Seven point four

"I'll give him a chance, just like I gave you..."

She heard nothing more from me as the wind picked up with each passing moment, kicking up clouds of sand right in front of us. As if it knew.

I certainly knew.

Her back—I didn't want it to be the last thing I saw in my life. I wanted to open the enormous oak door of my Paris Hotel suite once more. I craved the taste of scrambled eggs mixed with the freshness of my body after a morning shower, the juice of fresh oranges mixed with the taste of her lips on a glass. I wanted to look at her as God himself had created her. And it didn't matter who he was—my Lord God or her Allah. It didn't matter to me then. I would have given my soul to any traveler I met for one more time. But who would find me here now?

I was surrounded by sights I didn't associate with any of the places in my past. They were too alien to me, unlike the places I pictured behind my eyelids when I closed my eyes.

The bullet hit this spot as I predicted.

I felt dizzy and sat up. I didn't have the strength to get up. I was losing them too quickly, and my knees buckled.

Clouds of sand stirred up by the east wind surrounded me, creating a temporary screen, giving me shelter.

But I knew I would be found. It's close. I can feel it.

Strange. It doesn't hurt as much as I thought it would. In the movies, they writhe as if pain were ripping through their entire bodies. They contort their faces, grimacing. It's so cinematic. And me? Nothing. Just a whistling sound, a punch in the stomach, and then a wave of cold, then a wave of heat. I mean, at first I was a little warm, now I'm shivering despite the relentless heat. Then there's this damn wind and this damn sand. Stop it, damn it!

I sit and stare straight ahead, trying to see something. Even the slightest movement. Nothing, just sand. Plus, I have goggles. I'd be devastated if my eyes were irritated right now.

I sit and wait.

Waiting for the finale.

I don't even touch my assigned M16 anymore. My sticky, bloody hands prefer to press against my belly, which is completely covered in it. And that damn sand is everywhere. I'm probably going to get infected.

What am I thinking? I'm dying, damn it. I'm leaving this fucking world. I'll shed my uniform, put my M16 in the corner, and jump from cloud to cloud.

If they want me?

Why not?

With a resume like that, they'll hire me in God's bodyguard on the spot. If there's room, of course. Many of my friends are probably applying for this position. After all, they have every right to do so. They all died. Heh, me too.

Well, almost.

I'm still alive. Dying, but alive.

Think positive, think positive. Fucking self-motivation manuals. A course for good managers. A pile of wasted money for a few useless pieces of paper. What for? Should I tell my enemy he won't get a raise? Maybe I should file a reprimand.

No. Better to fire him right away. I have the necessary tool for that. M16.

Oh! My hands are stuck to my uniform.

I'll try to rip them off.

I look down and see them already well-battered in the dancing sand. A sudden movement should separate them from the fabric. Stop. That way the blood will leave my body faster. No. I'd rather die slower. I want to live to the end. I'm waiting for the pain. He's two blocks away, he'll appear like a long-heralded rock star. The pain itself. The stupor plays support. The pain will be at the end. The end.

I wait, and nothing. My ass is beaten. They promised an unforgettable experience during the recruitment process, and what? Ass! The fucking system. I felt like a hero. A fucking Power Ranger – rifle, canteen, full set of magazines, plus goggles and a helmet, but I'd rather be in a suit at the funeral.

I know he'll find me quickly, because the sandstorm is abating.

A magnificent view begins to unfold. The walls of the city we were supposed to capture gleam in the desert sun, and the bodies of my comrades surround him. On the left, with a hole in his head, lies John. On top of him, turned around, with a hole on the other side of his head, is Mark. He had black hair, now red from blood draining from his brain. On the right, Antonio and another one I never met. Honestly, I've forgotten his name. All I know is that if Antonio is from Italy. Four Angolans lie in front of me; they were the first to fall. Just as the four shots were fired, they were already down, convulsing in death convulsions.

Bang, Clarke.

Bang, Terry. Bang

, John II.

Bang, Wayne.

Bang, bang, bang, bang.

Four shots, four dead bodies. That sniper is damn good. Maybe he'll at least give them a funeral. Soon.

Oh! I'm starting to spit blood. I feel a little nauseous. I wonder where he hit. Probably in the liver. Ironic. I drank countless amounts of alcohol at parties, hoping it would kill me, that I'd be one of God's managers, and then bang, nothing. Instead of alcohol, you're killed by lead from the nearby town.

