Sandbox by Logan Ryles

Author:Logan Ryles [Ryles, Logan]
Language: eng
Format: epub

The truck rolled to a halt just past the gate of the Army depot. Smoke rose from under the hood, and brass casings and blood-coated shards of glass littered the floor. The lead truck was parked fifty feet away, leaning to one side on a flat tire. The surviving Flashpoint Humvee ground to a halt between the two trucks.

Reed shoved the door open and stumbled out. His head swam. Blood covered his uniform and dripped from the cuts on his right arm. The ground swayed under him as though he were standing on the deck of a sailboat. He heard the sound of boots thumping on the ground.

The Flashpoint commander was stomping toward him, his face twisted into an angry snarl. “You son of a bitch! I told you not to turn north—”

Reed cocked his fist back and slammed it full force into the commander’s jaw. Flesh met flesh with a sickening crack, and the commander stumbled back. Two of his operators dashed forward with raised fists, but before they could reach him, Reed jerked the Beretta from his right thigh and shoved it into the commander’s face. He placed his thumb against the hammer and cocked the weapon. “Go ahead. Make this easy for me.”

The three men ground to a halt, and the commander glowered down the barrel of the handgun. “If you had left that Humvee like I told you, Johnson wouldn’t be lying in ICU fighting for his life right now. If you had done your fucking job, I wouldn’t be staring at the shattered remains of three Marines.”

The parking lot fell quiet, and with his finger resting against the trigger, Reed stared into the cold eyes of the commander. He wanted so badly to pull it. He could see the explosion of blood, feel the recoil of the weapon in his hand, and imagine the commander’s features vanish under the impact. Instead, he holstered the pistol and shoved past the glowering operators. A group of Army infantry approached from a nearby warehouse, led by a captain dressed in tan fatigues.

Reed offered a quick salute. “Two diesel trucks. They’re all yours.”

The captain surveyed the bullet-ridden convoy, then turned to Reed. “You lose anyone?”

“Two drivers. One contractor. One of my riflemen was hit pretty bad.”

The captain gestured to Reed’s shredded sleeve. “Looks like you need some stitches.”

Reed shrugged. “I’ll get to it.”

The captain grunted and looked toward the knot of Flashpoint operatives gathered around the nearest Humvee. “Do we have a problem?”

Reed shook his head. “Negative, sir. We’re all good here.”

“Good. Get cleaned up. We’ll make room for you in depot barracks. Mess is in two hours.”

Reed saluted again, then continued toward the lead truck. O’Conner sat on the running board, her hair falling over her ears as she washed the dirt off her face with a canteen of water. Her uniform was stained, and her fingers trembled as she tilted the canteen and took a long pull of clear water.

“You good, O’Conner?”

Her skin was still pale, and her eyes were bloodshot, but she nodded.

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