​🇵​​🇱​​🇪​​🇦​​🇸​​🇪​ ​🇸​​🇹​​🇴​​🇵​ ​🇭​​🇦​​🇺​​🇳​​🇹​​🇮​​🇳​​🇬​ ​🇲​​🇾​ ​🇩​​🇷​​🇪​​🇦​​🇲​​🇸​. ​🇱​​🇪​​🇹​ ​🇲​​🇪​ ​🇷​​🇪​​🇸​​🇹​ ​🇪​​🇦​​🇸​​🇾​, ​🇵​​🇱​​🇪​​🇦​​🇸​​🇪​.

Three of my friends have just been shot and carried away. Though they're not dead, they're unable to remain on the battlefield with the rest of us. I crouch against the back of a car, its doors and windows removed by the force of the very turret that immobilized my friends.

"Reloading," my teammate, Ash, yells out from across the street. He's ducked behind a brick fence that's guarding a Mediterranean-style house. Though he's barely audible over the sounds of gunfire, explosions, and the city crumbling under the chaos, the enemy hears him.

The Jeep cruising down the street comes to an abrupt stop. Its tires let out a screech and paint thick lines on the asphalt.

"Oye, un cabron está allí!" We turn to the man on the turret at the end of the street. He's aiming in Ash's direction, and the weapon rotates like an owl's head as the driver veers around, making a sharp U-turn.

My stomach drops as I watch Ash fumbling with his magazines, his gloved hands trembling as the enemy approaches. One of our teammates, Juno, jumps out of hiding and peppers the windshield with his semi-automatic. He's decked out in tactical gear like the rest of us but has his mask dangling on his belt loop.

With no time to think, I take a deep breath and hold it in as I stand to my full height. I join the others, spraying the incoming Jeep with all we have.

Ash weaves around right when the skinny man aims his weapon at the first person to jump to his defense. He unleashes hundreds of rounds at Juno and the stray bullets ricochet off the pavement in a white cloud of smoke. He sends our fellow soldier flying backward, his gun falling where he once stood.

My jaw drops, but my finger only tightens around the trigger. I add pressure to it like I'm pressing my foot against the gas and flooring a vehicle. I gnash my teeth. My heart pounds so loudly that it fills my ears, and as it picks up speed, my periphery dims.

So far, I've witnessed twelve soldiers die, but Juno is different. He was only eighteen, fresh out of high school with a family waiting for him. A mother and a father lost their son, and, by the looks of his body as it flew past the yard Ash used for cover, they may not get to see him at his funeral.

One of our men is perched in a house close by. He's upstairs with a few others, wreaking havoc with their Mastiff shotguns and PKs.

"Incoming," he yells at the top of his lungs, a vein appearing along the side of his neck and his face turning red. He pulls a grenade pin and launches it at the Jeep.

"Take cover," I command Ash and the others fighting back. We retreat further down the street alongside a line of totaled vehicles, our boots stomping and our gear emitting shuffling sounds.

We make it to another Mediterranian-style house and duck behind the stucco fence. The ground shakes as the grenade booms, rattling trees. We press against the wall and watch shrapnel whistle past us. The side mirror lands in front of my teammate. The glass is shattered, and the metal is black like coal.

The olive tree above us stretches wide enough for us to bask in the much-needed shade after hours of fighting in the La Puerta heat. I raise a gloved hand to my forehead, only to hit my firm mask instead of sweat-laden skin.

"On three, we head back down the street, and meet up with Jake's group," I instruct them, my breath burning my eyes. They nod. "One." They lean off the wall with me. "Two." Their fingers flex around the handles before firmly gripping them. "Three!"

We rush into the street, greeted by the sight of a Jeep flipped onto its side, engulfed in flames. The tires have melted like cheese. The doors were blown off with the windows, and the man operating the turret was sent into the air. His mangled body lay atop a house on its red tile roof, his left arm and leg dangling off the edge.

