September 2070. Usmacinta River. The border between the United Nations of America and Guatemala.

The moon hung heavy in the sky, casting its gaze on the small flotilla of inflatable boats crossing the tenebrous ribbon of water. It watched as the private military contractors cut their engines at the halfway point and switched to oars to conceal their presence better.

It was a futile gesture to the celestial orb, for though the dark velvety sky shrouded the land below, there were no clouds to obstruct its vision. It saw clearly as their boats brushed against the Guatemalan shore and their occupants clambered out. Uninterested and far removed from the machinations of man, it sat as a silent seer–a cursed companion. The night was pregnant with the knowledge that if the moon could see them, so might their adversaries.

Liam Ward, the leader of those shadow warriors, took stock of the surrounding jungle. The sound of his movements swallowed by the wind that whispered through the dense forest, an ancient language chanting the ritual rites of blood and violence.

He adjusted his night vision goggles, ensuring his predator’s eyes wouldn’t jar loose or become an encumbrance in the fighting to come. His gaze swept across the trees, revealing their details in light blue tones, near enough to day-time conditions that the cloak of night became their protection rather than their weakness—that ancient fear of the dark weaponized by technology and tactics.

His earpiece buzzed with low, measured voices coordinating every move. His own utterances added to the call of the hunt, a pack leader directing his black wolves to the path. Their boots made no sound as they moved with lupine grace, stirring up the scents of moldering foliage and wet earth. As they approached their target, the pack dropped into a synchronized low crouch; the silence interrupted only by the chirping of distant crickets and the occasional bark of a too-aware dog.

They reached the perimeter of their objection, a village if one could call it that. Though Liam didn’t think a collection of dilapidated huts and makeshift shanties, huddled together like plague-sick orphans, counted as an example of civilized society. Still, it wasn’t his decision on what counted as a legitimate target and what did not.

Intelligence had revealed the village harbored a dangerous terrorist organization, an unseen hand, responsible for the rocket and small arms attacks that peppered their national borders. Liam’s mission was simple–purge this village, collect any intelligence, and burn it to the ground. To once again be the modern sin-eaters their nation needed, cleansing the blight along their frontier.

Liam pointed to the nearest metallic hut, its door warped by time and weather to hold it permanently ajar, and signaled to his men. A faint amber glow issued from the depths of the construction, one of the few signs of activity in the sleep-smothered gathering.

Two of his companions, Davis and Gonzales crept forward to the edge of the perimeter trees, preparing to breach their target.

Suddenly, a sharp twang resonated through the air, like a piano wire snapping. Almost instantly, the peace was shattered by a launched projectile's muffled thump and piercing whistle as it reached for the stars. The missile exploded above the village, casting the scene in a white phosphorous glow, an artificial sun of nefarious purpose.

Liam hissed as his night vision was overwhelmed, and he quickly pulled them away from his eyes. In the brief moment of distraction, his position was overrun by the thunderous roar of gunfire. Bullets pelted the ground, throwing up miniature geysers of rich mud. More rounds zipped past the team, their metallic shells reflecting the light above and turning them into short-lived fireflies. Showers of sparks and muted grunts of pain accompanied their passage as Liam’s team was winged.

Operating purely by instinct and decades of experience, Liam dropped to the ground to reduce his profile. He was sighting down his rifle when his assailants emerged from the sinuously shifting shadows of their home. They converged on his team's position like a platoon of wooden puppets, their strings cut and their actions jerky and uncoordinated. Their ghoul-like visages and feverish eyes, the product of years of starvation, were fixed on Liam’s location with manic intensity.

“Contact front!” Liam shouted while furiously pumping his trigger. What had been supposed to be a stealthy operation had descended into chaotic hell.

The contractors rallied and took firing positions, using the dense foliage as cover and concealment. They held position, choosing to exchange bullet for bullet. Although outnumbered, Liam’s men were better trained, better equipped, and didn’t suffer from the same malnutrition and poor living conditions that sapped the strength of their enemy.

The contractors scythed the enemy down, leaving space for Davis and Gonzeles to pull back to their team's position. When they had nearly reached the unofficial line that demarcated relative safety from certain death, a chilling cry pierced the sound of gunfire.

“Mortars!” Yelled Rodriguez, another team member, as the shrill herald of incoming rounds carried over the confrontation. Explosions erupted around the contractors, throwing dirt and debris while turning trees into toothpick shrapnel of lethal infection.

Liam’s earpiece lit up with frantic calls for support. “Pull back! Pull back!” he ordered, rising from his prone position while firing his weapon at zombified targets. The bright light of the phosphorous flare painted the tableau in heavy blacks and whites as he picked off one attacker after the other.

Davis was hit, clutching his shoulder and letting out a guttural scream. Still, ever the professional soldier, he didn’t drop the rifle clutched in his wounded limb. Without hesitation, Turner, the team’s medic, snaked forward to pull him to cover behind a nearby copse of trees. Working quickly, the battlefield healer applied a bandage, doing his best to staunch the crimson rivulets that soaked through his tactical gloves and the gray uniform below.

