(6) Henry Brown

The tip had come in just as they were closing in on their target, reliable, solid, the kind you don't second-guess. 

The vehicle rumbled steadily through the inky blackness of the night, its engine a low, constant hum beneath the weight of anticipation. Around him, the men, his friends, were lost in their rituals. Fingers fidgeted with weapons, sliding bolts back, checking magazines for what felt like the thousandth time. Gear was tugged, adjusted, and tested again, each movement sharp. The air was thick with tension, a coiled spring ready to snap. He could feel it, the unspoken unease, and he knew exactly how to cut through it.

"Charlie," he said, his voice cutting through the quiet like a blade. "Not to alarm you, mate, but there's a critter on your helmet."

The reaction was immediate. Charlie's hands flew to his head, swiping wildly, his breath hitching in panic. It took him a second to realize the others were laughing, and then his eyes locked onto Henry's grin, wide and unapologetic.

"Fuck you, you cunt," Charlie spat, though the corners of his mouth twitched, betraying the faintest hint of a smile. The tension in the vehicle eased, if only for a moment, and the night felt a little less heavy.

Then, without warning, the driver's voice shattered the silence, sharp and urgent, cutting through the low rumble of the engine.

"RPG!"

The world flipped. Or maybe it was just Henry. No-no, it was definitely the car too. Metal screeched against asphalt, the horizon spinning wildly as the vehicle rolled, once, twice, before coming to a jarring stop upside down. Henry hung suspended by his seatbelt, the ceiling of the car now beneath him, the air thick with the acrid smell of smoke and spilled fuel.

He moved quickly, fingers fumbling with the seatbelt clasp, already bracing for the impact of his body crashing down onto what used to be the roof. Pain shot through him as he landed, but there was no time to dwell on it. Outside, the night erupted into chaos, a brutal standoff with arms dealers who had no intention of backing down. And, true to their trade, they were more than willing to use their merchandise.

"alright if youre alive sound off, if youre dead shut the fuck up"

All sounded off in various degrees of groans and after a while

They flung open the back door and spilled out into the chaos. The night was alive with fire and noise, the convoy of vehicles now a smoldering wreckage scattered across the road. Flames licked at the twisted metal, casting flickering shadows that danced like specters in the haze. Other cars, equally battered and broken, sat at odd angles, their occupants either scrambling for cover or already engaged in the fray.

A gunfight was raging, the sharp cracks of gunfire cutting through the air like a deadly symphony. Bullets whizzed past, pinging off the ruined frames of the cars, their metallic echoes mingling with the sporadic pops of return fire. The ground was littered with shell casings, glinting in the firelight like discarded coins. Henry and his team moved, ducking low, their weapons raised as they joined the desperate dance of survival. The air was thick with the smell of burning fuel, gunpowder, and sweat. Every second stretched into an eternity, every peak over the edge a gamble.

"This was a set up"

"Yeah obviously, are you dumb?"

"HELP"

"OI boys shut up listen"

"Ahhh"

Henry froze for a split second, his ears catching the sound—a low groan of pain, followed by a desperate shout for help. His head snapped toward the noise, and there, just beyond the mangled frame of their overturned vehicle, he saw one of his own. The man was crawling, clutching his arm, his face twisted in agony. Bullets peppered the ground around him, kicking up dirt and debris, each shot a deadly reminder of how exposed he was.

"Covering fire!" Henry barked, his voice cutting through the chaos. He didn't wait for confirmation. Raising his weapon, he squeezed off a few calculated shots toward the shadowy figures on the other side of the road, their muzzle flashes betraying their positions. The rest of the team followed suit, their gunfire creating a temporary shield of suppression.

Henry moved fast, crouching low as he darted toward the wounded man. Bullets whizzed past, close enough to feel the heat, but he didn't flinch. Reaching his comrade, he grabbed him by the straps of his vest and dragged him behind the relative safety of a nearby car. The man's arm was a mess—a through-and-through bullet wound, blood soaking through his sleeve. Henry's hands were already moving, pulling out his med kit with practiced efficiency. 