Why weren't there enough bulletproof vests for me? Because they didn't have time to get them to the front lines, the losers. Just one order issued too late, one signature on a supply list too late, and all nine of us are wiped out. Well, because of that sniper, of course.

Because someone didn't feel like it.

It hurts.

Not my stomach, my ass from this fucking hot sand. It burns through my pants. Ow, damn. I can't get up anymore because I'll faint or die sooner, and the finale awaits me. Soon. Maybe I'll hum something. Some old-time hit...

Stupid idea. I'll lie down. It'll be better that way. The walls are lowering, and in their place take the beautiful sky and sun, and this bastard is blinding as hell! I'll rest a bit and reminisce. I don't know if there's time for an examination of conscience, but maybe I'll have enough blood for a quick one.

It all started with astronomers discovering an identical, even twin, planet. Then events accelerated so quickly that before I knew it, they were loading me onto a transporter. Five light-years, three months of sleep, five jumps. When I woke up, my mouth felt as if I'd just had an unearthly drink, and a newspaper lay next to me. Transferring military operations to X-CB6 offers a chance for peace between nations, I read. At first, I was overjoyed, but then, as the sponge in my mouth soaked in water from the jug Private Garcia had surreptitiously brought, I was terrified. It doesn't matter what happens to us. We're dying for them, for those who remain five light-years away, three months of sleep, five jumps behind us.

I drift off and start to feel pain. Not much. Something like a bite, and then a tickle along my thigh. Another bullet? Is it that close?

Possible. I've been lying here, like this, with a hole in my stomach for about fifteen minutes, certainly no longer.

That's probably how long it would take him to get from this hellish city we've been fighting for for ten years.

Ten? I don't know, maybe longer. I've lost track of time since they gave me a uniform, taught me how to shoot, and showed me how to survive in extreme conditions. They just didn't show me how to survive with a hole in my stomach!

Intuitively, I press my hands against the wound, and blood seeps from between my fingers. Warm, sticky, almost boiling liquid. My blood.

I don't know if applying pressure is in accordance with the instructions of a United Nations Special Forces infantryman, but I don't care.

"Damn! What's going on?" Another sting, and more tickling.

I lift my head and open my eyes. I barely contain my vomiting, blood trickling from the corner of my mouth. Oh, what a piece of shit bit me! I'm dying, and here some spider is making an aperitif of me. I don't even know what kind of spider it is.

With a groan, I ripped my hand away from my jacket and reached for my M16. My best friend of three years.

Three?

I think so. They took our calendars from the unit, forbade us from remembering the pages we tear out. I've lost count.

I'll wait until this shit comes off my thigh, and then I'll smash it with my rifle butt. The only confirmed hit of the day will be some multi-legged spider, but that's a good one. The statistic will drop slightly, but it will still stand at the unit record. 7.4.

Fucking seven point four, I quickly did the math in my head. Every day during the operation, I killed seven point four people. That's like seven and one spider a day. Seven hits and one spider shattered by the butt of my M16. Damn it, I was already getting to nine. Nobody's going to surpass me anyway. Antonio was the closest. Now he's the one keeping score.

I have the record, and I don't know if I should be proud. From what my grandmother said, hell awaits me. She actually predicted it right, because if I'm going to get there, I'm in his vestibule and I'm about to fry.

Ah! I hit the bastard. With the butt.

I should have been losing feeling in my legs by now, but luckily, the bastard probably wasn't as dangerous as I thought. Hell, I'm dying anyway.

Seven point four. Definitely a record.

I'm still lying there with my eyes closed. I keep spitting blood, and I'm losing my mind more and more. I was just talking to my grandmother, which is a prime example. Poor thing, she died fifteen years ago.

They say that when death looms over you, your whole life flashes before your eyes. I don't think so, not at all, that grim reaper obscures my screen.

The sun is scorching and searing my face. The bleeding seems to have stopped. So what if we didn't capture that city anyway. Besides, I don't remember why it was so important. Probably from some general's strategic point of view, it was. The others couldn't be as important as this one—after all, there was only one left.

We destroyed them all one by one. Scorched earth tactics, as my commander used to say. Come, conquer, rape, kill, and burn. That's how we did it until, after a month, I became immune to all pangs of conscience. After all, we are the masters of the world, a new world where we slaughter each other together. We can do anything. We win, but we're running out of ammunition; as for food supplies, they won't last until winter. We're short on recruits. Eight of my soldiers just got shot. Paranoia.

I think some clouds have appeared in the sky, because the sun stops burning my face for a moment. This world is identical to the one from a few years ago. Five light-years.