Liam laid down suppressive fire, allowing Gonzales to flank from the left. Grenades exploded, shedding their explosive payload and sending their adversaries sprawling. Though the enemy was slowly repelled, they were in danger of losing control of the situation if those mortars continued their fiery barrage.

Amidst the chaotic churn of the battlefield and the hail of bullets, Liam spotted the origin of their troubles—the enemy’s mortar position, slightly uphill from the village and nestled between two ancient, moss-covered boulders. He couldn’t detect the tubes himself, but he saw the shadowy figures running with arms full of ammunition to keep them supplied.

“Valor Actual to Command, we need air support, NOW! We have an active mortar site,” Liam barked into his comms, his voice determined as he considered the alternatives. They would need to conduct a fighting retreat unless the shelling could be stopped. Even if they did make it back to the boats, they’d be sitting ducks on the river while the adversary took potshots from the shore.

“Acknowledged, Valor Actual–send us coordinates.” Command responded.

“Copy, Command. Transmitting coordinates and targeting position with a laser.” Liam quickly ducked to check the screen mounted on the inside of his forearm. He briefly noted the screen was cracked on one edge as he entered the approximate position of the mortar tubes.

When he was done, he used a tree for cover while using the laser on his rifle to mark the two stones concealing the enemy.

“Coordinates received, Valor Actual. Bird in the sky. ETA 3 minutes,” Command’s voice crackled through.

The minutes that followed felt like hours for the pinned team. Though hampered by the continuous shelling, the contractors fought viciously, keeping the enemy at bay. Their ammunition was dwindling, and the weight of the situation bore heavily on Liam’s shoulders, the cries of pain punctuating the urgent need for that airstrike.

In the distance, the distinct roar of jet engines shook the night sky. A UNA fighter jet, sleek and menacing, appeared on the horizon, racing toward the village.

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As it reached the designated coordinates, the aircraft released a precision-guided air-to-ground missile from a concealed weapons rack. Liam and the team watched as the missiles arched gracefully down, homing in on the pair of boulders.

The explosion was deafening. A brilliant orange fireball erupted from the mortar pit, followed by a thick column of black smoke. The ground trembled, and a shockwave of pressurized super-heated air rippled through the surroundings, splintering trees and scattering decrepit buildings like a toddler kicking over their toys. The enemy’s mortar position was decimated, and the immediate threat was neutralized.

The Guatemalans found themselves in the same position they caught the contractors in, and the turnabout was fair play. Liam and his team flowed from the woods like spectral reapers. They cut down the disoriented enemy in a wave of blood and fire. They quickly caught their momentum and poured into the pillage like a murderous wave.

As Liam drank his fill of blood and death, the fire in his heart cooled until each mechanical pull of the trigger felt like the mundane work of a butcher than the noble cause of a warrior. He was cutting down sickly, starving creatures that were likely to have died all on their own in the coming months and years. All he was doing was hastening their journey to the afterlife.

Soon, the village had been cleared of combatants and those that supported them. No one was spared, for the UNA had a policy toward terrorists. If you didn’t pull out the weed, root and branch, you only left the seeds for more terrorists to grow.

They didn’t find much after searching the dilapidated buildings. There were no secret plans, no elaborate logistics routes, just a dwindling stockpile of U.S.-issued meals-ready-to-eat and ammunition—artifacts from a time long passed, and a country long morphed into something else entirely.

Liam didn’t let his maudlin rise to the surface of his face. He congratulated each of his men and personally checked on the wounded. Despite the surprise ambush, all his people would be returning to base—if not going back home. Their contract still had more than a year left. That’s all they had left to look forward to, another year of killing the helpless and kicking over their toys. It wasn’t the admirable and essential work they had thought they’d get by signing up with Valorus.

As dawn’s first light started to color the horizon, painting the sky in hues of pink and orange, Liam and his contractors made their way back to their infiltration point along the river that marked the boundary between enemy territory and their national borders.

The river, with its calm, deep blue-green waters, contrasted starkly with the chaos they had just survived. Mist hovered over the surface, reflecting the sky’s transitioning colors and lending it an ethereal quality.

The contractors moved with practiced efficiency. Exhausted and battered, their faces were streaked with sweat, dirt, face paint, and gunpowder. Their gear clinked softly, and the faint murmur of pain and relief filled the air as they tended to their injuries. Davis, with his bandaged shoulder, grimaced with every step but pushed on while Turner hovered nearby.

Liam led the way, eyes scanning the environment but feeling more exhausted than most. He wasn’t a young man anymore, and his breath was ragged as he tried to ignore the message his body was trying to communicate. Every joint ached, and his muscles were trembling. His ears still rang from the echoes of mortars, grenades, and precision-guided missiles. He knew he couldn’t be on the front lines much longer, but he wasn’t sure he was qualified to do anything else.

They found their means of exfiltration at the river's edge–their inflatable boats, carefully camouflaged with foliage. Gonzalez and Rodriguez began the routine task of readying the boats, checking the motors, and inflating the rubber sides to their total capacity.

Within minutes, the boats were in the water, and Liam and his team boarded swiftly, their weapons at the ready. With the pull of the starter cords, the motors roared to life, disrupting the idyllic river and creating ripples across the serene water.

