Chapter 1 - Fallen Friends

Smoke hung in the air, and if one looked for it, blood-stained sections of the streets. Even the aroma of spices from the abandoned market stalls couldn’t hide the stench of combat. The faint taste of gunpowder lingered on their tongues as the turret gun went silent for a moment. Magnus and Dawson sat shoulder to shoulder in the back of the bouncing Humvee, jostling against each other as the vehicle ripped through the war-torn city.

The hole in the embassy's broken wall loomed ahead, a massive maw in a fortress built of stone. Wilson’s knuckles were white as he gripped the wheel, trying to dodge debris on the road that appeared under the glow of the Humvee's headlights.

Dawson shifted and leaned closer to Magnus. "We're already low on ammo," he murmured, his thick Texan accent barely audible over the rumble of the engine and sporadic gunfire. "We didn't get enough time to stock up properly before Command forced us to leave."

Magnus nodded, his eyes fixed on Martinez. Even though he couldn’t see it, Magnus knew Martinez's face was like a surgeon, focused on cutting out anything dangerous as he manned the .50 caliber machine gun mounted on their Humvee. His gloved fingers caressed the weapon's trigger with a lover's touch.

If he had been a doctor like he always talked about, I would have gladly let him operate on me.

As if Magnus’s thoughts had given an order, Martinez let loose a string of shots that echoed off the stone buildings like thunder. Flashes of light from the muzzle illuminated the face of his brother-in-arms, casting harsh shadows over his stone-like face. Each round found its mark, dropping hostiles that had taken up positions around the hole they had created in the embassy wall.

Wilson maneuvered the Humvee with ease through narrow alleyways, its powerful engine growling like a beast. He swerved around piles of debris and smashed through remnants of a makeshift barricade before skidding to a halt.

Magnus was first out of the vehicle, followed by Dawson and then Martinez, who dropped from his defensive perch with grace. Wilson didn't linger a second, flooring the pedal and speeding away back to base in the darkness of night.

In the wake of the gunfire, Magnus saw Dawson pressing the call button with his thumb on his radio. He spoke into the device, his steady voice out of place in the chaos around them.

"MSG, this is 75th," he said. "We're about to breach the southern wall. Watch your fire."

The radio crackled back to life almost instantly. "Copy that, 75th," came the reply, thick with relief. "We're ready for you."

He gave Magnus and Martinez a nod. Their momentary break was over. The real battle was just beginning.

The sound of their boots crunching on gravel as they sprinted toward the breach in the wall sounded like a siren going off, announcing their presence to the entire embassy. They moved through the darkness and chaos with adrenaline-fueled precision, honed through years of training. The street was eerily silent save for the distant cacophony of battle. Each building nearby suffered the pains of combat and strife, their once vibrant facades marred by bullet holes and explosions.

The scent of cordite stung their nostrils. The pulsating glow from burning vehicles and destroyed buildings and homes cast an eerie paleness over the city.

Two marines emerged from the shadows near the entrance, their weapons lowered as they moved toward Magnus and his squad. Relief flashed across their faces as they saw the three rangers who had answered the call for help. Only a nod was exchanged—a silent acknowledgment of shared duty.

The silent moment was shattered like a brick through a window as a group of enemy combatants appeared from around a corner of the building. The five men fell into formation, weapons raised. Martinez's rifle barked loudly in response to an enemy that revealed itself from behind a vehicle. Dawson's gun echoed his, the drums of death echoing across the ground.

Bullets found their targets, and bodies fell. This dance was one of survival, a lethal ballet choreographed in such a way that only one could live. Magnus’s eyes focused on their objective—they were close now, just a few meters away from the entrance.

Magnus took point, his weapon cutting down any opposition that dared to show themselves. Dawson and Martinez flanked him while the two marines held their ground at the entrance, providing cover fire for their approach.

Despite the limited ammunition and mounting odds, the three men moved as one—a united front against an enemy that sought to overwhelm them. Together however, they were a force to be reckoned with.