Jake leads his group of seven out of the house with their weapons raised, crouch-walking like us. They spot us from the corner of their eyes and aim their guns, startled by what looked like enemies ambushing them. Seeing it's us, they exhale, stand to their full height, and drop their arms.

"Alpha and Bravo are en route," he says through heavy breaths. My men and I straighten our postures, our weapons lowered. Jake's mask is white with two black stripes going down his dark brown eyes like tire marks. "Walk with us around the neighborhood to make sure we didn't miss anyone."

We continue down the street, heading toward the Jeep. The fire sways and chews at the charred vehicle full of people hunched over.

Our military helicopters swarm the distant skies like buzzards circling a carcass. Some lower to retrieve fallen soldiers or drop off care packages while others spray the battlefield. The lines of deep orange and bright yellow rain down on the city of La Puerta like shooting stars, riddling the enemies hiding from us.

We turn the corner where Juno was killed. He's seated against a building with his back slouched and his arms limp between his spread legs. His gloved hands are folded over on the pavement like a gorilla walking on its knuckles. A line of fluid hangs from his lip—a mixture of saliva and dark red clotted blood—and I swallow my feelings as I avert my eyes ahead.

A man in dark cargo pants and a tank top sprints across the street from a nearby alley, running sidewalk to sidewalk. Our entourage flinch back and crouch down, our guns raised to our left. He retreated into a house from the open side door.

"On my command, flank him." I glance at Jake. He's five years older than me, but acts like he's twenty years my senior. Alpha and Bravo left him in charge of group A, then me for group B. With our teams merged, Jake takes it upon himself to be the captain. I let it go, knowing we have bigger problems.

He counts backward from three, then yells for us to go. We split into groups of two, Ash following my steps toward the backyard while the others hop through windows and march through the side door. He and I scan the small yard. The grass is green and high above our knees, littered with toys and a toppled basketball goal.

We spot the back door and shuffle through the grass with our weapons aimed and ready.

We walk across the linoleum kitchen, veering around the island cluttered with a bag of flour next to flattened dough, a vase of milk, and a carton of eggs. Jake meets us in the middle of the foyer right in front of an oak staircase against the wall.

"I need men sweeping the ground floor and standing guard in case he manages to sneak down here," Jake tells us, his brown eyes flicking between me and Ash. "Who will it be?" Five soldiers—three of his and two of mine—volunteer, and he nods in approval. "Alright. Now, the rest of you follow my command. He should be somewhere upstairs."

I narrow my eyes behind my mask but nod despite my disdain for being lowered to a pawn.

We take our time up the stairs, almost every step creaking under our weight. Some sound like they'll snap if more than one of us stands on them.

We stop on the second floor, facing two large and wide windows overlooking the city. I stay behind and check out the scene while the others creep through the square hall. Attack helicopters are still firing back. An object flies toward one and it bursts into flames like fireworks. Debris rain down as the once hovering vehicle dives to the ground.

"No me dispares, por favor," a woman cries out. I turn to the sound of her voice at the end of the hall and see a door on the left open. I run toward it and stop at the threshold. She's crouched behind one of the two twin beds in the room with her toddler in her arms. The little girl is in a long t-shirt and pajama pants, her small arms tight around her mother's neck and her face buried in the crook.

"Jorge, what's she saying," Jake asks a soldier from his team who lowers his weapon and ushers the others to do the same. We all listen to his orders and watch him cautiously approach the woman. Her black hair falls down her back in tight curls, a trait her little girl inherited though frizzy and short. Tears stream down her face and her body is shuddering.

He speaks to her in Spanish, his voice soft and calm while hers is jagged and fearful.

"Well, what's she saying?" The two look at Jake over Jorge's shoulder.

"To not shoot her and that the guy we want has her son." Jake squeezes his gun. He has a soft spot for kids, so knowing one is in danger makes him grit his teeth. "He's somewhere in,"  Jorge starts to tell us more, but the sound of gunfire interrupts him.

She gasps and tightens her embrace on her child as we whip around to face the hall. They run behind me to the stairs, leaving the woman to sob.