The car they crouched behind shuddered as bullets slammed into its metal frame, but Henry didn't so much as blink. His focus was absolute. Tearing open the kit, he began to work, his movements steady despite the chaos raging around them. The wounded man gritted his teeth, his breathing ragged, but there was a flicker of relief in his eyes. 

Henry was here.

Henry was an asshole, no doubt about it. He had a sharp tongue and a temper to match, the kind of guy who'd tell you exactly what he thought of you, usually in words that could make a sailor blush. But when the bullets started flying and the world turned to hell, there was no one you'd want by your side more. He was the kind of man who'd charge through a minefield without a second thought if it meant dragging one of his own out of danger. 

He was a combat medic, but not the kind who hung back, waiting for the wounded to come to him. No, Henry was always in the thick of it, the first one to sprint into the kill zone, his med kit slung over his shoulder like a badge of honor and a gun in hand. He had a knack for showing up exactly when things were at their worst, as if he had a personal vendetta against the Grim Reaper himself. And maybe he did. Henry would've thrown a middle finger in Death's face if given the chance, maybe even taken a swing at him if it meant buying his men a few more seconds, a few more breaths, a few more chances to make it out alive.

When Henry heard the gurgle—that wet, choking sound that spelled death closing in—he didn't hesitate. He turned to the man clutching his arm, blood seeping through his fingers, and barked, "Put pressure on that. *Lots* of pressure." His voice was sharp, commanding, leaving no room for argument. The man nodded, grimacing, as Henry's attention snapped to the source of the sound.

Another one of his men was down, this time clutching his throat, his face pale and panic-stricken. He was behind cover, at least, but Henry still had to get to him. The problem? A hail of gunfire stood between them. 

"Fuck it," Henry muttered under his breath. 

And then he was moving. 

Bullets whizzed past, one pinging off his helmet with a metallic *crack* that sent a jolt through his skull. He stumbled, but only for a second, his momentum carrying him forward. He hit the ground in a slide, skidding to a stop beside the wounded man. 

"Move your hands—I can't see the wound!" Henry barked, his voice cutting through the man's panic. The man's hands fell away, revealing a jagged piece of metal embedded in his throat. Blood bubbled around the edges, and his breathing was shallow, labored. Henry's mind raced. The fragment was in a bad spot—moving it could cause a catastrophic bleed or nick an artery. But leaving it there would suffocate him. 

Henry didn't waste time. He yanked the man's vest off, cutting through his clothes with a practiced efficiency that came from years of doing this under fire. His med kit was already open, his hands moving on autopilot. He grabbed the tools he needed, his focus absolute despite the bullets' constant harassment into the cover and Around them. 

With steady hands, Henry performed a tracheostomy, creating an airway to bypass the obstruction. The man's breathing eased almost immediately, the horrible gurgling sound replaced by the steady hiss of air through the aperture. Henry didn't pause to celebrate. He secured the tube, his eyes darting to the man's face, checking for signs of shock or further complications. 

"You're not dying today," Henry growled, more to himself than to the man.

Around him, the gunfight raged on, but Henry was in his element. He was a combat medic, a stubborn son of a bitch, and he'd fight the devil himself if it meant keeping his men alive. And right now.

The devil was losing.

The sound of frantic banging cut through the chaos—a rhythmic, desperate pounding coming from one of the convoy's cars. Henry's head snapped toward the noise, his eyes locking onto the vehicle. The hood was engulfed in flames, the fire spreading rapidly, licking its way toward the driver's side. Inside, a figure was moving, trapped and pounding against the window in a futile attempt to escape.

Henry didn't think. He just moved. 

Leaving the wounded man in the care of another teammate, he sprinted toward the burning car, the heat hitting him like a wall as he got closer. His gloved hand grabbed the door handle, yanking it hard. It didn't budge—jammed shut, either from the impact or the heat warping the metal. He cursed under his breath, his mind racing. The fire was spreading fast, the air thick with the acrid smell of burning fuel and melting plastic.

