than he already was.

But Truck wasn’t moving. He stared up at Ghost in confusion. “What’s going on?”

“You were hurt, buddy. You hit your head.”

“Yeah, it hurts,” Truck agreed.

“Where are we?”

“What?”

“Where are we, Truck?”

“Iraq.”

“Fuck,” Ghost heard someone swear from above them, but he didn’t take his gaze from his friend’s. “How old are you?”

“Why?”

“Humor me.”

“Thirty-five.”

Ghost closed his eyes for a second in despair, then opened them again.