We step into the foyer and look around at our men strewn out on the floor. Bullet holes mar the orangish-red walls and a few hung family pictures. Fragments of shattered vases and glass crunch under our combat boots as we approach the living room.

It's in disarray as well with one soldier laying against the coffee table in a position identical to Juno's. Smoke lifts and sways from the hole between Ash's eyes, and my stomach churns.

A child is standing in front of the man who's bent down with his hands on the boy's shoulders and whispering in his ear. Their eyes are on us. The man's eyes are narrowed and full of evil, and a smirk mirrors the dark look in his eyes. The boy raises his trembling arms and aims a beretta at us. It shields the bottom half of his small face.

"Disparales, Matteo," he whispers while glaring at us. We stand our ground, our weapons aimed. For the first time in years, my heart is pounding out of fear for myself. I can't shoot him; I won't, which means I may die. The man glances at the boy, then yells the phrase.

The adolescent flinches as his finger jerks the trigger. A bullet hits Jorge in the shoulder and he groans as his other hand reaches around to apply pressure. He runs to take cover behind a grand piano near the archway. Tears fall from the kid's eyes, but the man smiles with all of his yellow teeth.

He screams the phrase again and again, and the kid unleashes bullet after bullet. Jake and I duck and scramble for cover in the foyer, but before we can turn the corner, he lets out a pained yell.

"I'm hit!" I look at him over my shoulder, my eyes wide and his as well. He tries to repeat the panicked phrase, but another bullet pierces the back of his head. Blood sprays my mask in a moment so quick, it'd be missed in the blink of an eye.

I lean against the wall, my chest rising and falling. My hands tremble and I swallow my nerves over a forming lump in my throat.

"Ayúdame, por favor," the boy cries out, his voice cracking. I shut my eyes and press my head against the wall, taking jagged breaths. His mother wails from upstairs.

I tell myself he's not a child and he's a danger to us all, anything to make this easier.

Finally, I muster up the courage to aim my gun at the kid and I pull the trigger. It clicks. Empty.

My eyes bulge and the kid lets off rounds in my direction, but I quickly return to my position. I watch pictures fall to the rubble and the bag of flour burst open.

One. Two. Three. Click!

My heart skips a beat and my mouth falls open. I drop my weapon and crawl to a soldier, taking his Mastiff. I push myself onto my feet and sprint toward the living room archway. Jorge lifts his weapon at the kid as he's handed another pistol. The two go back and forth, the staccato of their weapons filling the house.

I take a breath, then pull the trigger while gnashing my teeth. I spray the child until he falls to the ground with the gun in hand. Jorge fires a single shot that drops the man before he's able to reach for a weapon.

-----

I jolt upright, panting like my lungs have collapsed. As I clutch my chest, my wife sits up just as quickly and places her hands on mine.

"Hey," she says in a whisper, her eyebrows lowered and her forehead creased. "It's okay," she repeats between gentle shushes. I gulp though my mouth and throat are dry. My eyes and nostrils flare. She draws me into her body and wraps her arms around me. I set my hands on her waist and rest my cheek against her chest. "Same nightmare?" When I nod, she sighs. She runs her hand up and down my arm. She lays kisses across my sweaty forehead, then rests her chin against it.

"I don't know why it keeps happening," I say mostly to myself, and my voice cracks. She shushes me, and I burst into tears.

"It's okay, Ned." She embraces me, her heart thumping against the side of my face. For the last few months, I've had these nightmares. They started after a child I swore to aid, died on the operating table during open heart surgery. I was granted this time off work to cope but spent my afternoons playing games like Army of Two or Titanfall. If not for Rebecca, I doubt I'd be alive.

"I think I'm ready to see a therapist." She tenses, then sighs again. She'd been telling me to make an appointment, but I kept putting it off, thinking it'd go away on its own. Since it's only getting worse, it's time to go to a professional.

I'll do anything for things to go back to normal, anything so I can sleep easy again...