Something flew over me at tremendous velocity, tearing a hole in my sleeve and carving a shallow furrow in my upper arm. The pain was immediate and intense, and I hissed in agony. My vision dimmed, went almost completely dark, then opened up like the beginning of an old black and white movie. I saw my rifle, and beyond, the shapes of people moving in the stairwell. I thought I heard screaming, but I couldn’t be sure. The ringing in my ears was too loud. I reached for my gun, grabbed it, and pushed off the ground until I was sitting upright.

Behind me, I heard gunfire.

“Shit!”

The last place I wanted to be was alone and exposed in the hallway with no cover. I scrambled backward like a crab, fired a few blind shots through the stairwell opening, and pushed my way back through the door of the classroom.

Remember your training, my father’s voice told me. Stay in the fight.

I got up to one knee, leaned a little way around the wall, and trained my weapon toward the stairs. The gunfire behind me continued unabated, but I ignored it. I would have to trust that Tyrel had survived the grenade thrown at him and was holding his own. If not, I was as good as dead, and the only thing left for me to do was to take as many of these sons of bitches with me as I could.

The hallway was filled with smoke, the air sharp with an acrid scent I could not identify. As I watched, a man-shaped gray thing stepped into the swirling dust, weapon blazing. His shots cut the air in front of me, making little thwap-thwap sounds as they passed. I adjusted my aim slightly upward and fired three times. The man jerked, screamed wetly, and fell. It was in my head to make a follow up shot, but then I saw two more men emerge behind him.

I focused on the closest one and fired, finger working the trigger as fast as I could. I don’t know how many times I shot him, but it was enough that he dropped to the ground. The man behind him saw my muzzle flash and aimed in my direction.

We fired at the same time.

I knew my shots would hit; the reticle of my VCOG was centered squarely on the upper portion of his chest. His weapon flashed twice, and I had a brief moment of panic as I expected to feel impact, and heat, and pain. Instead, I felt a scalding sting on the right side of my face, screamed, and fell over backward.

I put my hand to my face, blinking furiously. The eye still worked, which was a good sign. My cheek was wet with blood, but not much of it, just a trickle. I sat up and moved my head, my arm, felt around on my torso. Everything seemed to be in good working order. I had a fevered remembrance of a quote from Winston Chuchhill, one I had always found amusing: Nothing in life is so exhilarating as to be shot at without result.

It did not seem very funny anymore. Whatever I was feeling, it was pretty damned far from exhilaration. As I sat there, it occurred to me the hallway had gone silent. I keyed my radio and whispered, “Tyrel, you still alive over there?”

“Pretty sure I am.”

A wave of relief poured over me strong enough to make my eyes sting. “Glad to hear it.”

“How’d you make out on your end?”

“Shot three of them.”

“Dead?”

“They look pretty dead. Can’t say for sure if there are any more. You?”

“Four down, and at least one more wounded. I think I heard the rest making a run for it.”

“Rojas, you got anything?”

No reply. I waited a few seconds, then keyed the mike again. “Rojas, do you-”

Gunfire interrupted me, sounding like it was coming from outside the building. I belly crawled into the hallway and peered through one of the shattered windows overlooking the courtyard out front. Two men lay face down in the snow, firing toward the southwest side of town. I followed their trajectory and saw muzzle flashes at the treeline. Rojas.

I leaned out the window and sighted in on the men below. I knew I was taking a huge risk, but I could not just sit there and do nothing while Rojas fought for his life. The reticle settled where I wanted it to go, half a breath fogged the air in front of my face, and I squeezed the trigger. The man lying closest to me jerked and cried out in agony. The man beside him looked startled for a second, then stood up and began running away in a serpentine pattern. I moved to adjust my aim, but something whizzed past my ear close enough to feel a tug of wind on my skin, and a thudding whack hit the wall behind me.

“Fuck!”

I spun away from the window, went flat on my back, and kicked my feet until I slid back into the classroom. From outside, there was a burst of fire, a scream, and then silence.

Static. “Rojas?” It was Tyrel.

Nothing.

More static. “Rojas, you still there?”

“Yeah, man. I’m here.”

I let out a breath. Ty said, “What’s the situation?”

“Both bad guys are down. Caleb got one, I got the other while he was running for cover. You two all right up there?”

“More or less.”

“All right. I’m on my way.”

“Copy.”

“Stick to the treeline,” I said. “That sniper is still out there somewhere. He just took a shot at me.”

“Acknowledged. Out.”

“Hey Caleb,” Tyrel said over the radio.

“Yeah.”

“Unless my math is wrong, that’s nine accounted for. Right?”

Tyrel got four, I got four, Rojas got one. “Yep. Four plus four plus one equals nine.”

“Good. That grenade blast knocked the shit out of me. My head’s all loopy.”

“What do you want to do?”

A moment of silence, then, “I’m thinking they split their forces evenly, six on each side. We know three on your side are dead, which leaves three more.”

“I’ll wait until you get here.”

A minute later, Tyrel crawled to the doorway, his rifle held in front of him. “Let’s go.”

We stayed low until we cleared the last window on the way to the stairwell, then stood and edged our way toward the door. Tyrel went first, using a technique called ‘cutting the pie’, which basically meant aiming your weapon around a corner in such a way as to present a small target profile. I waited behind him, holding my breath, until he relaxed and lowered his weapon.

“Jesus,” he said.

“What?”

“I found our other three hostiles.”

“And?”

“I think the dumb sons of bitches missed the door with that grenade they threw. Looks like it blew up on the landing. Ripped ‘em to pieces.”

“They didn’t miss.”

“What?”

“They didn’t miss. It came through the door just fine. I kicked it back at them.”

Tyrel turned to look at me, eyes white around the edges. “Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

He stared a moment longer, then tossed his head back and laughed. “You crazy-ass motherfucker.” His hand bounced off my shoulder.

I said, “What happened with the one they threw at you?”

“Didn’t toss it far enough, blew up a few feet shy of the doorway. Saw it coming and jumped back. Still hit me like a fucking hammer, though.”

I peered down the stairway, caught sight of a ragged, bloody stump of leg, white bone protruding through flesh, and stepped back quickly. “Shit.”

“You all right?”

“Man, I’ve seen some things, but that …”

“Don’t feel bad about it. They tried to do the same thing to you.”

I was about to say something else, but Tyrel stiffened and turned his ear toward the window. “You hear that?” he asked.

“I can’t hear shit right now.”

Tyrel fished a telescoping mirror from his vest, edged over to the window, and held it out. I noticed it was pointed down, as though he were trying to look at the ground. I watched his eyebrows come together and his mouth tighten into a hard, flat line.

“We got trouble.”

“What trouble?”

He looked disappointed. “What just happened here, Caleb?”

“A firefight.”

“And firefights are …” He held an open hand in my direction. I blanked for a few seconds, then had a flash of insight and slapped myself in the forehead.