***

The flickering lights of the besieged embassy cast long shadows over each of the Ranger's harried expressions. Staff Sergeant Magnus, gripping his rifle tightly, scanned the ravaged room where they'd found Ambassador Sanderson huddled under a desk, his face pale and eyes wide with fear.

Two marines lay bleeding out next to the door, having held back the unfriendlies that had breached the walls and made it into the building.

When word came that the embassy was under attack, they had chosen to assist, leaving the protection of their safe house, which was only thirty minutes away. Magnus’s squad had been there for a different mission, and now they were rerouted, given a task not normally meant for them.

“They were red ammo,” Martinez said as he came to where Magnus was. “I’m surprised they held out so long. You saw how many we killed. Imagine if we hadn’t chosen to come.”

Nodding but ignoring him for a moment, Magnus held his radio up again.

"75th to Command, we have the package, but we're pinned down. Ammo is running low, I repeat, ammo is running low. We need extraction ASAP!" Magnus barked into his radio, only to be answered with static. His eyes met those of his second-in-command, Martinez, who nodded grimly, his magazine almost empty. They had checked every fallen marine, finding no ammo on any of them, every clip empty, which meant they had finally fallen.

Outside, the chaotic cacophony of gunfire and explosions continued unabated, a grim symphony to their dire situation. They had expected resistance, but the ferocity of the attack had caught them off guard. When the call had gone out, all they knew was limited intel on an assault. Every minute they drove toward the embassy had been another update on a battle they weren’t prepared for.

None of the marines who guarded the embassy were left inside, having been forced to deal with the increasing number of hostile forces coming through the multiple openings in the wall and at the gate. The local insurgents, who were better armed and more organized than intel said, had surrounded the embassy, breaking through the gates and overwhelming things instantly.

After tinkering with the radio and trying desperately to establish a clear line, their communications expert, Dawson, growled, "Evac arrives in five on the roof."

“The flag was still up,” Martinez said quickly.

Grimacing, Magnus nodded. For now, the embassy hadn’t fallen completely. No matter what was going on outside, their choices were limited.

“If we stay here and wait for air support, we might get overrun. Five minutes is a—”

A massive explosion rocked the building, raining bits of mortar and plaster from the ceiling onto their heads, cutting off Magnus’s words. Dust materialized from all around and was sent airborne by the vibrations.

“Looks like we need to move. Sitting here is like shooting ducks in a barrel,” Dawson said quickly.

Magnus peered through a shattered window, assessing their situation. The courtyard was a death trap, swarming with insurgents. Their only chance was the roof, but that meant crossing two long sections of possible enemy territory.

"We move now," Magnus decided, turning to his team. "Martinez, take point. Dawson, keep the radio line open. We're not dying here today. Ambassador, hug my six, and don’t let go. We need to move!"

“But—”

“Don’t!” Magnus snapped at the overweight man, his suit wrinkled and covered in dirt and sweat. “We move now! Staying here is certain death!”

Glancing over his shoulder, Magnus nodded at Dawson, who was bringing up the rear and communicating with hand signals. Every step was a risk, every corner a potential ambush. They traveled through the dark hallways, only the glow of the emergency lights providing help to see. His pulse raced as distant gunfire reverberated through the building.

With his thermals on, Martinez grunted and motioned ahead.

Moving along the first floor, chaos erupted. Insurgents, having breached the perimeter, stormed the hallway through the open front door, opening fire. Bullets whizzed past, plaster and dust filling the air. Martinez returned fire, his shots calculated and precise, providing cover as the team ducked into an alcove set within the hallway.

"Contact!"

Bodies hit the floor, sliding across the tile as they took turns, each shot ending the life of another hostile. What might have seemed like minutes was less than thirty seconds. The hallway near the open door went silent for a moment.

"Red ammo," Magnus whispered.

"Two mags," Martinez reported.

"One and a half," added Dawson.

Magnus nodded, conserving his words and bullets. Every shot had to count.