Without hesitation, Henry slammed his fist against the window. Once, twice, three times—each blow harder than the last, the glass cracking under the force. He didn't care about the pain shooting through his hand, didn't care about the flames creeping closer. All that mattered was the man inside. 

Finally, the window gave way, shattering into a thousand jagged pieces. Henry reached in, ignoring the sharp edges biting into his arms, and grabbed the driver by the collar. With a grunt of effort, he hauled him out, dragging him away from the burning wreck just as the flames engulfed the front seat.

The two of them collapsed onto the ground, both gasping for air. Henry's gloves were scorched, his hands throbbing, but he didn't stop to check his own injuries. Instead, he rolled the driver onto his back, quickly assessing him for burns or other wounds. 

"Alright you're good"

Just as Henry took a step forward, the world behind him erupted in a deafening roar. The car—what was left of it—exploded in a fireball, the force of the blast slamming into him like a freight train. Heat seared his back, and for a split second, he thought this was it. This was how it ended. 

But then, something impossible happened.

Time froze.

Literally.

The bullets hanging mid-air, their trajectories etched in the smoky haze like frozen lightning. The flames that had engulfed him stopped, curling and twisting as if someone had hit pause on reality itself. Even the sound was gone, replaced by an eerie, suffocating silence.

"What the fuck?" Henry muttered, his voice sounding unnaturally loud in the stillness. He turned, his movements sluggish, as if the air had turned to syrup. His eyes widened as he took in the scene—a snapshot of chaos, frozen in time.

And then he felt it. 

Electricity. 

It coursed through his body, sharp and sudden, like a thousand needles piercing his skin. His vision blurred, and a flash of blue light engulfed him, so bright it burned even behind his closed eyelids. He stumbled, his boots scraping against… nothing. The ground beneath him was gone, replaced by a void that seemed to stretch infinitely in every direction.

When he opened his eyes again, he wasn't in the middle of an ambush anymore. 

The air was different. 

crisp, clean, devoid of the acrid stench of smoke and blood.

******

"Good. Now, let's start with introductions. Names, units, rank, and whatever intel you've got. We'll work this out like we've been trained to."

One by one, they spoke, their voices cutting through the stillness like the crack of a branch underfoot. It felt almost ritualistic, like some strange, somber version of an AA meeting, except here they were, deep in the woods, surrounded by shadows and the faint scent of damp earth.

The man who had suggested the idea went first. His tone was clipped, no-nonsense. "Peter Smith, SAS, Captain. Was on a cargo ship before this."

The next in line followed without hesitation, though his voice carried a weight that hadn't been there before. "Noah Graves, JTF2, Master Corporal. Sniper nest got mortared. Had someone—" He stopped abruptly, his jaw tightening as if the words had lodged themselves in his throat.

Henry knew that look. He'd seen it too many times before. Someone had died. He didn't need the details, and he didn't want the man to relive it. Henry stepped in, his voice rough but steady. "Henry Brown, at your service. SASR, Sergeant. Got ambushed in the outback… car went boom."

The next man spoke up, his accent sharp, his words deliberate. "Miguel. Temporarily BOPE, but I'm 1º BAC. Sergeant. Blue on blue incident." 

Henry's eyes flicked to him, but he said nothing. *Blue on blue.* The words hung in the air like a storm cloud, dark and unyielding. No explanation needed.

Finally, the last man spoke. His hand rested on the head of the dog beside him, his fingers absently scratching behind its ears. His voice was calm, almost detached. "Piotr, GROM, Sergeant. IED gone wrong. Oh, and this—" he gestured to the dog, "—is Staff Sergeant Maja."

The dog's ears perked up at the sound of her name, before it lolled to one side in a questioning manner, her sharp eyes scanning the group as if sizing them up. Piotr's tone was matter-of-fact.

The circle fell silent once more, the weight of their shared reality settling over them like a heavy blanket. Each man carried his own ghosts, his own scars. But here, in this moment, they were all the same.

Soldiers