And if it's not clouds, then I think it's time for the finale.

It's a good thing I stopped spitting blood. Maybe it's dried, and that's it. I'm running on fumes and I think I'll make it to the landing and...

Yes, Captain, I made it. We can land.

I opened my eyes and saw her. Her face, wrapped in a black scarf, was partially obscured by her firm breasts (oh God, how beautiful). Those are the two most beautiful things I've ever seen in my life.

I also glanced at what she held in her right hand. A PH 85 sniper rifle. A telescopic sight and an extended barrel. A thing of beauty. That's what she knocked me out with.

Guys, that's what she did to you! Girl, you amazed me more than that night in Paris.

She knelt behind my head, revealing the sun, which instantly blinded me.

"You've returned." Her voice was as beautiful as the song of a bird of paradise, which I will never be allowed to hear.

"Stop!" Blood gushed from my lips again.

She stepped aside, not wanting to be stained by the blood of an infidel. The Holy War continues. Still.

And just a decade ago, we loved each other passionately, spending the most beautiful moments of our lives together. When the Holy War began, our lives ceased to be ours. Now mine belonged to God, and hers to Allah. But does that God know where we are?

"You're dying." She knelt beside me on my left side, blocking the sun from my view so I could look at her.

Those ten years hadn't left a trace on her. She was still as beautiful as when I first met her. She unwrapped the scarf from her face, and her brown eyes looked at me from between the black hair that fell over them.

For a moment, I forgot that I was dying, as she noticed, and tried to lean on my elbows. Blood gushed from the wound again.

"Easy, I'll help you," she said.

She set aside the PH 85 with the optical sight. The same one she'd aimed at me fifteen minutes ago, and she'd hit because she wanted to hit.

"I didn't mean to—I don't know if she was telling the truth. Ten years is a long time. Five light-years, three months of sleep, five jumps took their toll. Who knows, maybe we were on the same transport, because they could have woken us up mid-flight and notified us, and then we would have finished each other off before landing in this filthy wilderness so strikingly similar to Earth.

" "You're kidding," I spat blood. Propped up on my elbows, I was no longer pressing the wound. Instead of mine, her hands were there, the same ones that had embraced me that last night before we left.

"If I'd known...

" "You did," I nodded, spitting blood at the rifle with the sight. "It zooms in well, I know.

" "When I pulled the trigger, I didn't know it was you." Something wet landed on my cheek.

I didn't have much left, and I especially didn't want to miss the finale, so it should be short.

"Finish it." My blood must have run dry, I'm running on fumes again. I laid my head on the damned, sun-sizzling sand.

"I can't," she whispered, barely audible. "I'm sorry, but I can't finish this. Just like when I left, I couldn't tell you it was over.

" "Don't think that just because I'm here, it means I was looking for you..." the blood returned, leaking out the corner of my mouth again. "...for these ten long years.

Five light years, three months of sleep, five jumps, I remembered.

I closed my eyes. That she had to appear at this moment, too. That someone else couldn't have finished this. Is the one upstairs laughing in my face now?

Wait, we'll meet soon, and we'll sort out a few sticking points."

"You haven't changed a bit," her voice was truly soothing. Honestly, I wanted her to rest my head on her thighs. To stroke my hair, to talk to me. Forever. My

eyes were closed, but I saw her. I saw her stepping out of the shower the night we met at the hotel. Wrapped in a towel that was too small, she didn't want to cover her body at all. Drops of water were running down it. My wet hair stuck to my chest, and my legs moved gracefully toward me.

"Water," I choked out.

Then it happened—she moved closer to me and lifted my head. Then she slid under it, and as she placed it on my thighs, I felt like I was lying on a pillow at the Paris Hotel.

"Drink," I inhaled the velvety taste of water.

I don't open my eyes because I don't want to.

I feel like a baby being fed by its mother. With one exception. I have no life ahead of me, because it will end soon. There will be a grand finale.

My eight companions are gone. Now I bid them farewell. Bye, guys.

"That's enough." I turned my head, letting the last of the water from the waterskin flow down my cheek and neck.

"Do it so I don't feel any pain," I said. "The last thing I want to see is the barrel of a gun. The last thing I want to hear is a few shots.

" "You're talking nonsense." Tears streamed down my cheek and landed on my own. "I can't.

" "It'll be against tradition if you don't do this." I don't think I'll die so quickly, though, because my senses were starting to return to me like children at summer camp.