Dawson held up one hand while covering his ear with the other right before Martinez took point. The redneck from Texas, who always had a smile, lost it as he listened to their tactical eyes and ears.

“Overwatch says we have a massive crowd of unfriendlies coming through the walls,” he stated, frowning as he spoke. “We need to move now.”

Spitting on the ground, Martinez shook his head as he scowled at Magnus. “You were right… those bastards in HQ screwed us.”

“Can it. We all know what we signed up for,” Magnus replied quietly, holding a mirror out around a corner to check for unfriendlies. “We’ve been in worse, and you two know it. Remember Columbia?”

The other two chuckled, and the overweight man anxiously looked at them, sweat pouring down his face.

“Aren’t we needing to move?” Ambassador Sanderson asked.

“Sure,” Martinez said, grinning like the predator he was. “You can lead if you want.”

Swallowing whatever words he had considered saying, their package went quiet, shaking his head quickly.

They pressed on, the weight of their responsibility heavy upon them. This man had taken part in uncovering corruption within a military branch. HQ was adamant someone had found out and would take him out. Seeing how badly things were going and how wrong their intel was, Magnus wondered what kind of hot mess they had stepped in.

The ambassador, though scared, kept pace, fueled by the instinct to survive. They reached the final hallway, the stairs to the roof just a sprint away. But as they prepared to move, an explosion of an RPG rocked the reinforced wall near them, sending them sprawling.

A deafening silence filled the hallway as the shockwave from the RPG blast settled. The air was thick with dust, plaster, and concrete bits swirling around them. Magnus pushed himself up from the rubble-strewn floor, his ears ringing and his vision blurred.

He could see Dawson and Martinez, mere shadows in the dusty haze, struggling to regain their footing. Ambassador Sanderson lay flat on his back, his eyes wide with terror.

A pungent smell of burned plaster and cordite filled the air, choking them as they tried to draw breath. Magnus could taste the bitter dust in his mouth as he shouted, "On your feet! We're not done yet!"

He barely heard his own voice, but he saw Dawson nod, gripping his rifle tighter as he pulled himself up. The once pristine hallway was now a war-torn battlefield, walls scarred with shrapnel marks and debris scattered all around them.

Magnus checked his weapon—only a few rounds left. He grimaced at the realization that they were running on fumes.

Suddenly, shadows emerged from the dust cloud at the far end of the hallway—unfriendlies pouring through the gaping hole left by the RPG. Their shouts were muffled by Magnus’s ringing ears, but their intentions were clear as day.

Martinez let out a low growl, his knuckles white against his rifle's grip. His usual smile was gone, replaced by a determined scowl. "Looks like we've got company," he grunted.

The first bullet cut through the dusty air like a blade through water. Magnus saw it coming in slow motion—an ugly reminder of their grim reality.

He dove for cover behind a fallen slab of concrete just as another round whizzed past where he had been standing seconds ago. Martinez and Dawson followed suit, taking positions behind whatever cover they could find.

With their backs against the wall and ammunition running low, the three soldiers fought with fierce determination. Every shot had to count. Every move had to be calculated. There was no room for error.

Martinez's rifle barked, the sound echoing through the hallway as he took down an enemy rushing toward them. Dawson, crouched behind a shattered door frame, provided cover fire while Magnus assessed their situation.

The unfriendlies were closing in, their bullets chipping away at their cover. Magnus could hear their shouts growing louder, their footsteps echoing on the concrete floor.

The situation was dire, but they were far from beaten. They had faced worse odds before and emerged victorious. This was just another fight—one they couldn't afford to lose.

The hallway was fifty yards long, and the area they needed to reach felt so far away. Windows on the left side of it provided a glimpse at the chaos outside. The marines that had been guarding this place were all down.

Martinez’s rifle barked, one, two, three, four. Each shot took down a man in a group at the end of the hallway. They carried nothing except machetes, but their presence at that end of the hall made things worse. Insurgents had picked up the weapons those brave marines had used, only to find them empty.

