I slumped back against the truck bed, my chest heaving as I struggled to catch my breath in ragged bursts. My hands shook now that the adrenaline had nowhere left to go.

  I laughed, a loud, sharp, and slightly hysterical sound.

  "That's the sound of freedom, Stark," I said hoarsely.

  Stark stared at me for a moment, his eyes wide, face streaked with soot and sweat, then he laughed too, a raw, incredulous sound, like someone who had just fallen off a cliff and had climbed out.

  "Yeah," he replied. "That's Uncle Sam for you."

  The A-10s screamed overhead again,lower this time, before banking hard and pulling away, their engines fading into the distance. Stark flinched at the noise, then carefully shifted, easing himself into a sitting position against the truck bed wall.

  He pressed a hand to his chest.

  The remnants of his armor hung off him in pieces, thick leather straps and a metal harness still cinched around his torso, scorched and blackened.

  "You okay?" I asked, forcing my voice to stay steady.

  He grimaced, teeth clenched for a moment. "Define 'okay.'"

  "That bad?"

  He shook his head. "No. Just… hurts. I had a procedure done on my chest three days ago."

  "Right..."

  From the cab, Yinsen shouted back, his voice high and panicked. "What happened? Where do I go?"

  I leaned forward and yelled over the wind and engine noise, "We're clear for now! Keep driving until I say stop!"

  There was a brief pause, then an emphatic, "Yes! Yes, okay!"

  The truck barreled forward, its suspension groaning as it hit uneven ground. I glanced back at Stark. He was shifting again, trying to find a position that didn't make his chest scream. When he caught my eye, he shook his head

  once—don't ask.

  I nodded and turned back, swapping magazines by habit and scanning the road behind us. Nothing. Just darkness and dust.

  I let out a long breath

  I think we're in the clear.

  Minutes passed, each one feeling long.

  Then I saw it.

  At first, just a flicker, tiny pinpricks of light flickering against the night sky, easy to miss if you weren't looking for them. Then more, moving with purpose.

  Helicopters.

  Multiple helicopters, low and coming in fast.

  "Contact, we've got incoming," I muttered.

  The dots grew larger, resolving into shapes, rotor discs, navigation lights, silhouettes cutting through the dark. The sound followed a second later, a deep, building thrum that rolled across the valley and vibrated in my bones.

  I banged twice on the roof of the cab. "Stop! Stop the truck!"

  Yinsen slammed the brakes.

  The truck skidded to a halt in a spray of gravel. I jumped down first, boots hitting the dirt hard, knees bending to absorb the impact. I reached back up and grabbed Stark under the arm.

  "Easy," I said. "I've got you."

  He slid down more than stepped, landing awkwardly and hissing through his teeth. Yinsen was there immediately, steadying him from the other side, one arm under Stark's shoulder.

  Stark looked up at the incoming helicopters through the darkness, blinking against the dust and wind.

  "Finally," he muttered.

  The first bird flared overhead, a heavy twin-rotor silhouette against the night sky, an MH-47G. Rotors chopped the air into a physical force, blasting sand and loose debris outward in all directions, stinging my face and filling my mouth and eyes. I turned my head and raised an arm instinctively.

  The helicopter touched down hard, skids slamming into the dirt. The door slid open mid-landing.

  Soldiers poured out—fast, practiced, rifles up, forming a perimeter in seconds. Their silhouettes were sharp against the floodlights that snapped on, washing the area in harsh white.

  "U.S. military!" someone shouted. "Hands visible!"

  "I'm Specialist Elias Calderon!" I yelled back immediately. "10th Mountain Division! Friendly! I've got Stark and a civilian!"

  A Marine sprinted toward us, one hand up, the other gesturing behind him. "Move! Move! Get them to the bird!"

  I slung my rifle back, hands shaking now that I didn't need it anymore. Two soldiers took Stark carefully, guiding him forward—one supporting his back, the other watching his footing. Yinsen stayed close, refusing to let go until someone gently but firmly took his place.

  I followed, ducking low as we ran for the helicopter. The wind was brutal, rotors screaming overhead, dust turning the world into chaos. I could barely hear anything except the pounding of my own heart.

  Inside the helicopter, hands grabbed me, pulled me in, and shoved me down into a seat. Someone yanked the rifle from my shoulder and secured it. Another snapped the harness across my chest.

  I barely registered it.

  Stark and Yinsen were strapped in across from me, medics already crowding around Stark, shining lights in his eyes.

  Then the door slammed shut.

  The helicopter lifted almost immediately.

  My stomach dropped as the ground fell away beneath us. The sensation was disorienting, like my insides were lagging a half second behind the rest of me. The valley shrank fast, the road, the abandoned truck, and the burning camp collapsing into nothing but dark shapes swallowed by distance.

  I leaned back against the webbed seat, every muscle finally letting go at once. My hands trembled now that there was nothing left to shoot, nothing left to decide.

  I closed my eyes for a second.