A tremendous heat was pouring down from the sky, and she was beside me, shielding my face from the sun. The rubber on my soles must have been slowly melting, because I could smell burning.

"What tradition?" she asked with feigned surprise.

"Oh, don't tell me you don't know what I'm talking about," I almost shouted, a sign that I was a little further from the afterlife than I had been a dozen minutes ago. Unless that's what agony felt like. Now, it was probably time for the apogee of my life's vital forces.

"The legend says—it's hard to call a story a year old a legend, but a torrent of words welled up in my head—they say every sniper in the Middle East kills everyone. All but one. He immobilizes that one, just like you did to me to exact revenge. This isn't about extracting a confession or anything like that." I glanced at her. "You're killing him," I coughed.

I closed my eyes and continued as hard as I could. I said I knew what they were doing to the last one.

"That's not true," she insisted. "You know nothing."

But I knew she was lying. I knew her too well.

"Don't deny it, I know it perfectly well," I replied.

I saw it with my own eyes. I saw it a year ago, when I was hidden behind some rocks (the rocks saved my life back then) and watched a friend get hit the same way I did. The Arab sniper emerged from his hiding place behind the rocks, which were three hundred meters away—a testament to his skill—and approached Frank. He was spitting blood and trying to raise his M16 while kneeling. However, the bullet had damaged his abdominal muscles, and the poor guy couldn't even lift a pencil anymore.

He introduced himself to Frank as Al-Shaim. First transport. He spoke loudly and clearly, so I could hear him, about fifteen meters away, behind the rocks. Meanwhile, I mounted a telescopic sight on the M16 and aimed the barrel at Al-Shaim. He had no idea I was there, because if he had, I would have been dead long ago. My own shit saved me. I felt like shitting.

"I am your judge and executioner, as the law teaches. You are my executioner, and I hate you." There was so much hatred in his eyes that it was infectious.

I wanted to pull the trigger quickly, but I wanted to wait even more for the finale. My killing instinct was set to maximum. My remorse gauge showed minimal. However, I wasn't entirely sure if Al-Shaim was alone. One of them could have just as easily had me at gunpoint.

"I'm finishing as Allah began," Al-Shaim continued.

The fringes of my black scarf fluttered in the wind, and I tried to focus on hitting the target on the first shot. This is a Holy War. If I don't take him down with the first shot, I'm done for—he'll quickly aim at me, and that's it. Besides, I have my last bullet in the chamber—we were returning from a skirmish with the enemy.

Frank had stopped reaching for his M16. He was dying.

"You won't feel any pain. That's my reward," Al-Shaim said.

Then he aimed the barrel at the soldier's head, his enemy. I took closer aim and touched the trigger with my fingertip.

I was too late.

My bullet was the second one fired at that moment. Frank threw his head limply to the side, and Al-Shaim, without a cry, slumped to the ground. When I ran up, I was sure he was alone. Otherwise, I would have fallen dead as I ran from my shelter.

Frank was dead, and Al-Shaim, lying next to my soldier, was looking at me. There was no hatred in his eyes anymore, only terror and surprise. He hadn't expected me, just as I hadn't expected Azis.

She's not sitting next to me to save me. She's here to kill me.

I opened my eyes.

"I have to kill you," she said. "Snipers can't take prisoners."

"I know," I replied, and at that moment a voice crackled beside us.

"Corporal Azis. Please report."

She pulled a small camera from her belt and opened it the way some cell phones used to be opened. The flap was up.

"Lieutenant Naim," she said into the phone, "this is Corporal Azis. I can confirm nine hits out of nine targets spotted at the position. "

She looked at me.

"Please finish and return to the position. We're expecting another reconnaissance group.

" "Yes, sir," she replied, as if on drill duty, and looked away from me. The voice in the receiver fell silent, and she lifted my head, swung her legs out from under it, and stood up.

I looked at Antonio, who was the only one in our reconnaissance group wearing equipment. Azis is clever. A blockage in the flow of information. I fell too far from him to crawl without losing too much blood. I would have died halfway there. A very clever girl.

" "Forgive me," her voice broke.

She turned to me and raised the sniper rifle to her shoulder.

PH 85.

"Please, forgive me," she repeated through tears.

At that moment, the creaking voice on Azis's phone spoke again.

"Yup, confirming the new statistic, Corporal Azis. Please enter the password."

Holding the PH 85 with her right hand, she reached for the radio on her belt with her left. She looked at me and opened her mouth to speak.