“Stairwell may be compromised; be ready, let’s go!”

Stolen novel; please report.

Every ten feet was a window, and staying close to it was a horrible decision, but being against the other wall meant being exposed if someone looked through it. More enemies made their way into the end of the hall, shots ringing out.

“Frag out!” Martinez exclaimed as he tossed a grenade near the end of the hallway into a pack of eight, shouting and coming at them.

Dawson’s gun started to announce the enemies coming from behind.

“We’re boxed in!” Dawson yelled as he emptied his mag. “Red ammo!”

Magnus spun, pushing the ambassador to the floor and ignoring the protest the man gave.

His rifle brought death with every shot. As he pulled the trigger one last time, Magnus heard the click. “Red ammo!”

Without hesitating, he let go of his rifle, letting it hang from his chest, pulling his sidearm out.

“Green ammo,” Dawson announced, his rifle back in action.

“Frag out!” Magnus said as he threw another grenade toward the pack of insurgents that seemed never to end. The red mist that came as it exploded seemed to buy them a little bit of time.

“Move up!” he ordered, grabbing the package and pulling the man to his knees. “Stay low!”

Every foot they gained cost an enemy their life. The last of their grenades had gotten them halfway, and both Martinez and Dawson had called out red ammo at some point, switching to their side arms and making shots most couldn’t imagine while standing at a range, let alone under this pressure.

They were Rangers, and they weren’t like others.

Two-thirds of the way there, shouting came from the courtyard, and Magnus risked a quick glance out the window, wanting to see the commotion. Popping his head up for half a second, he caught sight of an unfriendly hefting something to his shoulder. “Get down!” Magnus shouted.

***

Magnus’s hearing was muffled. It took several more attempts of blinking his eyes to reveal to him just how bad the situation was. Far worse than he had feared.

Martinez and Dawson were both down. Fragments of the wall from the second RPG littered the dim hallway. Small, sporadic fires of couches, desks, curtains, and other items cast an eerie glow everywhere. The smell was horrible, as the scent of burning fibers, paint, and wood mixed, creating a cloud of smoke that assaulted not only his lungs but also his nose.

The rocket had hit near them, creating a massive hole in the wall and burying them under brick and rubble.

His team was down, and Magnus could smell the ambassador had pissed his pants. Someone had decided this man was worth all this. They wouldn’t like it when Magnus shared his thoughts about whether it was true.

Rolling over, ignoring the pain, Magnus made his way to Martinez first. Pain worse than any physical kind tore through him when he learned he was gone. Rolling him over, Magnus shut his eyes and said a quick prayer. Pain that he couldn’t carry Martinez to the extraction point overwhelmed him.

Someone will come and get you!

His leg screamed against his continued movement, but Dawson hadn’t reacted at all in the past few moments either. Two fingers against his brother's artery told Magnus the truth he already knew. They were both gone.

Later… honor them later… mission first… head down… find a way…

Those words echoed in Magnus’s head as he took a second to say goodbye.

The ringing in his ears made it impossible for him to understand the words coming through his earpiece. However, the distinct noise of a helicopter’s blades moving overhead overcame his hearing problem. Magnus recognized the sweet sound of the 50 cal on that Blackhawk above. His mind screamed a question that wasn’t answered. He could barely hear the one 50 cal and an almost silent whine of miniguns from the side.

There should be at least another Blackhawk or two! Where are all the other reinforcements?!

Pain lanced through his leg, arm, and chest, where brick and reinforced metal had punctured him in multiple places.

“What do we do?!”

That whiny voice came again. He had ignored it for a moment, but it kept repeating itself.

Magnus shook his head, clearing the cobwebs. His body moved on its own. It didn’t need him to tell it what to do. Hundreds of hours of training had made everything muscle memory.

Moving to where the ambassador was, crouched between his fallen brothers, Magnus gave the man a once-over. Ambassador Sanderson winced when he touched the shallow cut on the man’s left arm.