As they crossed the waterway, the waves splashed up in hypnotic patterns, and the sun continued its ascent, casting a golden glow on the tired warriors. Birds started their morning symphonies, and somewhere in the distance, a deer came to drink, casting uncertain glances at the passing boats.

Reaching the opposite bank, vehicles waited to take them to base. They deflated the boats, stowed them in a nearby boathouse where they could be pulled out for another mission, and boarded the military transports.

After another hour of travel through rugged jungle terrain and crumbling infrastructure, the sight of their base came into view—a fortified compound with watchtowers, helipads, flight lines, and bustling activity. UNA soldiers patrolled the perimeter, the red, blue, and green national flag on their shoulders bright against the jungle camouflage uniforms.

Liam’s convoy passed through the front gates without incident, and when they came to a stop, Liam sighed in relief as his boots touched the safety of the asphalt. He felt a weight lift from his shoulders while he did a final headcount. There would be debriefings, medical check-ups, and equipment audits, but for now, they needed food and rest.

“Alright, boys get some chow and hit the rack,” he ordered. “Mission debrief tomorrow at 0800.”

One by one, the contractors dispersed with grim nods, their steps heavy with fatigue but also with the heady energy of surviving another mission. They walked to the chow hall or their quarters as solitary figures, united only by credits and circumstance. There were no words of gratitude or looks of admiration from the uniformed soldiers. They were merely contractors—hired killers that served an unsavory, if necessary, purpose.

The base was alive with activity as Liam traveled its length, but all he wanted was the quiet of his quarters. His room was spartan, just the basics—a single cot with a thin mattress, a metal locker for his personal belongings, a small desk, and a chair. The walls were bare, save for a single photo of his family, taken years ago during a rare reunion. It was a functional place to rest and refit before the next mission, not a home.

He removed his tactical vest and placed his weapon on the desk, the weight of the night still pressing on his shoulders. His gaze drifted to the photo—a happy memory of a time when things were simpler. His parents and little sister, all smiling, stood arm in arm while a much younger Liam stood beside them, proud in his newly acquired Army special operations uniform.

His cell phone, left on the edge of his bed for the mission, caught his attention. The screen displayed a missed call from “Dad.” He frowned’ his father rarely called outside of their scheduled weekly updates. They were close, but his dad had lived a version of the life Liam now occupied. He knew it was hard to stay in contact when separated by geography and duty.

Curiosity tinged with apprehension, Liam dialed his voicemail. He heard his father's familiar, gravelly voice, but the tone was different—heavy, filled with the kind of pain Liam hadn’t heard before.

“Liam…son, I wish I could talk to you in person. It’s about your mom…the doctors…they’ve diagnosed her with cancer. It’s…bad. They aren’t sure how long she has, maybe a few years, at best, a decade. I wanted you to hear it from me. Call back when you can.”

The weight of the words hit Liam like a tidal wave, causing his legs to buckle slightly. He sank onto his cot, the cell phone still clutched in his hand. The noises of the base faded into the background, replaced by the rush of memories—his mother's laughter, her warm embrace, the way she always believed in him, even when he doubted himself. The brightest moments when she would chuckle and say, “You’re just like your dad,” the highest form of compliment his younger self could ever aspire to.

His world, which had always been defined by the clarity of missions and the brotherhood of his team, suddenly felt fragile and uncertain. The warrior, who had faced countless adversaries without flinching, now grappled with a different kind of battle.

Intellectually, he knew his parents would die someday, but when they survived the pandemic when so many others didn’t, they had taken on an almost mythical existence in his mind. They were as true and ever-present as the laws of gravity or the planet's rotation. His mom couldn’t just die—he wasn’t ready for it.

After what felt like hours, Liam composed himself. As much as he dearly wanted to dial his father’s number, he needed to call someone else first. He navigated his contracts for “Amal Jarah,” his oldest mentor and the Chief Executive Officer for Valorus, the security company Liam worked for.

“Hey, Liam,” Amal picked up. “A little busy—I’ve only got fifteen minutes.”

“Amal,” Liam’s voice croaked. “I need to take some leave.”

“Woah, brother. What’s going on?”

“My dad called,” Liam quietly explained. “My mom is real sick—the docs are saying she’s got cancer. I don’t have a lot of details, but I need to visit them. I would hate not to be there if…”

Amal sighed, the plight of his friend profoundly affecting him. “Of course, brother. I’ll get headquarters to get a flight approved up here. The UNA doesn’t like to approve emergency requests like these, but I’ve got a Party contact in the Transportation Bureau. We’ll make it happen.”

“Thanks, Amal.”

“That’s what brothers are for. I’ll have someone pick you up from the airport and get you to HQ. You can take that crapbox of a truck the rest of the way.”

Liam smiled despite the pain. His mentor was just trying to make him feel better with a long-running joke, and the younger man appreciated the effort. He hung up on his boss after promising to check in and stared at the phone in his hand.

He dialed his father’s number with a heft helping of trepidation, preparing for one the most challenging conversations of his life. The battlefield had taught him courage and resilience, but now, he would need those traits more than ever to face the realities of a world insulated from the front lines.