She paused, and for a moment there was silence, interrupted by the sound of an approaching sandstorm. Tears welled up in her eyes. She turned the hand holding the radio over and wiped her eyes. The tears from her cheek fell onto the sand, increasing the average rainfall in that area.

"Hotel Paris," she stammered. More tears spilled from her eyes.

Hotel Paris. This is where we spent our last night together, this is where she held me for the last time, this is where I woke up alone this morning. Then she left.

"Password confirmed." I'm giving you the new value

. "I'm listening.

" Seven point four.

I looked at her as she hung the radio on her belt.

"With me?" I asked. "Or without me?

" "With you," she replied. "That's a record." I'll get a promotion.

Now I was furious. They let me go.

"Worth it?" I asked, turning my head away. I saw only a mass of sand and the slight rise from which we had come. Three hundred meters behind me stretched the forest from which my reconnaissance group had been observing the city. I watched the sun's rays reflect off...

"I am your judge and executioner, as the law teaches."

I turned my head. I wanted to look her straight in the eye one last time. I couldn't. She put on her sunglasses. In their reflection, I saw myself lying on the sand, staring at the man who had taken my life in his hands.

"You are my torturer. I hate you," she continued. "You will not feel pain...

" "...that is my reward," I finished.

She hesitated for a moment and moved her cheek away from the stock. I moved my right hand toward my M16, but it was too far away. I couldn't reach it.

My hand went back to the pocket of my combat pants.

"I loved you," she said, "but you know...

" "Yes, I know, honey, seven point four."

She shrugged, brought the scope to her eye, and put her finger on the trigger.

"Goodbye," she said through tears.

I didn't answer, just squeezed my hands together and waited. I closed my eyes and began to wonder.

Would it hurt?

Would I feel anything when the bullet passed through my body? Would

I see anything more then?

Would everything end for me then?

What would she feel then?

Suffering?

Despair?

A curse?

Maybe I'd survive. That's all that mattered.

This is a holy war, after all.

Above me, a bullet sliced ​​through the air.

I felt pain. But it wasn't the pain of the bullet piercing my temple. Something dull struck my head, but I didn't die. I lost consciousness for a moment. I must have wet my pants too, because when I opened my eyes, I saw Private Garcia's smiling face above me, babbling something.

"Lieutenant, it's a good thing you didn't poop more in your pants. You just got a little wet.

" "Shut up, Garcia," I grumbled. "Help me up." I held out my hands, still clenching my fists.

"Reporting, mission accomplished," he muttered in my ear, lifting me and setting me on my feet.

The sun was blinding me, so I told him to look for my glasses. They were covered in blood and shattered from something hitting my head, hitting them in the process.

"Sorry about that," the private said with a smile. "I had no idea the stock would fall on your head," he finished, handing me the glasses. I relaxed my left hand and used it to remove the goggles, then grabbed the glasses and put them on.

I was shaking (probably from blood loss), but I had no intention of dying yet. At least not yet. My glasses fell from my hand. I let out a loud groan as I crouched down to pick them up. I put on my helmet and looked around. Eight good soldiers lay dead. The ninth stood over a sniper he'd hit from a hiding spot three hundred meters away.

"Leave me alone," I told him, "help me, I want to talk to her."

Garcia ran up to me and took my arm.

"Quite a catch, sir, huh?" he said, looking at me. He must have seen the threat in my eyes, so he quickly looked away and grumbled, "Sorry."

"Any orders, sir?" he asked me when we were near Azis.

"We can't leave the boys like this, we have to transport them to the forest." I looked around. "Get the jeep," I said.

"Yes, sir," the private grumbled, and ran toward the forest.

When he was halfway there, I leaned over her and stroked her forehead. She lay dying before me.

Garcia knew his stuff. He hit the artery she was now trying to press against with her hand at her shoulder. It was visibly weakening with each passing second.

"Azis?"

She opened her eyes.

Brown.

They were fading.

Garcia hit her cutoff switch. Azis is dying.

I didn't want it to end like this. Everything we're doing now is pointless. War doesn't benefit anyone. Wherever it goes, people are dying on every side. On mine, eight good soldiers died today. My wife, whom I hadn't seen for ten years, is dying on their side. The sniper we'd been searching for for ten years is dying on their side. A sniper who, ten years before we left, shot the president from overseas while he was visiting my country. We didn't want to be involved in this carnage. But we had to, because we're allies. Fuck it.

"Azis, can you hear me?" I leaned closer to her face.