“We need to move! Stay behind me!”

High-pitched words came again from the man, but Magnus didn’t care to spend the effort to try to understand the ambassador. Checking his sidearm, Magnus saw what was left.

Ten shots…

Shadows and sounds of the terrorists who had whipped up the local populace were coming from up ahead. They were inside, and he had ten bullets left in his sidearm. Everyone else had run dry, fighting through the hallways to get this far.

A flash of metal caught his eye, and Magnus moved quickly to where Dawson’s body was. There was the tomahawk strapped to his leg that they took turns carrying, based on who had won the right to bring it on the next mission. Undoing the Velcro and freeing it, he smirked. They had spent almost 100 hours training with this weapon. An old member of the 75th had given each of them one year ago and shared stories of how he had used his to survive a mission gone wrong.

Would that even work? It seems these assholes have more RPGs than rifles… no… it has to.

Checking behind him, the ambassador held onto his tattered backpack. As Magnus moved forward, the pain in his body called out, but his mind shut it down. This was nothing.

Keep your head down. Find a way! Finish the mission!

Those words filled him as he bent down and moved quickly past the hole in the wall.

Three terrorists burst around a corner, brandishing machetes. Target practice. His body reacted instinctively. His gun barked three times.

Chest. Chest. Head.

The three men dropped like bags of corn.

His mind fought to stay focused, pushing back the memories of growing up on the farm with his parents. Magnus knew the blood he was losing everywhere would catch up if he didn’t hurry.

The noise began to come into focus as the ringing started to vanish, and soon, he was nearing the corner that would lead toward the stairs.

Shouting and yelling were coming closer. They could make it, but he needed to hurry.

Glancing over his shoulder, Magnus fought back the anger and pain of his two fallen friends.

Shouts came again, and he snapped his head forward, ignoring the pain that the sudden move had caused. He saw a group of men turning the corner.

With the softest touch one could have, Magnus’s finger pulled the trigger, and a masterpiece of death rang out like a concert pianist.

***

Magnus’s lungs burned, and more blood flowed as he limped toward the stairs.

How many have I killed? How many are left?

Over thirty men were dead, cut down with the axe in his right hand or the knife he always carried in his left. He had cuts that cried out in pain, but operators pushed through the pain. Years of training kept that weakness locked behind a wall.

“Go! Up the stairs!” Magnus barked, struggling to keep his breathing steady. “Chopper is there!”

Without a word of thanks, the overweight man scrambled past him toward the stairs like a dog. He hadn’t expected or believed the man might offer a thank you for saving his fat ass, yet the lack of it left a bad taste in Magnus’s mouth.

How does someone like him get a position like this?

The sounds Magnus had heard were almost upon him. Blood and sweat filled his eyes, so Magnus used his wrist to stop the torrent that seemed to be flowing so quickly.

Eight? No… nine…

They came charging, yelling loudly, and waving their blades. Some pointed to the ambassador halfway to the top of the stairs leading to the roof and safety. They called out to capture both of them.

Magnus smirked as he stared at the fools. Capturing the ambassador would mean that Martinez and Dawson’s deaths would be in vain, and he wasn’t going to allow that to happen.

The fat man needed more time if he was going to make it. With no reinforcements at the top of the stairs to help, success now fell completely on his shoulders. Grinning like a monster, Magnus bared his teeth.

I’ll give that fat bastard all the time he needs…

Grateful for how it appeared they had run out of bullets just as he had, Magnus couldn't help but acknowledge their commitment. Two sides, neither willing to back down.

Roaring with a rage that welled up from within, Magnus’s body moved on its own.

“Tip of the spear & second to none!” Magnus shouted as he faced them.

His axe and knife became one with his body. Tactics had been drilled into him for years. He held the high ground at the base of the stairwell, and against this many, it was the best place for now.

The first man rushed at him, leaning forward and off balance. The insurgent’s swing was about as awful as one could imagine. A slight step to the side, followed by a quick chop, put the blade deep into the man’s skull before momentum tore it free.