  The rotors thundered overhead, a constant, punishing rhythm vibrating through the metal skin of the helicopter and into my bones. Voices came and went—shouted updates, clipped acknowledgments, but I didn't try to acknowledge them.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  I'm actually alive. I did it.

  I opened my eyes again.

  The inside of the helicopter was cramped and brutal in that distinctly military way, bare metal, exposed wiring, red web seats lining the sides. Medics were strapped in, one already leaning over Stark, cutting away more fabric and checking his vitals with practiced hands. Yinsen sat rigid beside him, eyes darting, knuckles white where he gripped the straps.

  He'll probably need asylum.

  Across from me, a soldier met my gaze. Late twenties, maybe. Dust-streaked face. Calm in the way that came from having done this too many times to count.

  I leaned toward him, raising my voice over the noise. "Where are we going?"

  He didn't hesitate. "FOB in Salerno."

  I recognized that name—Good enough.

  I nodded once and leaned back again, letting my head rest against the metal frame.

  The flight stretched on.

  Forty minutes, maybe fifty. Hard to tell when I felt the entire three hard days catch up to me. My body felt like lead, and I could barely keep my eyes open.

  The helicopter bucked occasionally as we cut through pockets of turbulent air, each drop and rise sending a spike of nausea through my gut. I shook myself awake, trying and failing to shake off the fatigue as the adrenaline drained away, making every small injury known again.

  Gradually, the pitch of the engines changed. The helicopter began to slow, banking into a wide arc. Through the small window, I saw lights spread across the darkness below, rows of them, orderly and bright.

  We're here.

  The helicopter descended in a controlled drop, the ground rushing up to meet us. Dust exploded outward as the skids hit, the impact shuddering through the cabin. The rotors stayed screaming overhead, whipping the air into a solid wall.

  The door slid open.

  Heat and sand blasted inside.

  "All right! Move! Get Stark out!"

  Hands were on Stark instantly, unbuckling him and lifting him onto a litter with practiced speed. He barely protested, just muttered something I couldn't hear as medics hustled him toward a cluster of floodlit tents marked with red crosses.

  Yinsen was guided along with him, kept close, shielded from the chaos.

  I stood more slowly, legs stiff and head swimming. A medic grabbed my arm before I could take a step and steered me down the ramp.

  "Easy there, let's get you looked at," he said.

  FOB Salerno at early dawn was filled with orderly chaos.

  Generators hummed, and vehicles moved in deliberate lanes. Soldiers jogged between tents, weapons slung, carrying out their morning routines.

  I barely had time to register it before I was being walked, half-guided, half-dragged, toward the medical area.

  I was directed into a brightly lit tent and onto a gurney. Boots thudded around me. Someone cut away my uniform. Another voice called out vitals. A blood pressure cuff tightened painfully around my arm.

  The medical team didn't waste time.

  They started with a full trauma work-up, head to toe, checking everything.

  They checked my pulse and my eyes with a penlight.

  "Follow my finger."

  "Any dizziness?"

  "Loss of consciousness?"

  I answered as best as I could, my words coming slowly now, exhaustion dragging at everything now that I was on a real bed after three days.

  They palpated my skull, fingers firm and probing for fractures. The reinforced bone didn't give. The medic frowned slightly, made a note, and moved on.

  My neck was stabilized briefly while they checked alignment. Then hands were on my chest, pressing, listening, watching how I breathed.

  Shit, what do I say?

  "These scars look old," one of them muttered.

  I didn't say anything and stayed quiet.

  Another look passed between them.

  They cut the vest away completely, exposing my chest. There wasn't much left at this point; the bullet wounds looked like scars that were years old.

  They listened to my lungs. Once. Twice.

  "Huh. You seem to be breathing a little hard."

  They moved fast after that.

  An IV line was put in my arm. My blood was drawn, and tags were slapped onto my wrist. A clipboard appeared over my chest as someone dictated my diagnosis.

  More scans followed ultrasound, another X-ray.

  The doctors murmured to each other in low voices, confusion threading through their professionalism.

  They probably see something...

  I let my eyes drift closed while they worked, my body finally sagging now that it was being held together by more than willpower and Sith magic.

  When they moved me back into a holding area, Stark was already gone, probably rushed deeper into the surgical tents, priority stamped all over him. Yinsen too.

  I was left on a cot with a blanket pulled up over my chest, an IV dripping steadily into my arm.

  A doctor approached, Army, older, eyes sharp behind fatigue. He slowly came and stood beside me.

  "Specialist Calderon," he said. "You're fine for the time being; get some rest. You'll be called in for a debrief later."

  I opened my mouth.

  Then I closed it.

  "Yeah, sure," I said finally.

  As he stood to leave, exhaustion finally won. My vision blurred, and the noise of the base faded into a distant hum.

  The Codex pulsed once in my chest.

  I let my eyes close again, this time without fear.

  Whatever comes next, I'll handle it.