"I can hear you," she said weakly. "I see your angel and mine, you were right, they exist and...

" "...and for each of us, they're different," I finished. My voice slowly cracked. I don't know if I can bear it without tears.

"I've changed," she choked out.

"I know, I don't blame you.

" "I started all this," she looked at me. "I've been waiting for you for a long time, if you'd come..." Blood gushed. It ran down her cheek, stopping in my hand.

"I was looking for you," I replied.

She closed her eyes. She wanted to leave me now.

"Azis?"

In the distance, I heard the roar of an engine. Garcia will be here in thirty seconds.

She grabbed my hand.

"Why?" You knew it was me.

"Orders," I said, raising my voice. "That was my order."

The radio crackled beside me.

"Corporal Azis, please report

." "Give me that." She reached for the radio that had fallen beside her.

I reached for the small device that still reminded me of the old days.

With a trembling hand, she brought it to her mouth and began to speak.

"Lieutenant Naim, Corporal Azis is reporting TWA. I repeat TWA.

I snatched that radio from her. How stupid I am. TWA! Hit in action. That was all that was missing.

" "Garcia!" I shouted at him as he pulled up. "Get your ass over here!"

He parked next to us, showering us with sand. As I stood up and her body slumped, I felt her becoming unconscious.

"Be afraid of whoever is behind you. Your blood will be your executioner."

She fell facedown on the sand. I felt nothing.

It all ended ten years before my departure, when I woke up in my apartment and heard a gunshot and the screams of people outside. The president from overseas had fallen. The shot came from the bathroom window of the apartment my wife and I rented. Now she said the son she'd hidden from me for so long would hunt me. I didn't want to look at her anymore.

"If he finds me, I'll give him a chance, just like I gave you," I said to her back. "He won't look at heaven while dying. Let him look at hell."

She heard nothing more from me. The wind was picking up with every passing moment, kicking up clouds of sand right in front of us. As if it knew.

We heard the first sounds before Garcia started the engine. I turned and saw men running, brandishing rifles. We managed to load our bodies onto the jeep. Luckily. They wouldn't leave them alone even in death.

The jeep's radio speaker spoke

—Private Mint to Private Garcia.

Garcia reached for the receiver.

"This is Private Garcia, confirming a hit..."

I snatched it from his hand.

"Lead the way," I growled, and replied into the receiver. "Lieutenant Kowalsky, Private Mint, what's with the conversations at forbidden times?"

Mint's voice came over the radio again.

"I'm reporting good news. Your action was the last. The armistice was signed an hour ago.

I was furious. An hour ago we were observing the city from the forest. If I had known, I wouldn't have...

" "Lieutenant Kowalsky?

" "Why wasn't I informed of this earlier?"

A strange sound came from the radio, and another voice spoke up. I recognized it immediately. General Wales.

"This last mission had to be completed. Mission status, Kowalsky?"

I was getting ready. So many lives could have been saved today. At least nine." The wound in my stomach hurt.

"Hurry, Garcia, or you'll have nine bodies in the back of the truck," I turned to him.

He nodded and pressed the gas pedal to the floor. The jeep danced over the bumpy road.

"Mission status, Kowalsky!" Wales sounded impatient.

"I don't give a damn," I replied. "What's the point?"

"Kowalsky, that's not the answer I'm looking for.

" "Then you'll have to wait until we get there. When I'm alive, I'll throw it in your face." I slammed the radio, which immediately cut off.

Garcia looked at me and smiled.

"It's over, boss. We're going home."

I didn't say anything, just nodded. This wasn't how it was supposed to end. Azis didn't have to die. She wanted to kill me, but it didn't matter. I didn't want to see her die, and this wasn't how our last meeting was supposed to be. The war was supposed to end for us in a completely different way. A small house in the suburbs, three children. Maybe even four.

Silence. Peace. A box full of bills every month. A bank account filled with a soldier's pension every month.

This wasn't how it was supposed to be.

The jeep bounced over the bumps, until the base where Wales was waiting for me appeared over the horizon. He was waiting for word on whether we'd eliminated the sniper.

"Garcia?" I nudged him.

"Yes, Lieutenant?

" "How much do you have?"

He scratched his forehead, smiled, and said.

"Five point seven, including that sniper rifle. And you, Lieutenant?

" "Seven point four, Garcia

Seven point four. A record."

I closed my eyes. I'm slowly drifting away. It doesn't matter to me anymore.

I'm waiting for my angel. I'm waiting for my final check-in with God.