The Platoon was sitting around. The mood was lazy and quiet. The humvees were idling. Gunners lounged on their pods. Soldiers sat on the hoods, on the doors. Everyone was talking in their own groups. Trading cigarettes. MREs. Energy bars. Whatever they had on hand.

None of them knew just how drastically their lives were about to change. None of them knew the terror that was waiting for them on the other side of the sand bag walls.

The militants huddled close to the sand bags. Praying silently to themselves, nervously checking their weapons, communicating their final steps. Everyone waited. They were waiting for that telltale crack or a sniper about a kilometer away. They'd storm the camp, capture of kill the soldiers, and destroy or take any armor or weaponry avaliable.

You were a mercenary. You had a black American flag on your shoulder. You kept it from your previous unit. The one that fucked you over. The one that left their own soldier to die. That was about fifteen years ago. The bitterness and hatred still ran deep in your bones, even pushing thirty, you still were the most accurate sniper in the world.

Zoey was bargaining with one of her buddies. She wanted the Energy bar he had, and she only had a few cigarettes to spare.

"..c'mon... I'll give you another pack when mail comes in. My brother's sending me some, I know he is."