The nine men swarmed like wasps, blades glinting ominously under the harsh fluorescent lights. But Magnus, bloodied and battered, held his ground at the base of the stairwell. His body ached from a dozen wounds, but he had been trained to endure. To survive.

He met their frenzied onslaught with cold, calculated fury. The tomahawk in his right hand cut through the air, singing its deadly song. Each swing found its mark—a skull cracked open, a neck sliced clean. The knife in his left hand danced in tandem with its larger partner, puncturing chests and severing arteries.

The acrid taste of iron filled Magnus’s mouth as blood spattered his face. His wounds seeped crimson life onto the cold concrete beneath him. But still, he fought on, his vision blurring red at the edges.

A man lunged at him from the right, a savage roar ripping from his throat. Magnus pivoted on his heel, driving his tomahawk into the man's chest with a sickening crunch. As he yanked it free, another attacker fell upon him.

His knife met this new threat with lethal precision—a swift jab to the throat, and the man was down, choking on his own blood.

Sweat mixed with blood ran into Magnus’s eyes, stinging them and clouding his vision. He blinked rapidly to clear it away, just in time to see another attacker rushing toward him.

This one was larger than the rest, muscles straining against the fabric of his dirty shirt as he swung his machete with all his might. Magnus barely managed to dodge the deadly arc of steel, feeling it whistle past him so close that it grazed his cheek.

Grimacing against the sting of fresh blood trickling down his face, Magnus retaliated with brutal force. His tomahawk cleaved through muscle and bone, leaving the man a crumpled heap on the floor.

The air grew thick with the coppery stench of blood and the gut-wrenching odor of viscera. Magnus could taste it on his tongue—the gritty tang of blood and sweat, the sour hint of fear. But he didn't let it faze him.

One by one, he whittled down their numbers until only he remained standing. The stairwell was a grotesque tableau of carnage, bodies littering the floor in a macabre display.

But there was no time to dwell on it. He could hear more voices echoing from below, a cacophony of rage and bloodlust. He tightened his grip on his weapons, ready to meet whatever came next. His body screamed in protest, but he forced himself to stand tall. He had a mission to complete, and he wouldn't let anything stand in his way.

Like a dam that had broken, it suddenly seemed that there was no end to the carnage around Magnus. A dance of death, blades whirling and connecting, took place. Bodies fell, and more came. He stumbled over the corpses, over the men crying from a missing arm or a broken collarbone.

The lucky ones died quickly, and the unlucky ones found out what kind of demon Magnus was with a weapon he had grown up with his whole life. This one wasn’t meant to fell trees. Its purpose was now changed, forged into an instrument of pain.

Magnus wasn’t unscathed. His legs, arms, chest, and back all lost the precious red liquid required to fuel the beast that he was. Every cut drove him on, his eyes vibrating with a rage that never gave in.

A song began to sound in his head, and it encouraged the dance of death. The hallway he pushed back through seemed brighter as if the roof had vanished completely. White light seemed to pour down on him as more men fell.

Gasping for air, a ragged breath came that was more of a wheeze. Yanking the pointed tip of the axe from the man’s skull who was trembling before him, Magnus watched him fall to the tiled floor of the embassy.

Scanning the area, he saw no one else coming. Only two sounds could be heard: the sound of female voices singing a most glorious song and the groaning of the men he had struck down.

As his knees gave out, Magnus felt a pair of arms catch him.

Blearily looking up, he expected to see the extraction team. Instead, Magnus found the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

Her hair was blond, so bright it seemed to glow. She wore a winged metal helmet, and a spear was on her back. Behind her stood a powerful stallion. The smile on her face made him feel at peace even while his mind struggled to understand what was taking place.

“You fought well, son of Odin,” she said. Her voice was calming, filling his tired body with a power he couldn’t begin to describe. “Rest, he is waiting for you.”

The light became like a supernova, encompassing everything with its blinding brilliance.

Magnus closed his eyes.

‎