Chapter 12: Collapse

A gunshot cracked the air, making me flinch so hard I shook all over. Worse than facing any enemy. I really was in bad shape.

I forced myself to steady up—none of us knew what was coming. I glanced at Anchor beside me. The three Europeans flanked him, our wedge formation holding.

Anchor signaled: Not our shot.

I already knew—the report wasn't from one of our sniper rifles. Someone else was down here, in this pit five hundred yards deep. Was it Extremis?

Suddenly, I caught a shadow flicker in my scope. No sunlight reached that far, just a dim gray, and I couldn't make it out—but whatever it was, it moved far too fast for a human.

I swept the scope, hunting for that shadow. "Ready to engage," I said.

Anchor relayed the order to the Europeans.

Before any of us fired, a storm of gunshots erupted to our left—Buzz, Castor, Nox, and Bolt's position. Mixed in, I caught the heavy bark of Bolt's rifle. The rate and pattern were wild, desperate. They must've been ambushed or caught off guard.

Then, the barking started—dozens of dogs.

Were they being attacked by a pack of dogs?

"Heads up!" I shouted.

Anchor, gripping his rifle, yelled, "Specter! Something's coming fast, straight at us!"

I spun, scanning ahead. "Engage at will!"

Bang! Anchor fired.

He missed. I saw them then—a pack, scattered, running hard in ones, twos, whole groups, surging toward us.

Bang! One of the Europeans fired.

Two screams—dogs hit, yelping in pain.

"Wolfhounds!" the European shouted.

A wet thump—the man's head exploded. A sniper round, dead-on. His buddy screamed, "No, no, no!"

"Sniper! Down! We've got a sniper!" I yelled.

Bang! Bang! Two more shots—a bullet tore past my left cheek, another hit the dirt barely six feet ahead. Heat bloomed in my left eye. Suddenly, all I saw was red.

"Aah!" I yelled, clapping my hand to my eye. Warmth ran down my face, thick and sticky—the stink of blood filled my nose.

"Specter!" Anchor's shout rang in my ear.

One hand over my eye, I started crawling back, head pressed to the ground, blood dripping through my fingers. My nose filled with the sickening stench.

It all went to hell—gunfire everywhere, barking, shouting, total chaos. I heard our guys, the Europeans, Buzz and the rest—everyone was in the fight.

I wanted to take command, but I couldn't. I felt like I was dying. My head spun, everything going dark, but I kept backing away, just pure instinct.

It felt like a piece of my left eye was missing. I fumbled, shaking, heart hammering in terror.

Yeah. I was terrified. It sounds ridiculous, but right then, I didn't have an ounce of courage left.

Someone grabbed me, hoisted me up. My eyes shut tight.

"Specter! What's wrong?"

"Fall back! Fall back!" I gasped.

Anchor saw the blood and dirt all over my face.

He hoisted me onto his back. I could have run, maybe even walked, but I felt like I was dying—no strength, nothing but fear.

"Cover us! Move!" Anchor yelled to the Europeans.

I clung to Anchor's chest, gripping his shirt, gasping for air.

He ran fast, but I could still hear the pounding feet behind us, and the howling.

Ten minutes later, Anchor set me down. I collapsed on the ground.

"Why'd you stop? Keep moving! Retreat!" I panted.

Boom! An explosion shook us—I clapped my hands over my ears, left hand still pressed to my eye, moaning in fear.

Anchor fired off our highest-level emergency flare—the kind that means drop everything and rally, no matter what. Usually only Greybell would use it.

"Specter! Specter, can you hear me?"

Hand on my ear, hand on my eye, I just shook my head.

"It's alright—come on, let me see the wound," Anchor said, desperate.

I shook my head. "Retreat. Get us out of here," I muttered.

"It's okay—let me see. It's not so bad."

I pressed my hand even tighter over my eye, shaking my head, flinching away.

"Digits! Where is your eye—what happened to your eye?" Snow's voice, frantic in my ear.

I squeezed my right hand down on my left, terrified. "It's fine. I'm fine."

"Specter, let me check your injury, please. I need to see it," Anchor begged.

"No. Just go. Move!" I said.

"Digits, your eye's gone. Stop lying to yourself. Take your hand away or you'll die!" Snow insisted.

"He okey?" Footsteps—Europeans running up, gunfire still echoing.

Anchor tried to pry my hands away. "Specter, what's wrong with you?"

"Get off me!" I snarled.

Barking—dozens of dogs, coming closer.

Two grenades went off—boom, boom. The dogs' yelps grew more frantic.

"Too many!" one of the Europeans shouted. Then a wall of gunfire.

Anchor, panicked, said, "Specter, we can't fall back any farther—we'd have to climb out."

Something snapped in my brain. I shot up, eye searching for rope, left hand never leaving my face.

Anchor stared. "What's wrong? Let me see your wound!"

I spotted the rope, grabbed it with my right hand, started clawing my way up. One hand. It was impossible, but I just wanted out—I felt like the pit was closing in, smothering me, pure panic, fear, helplessness.

What was I afraid of?

Snow? Losing my left eye? The barking dogs? The blackness of this pit? The white-clad man who nearly killed me? Maybe all of it—enough to drive anyone to despair.

"Specter!" Anchor grabbed me, pulled me down, shouted in my face.

I stared at him, panting.

"What's wrong with you?"

"I said fall back—didn't you hear me? Are you going to disobey orders?" I said flatly.

"Why retreat? Why?" Anchor pressed.

A howl cut him off.

I saw a massive dog leap for Anchor's back.

Anchor spun, rifle up, bang! The beast crashed down, teeth bared, trying to bite. Anchor kicked it in the skull—sent it flying.

Irish wolfhound. Fast, strong, one hundred pounds or more—bred by Celts to hunt wolves. If purebred and trained, these dogs can kill wolves. All muscle and speed, huge size. Only weakness—fear, but you can train that out.

"Specter, let me see your eye. Please." Anchor's voice was gentle now.

I shook my head, staring at the wolfhound—it wore a collar, numbers etched into the metal. Bred and trained.

"Why won't you let me see?"

I looked up at Anchor with my one good eye. "My left eye is gone."

He froze.

It took him a long time to speak. "Even if it's gone, we need to bandage it. Once it's wrapped, we'll get out of here."

I said nothing.

"Specter, I know you're proud. But you can't leave it like this."

"Let me see. Just once. Please," Anchor pleaded.

"No. Don't."

"Are you afraid?"

"No. I'm not afraid," I shot back, too quickly.

"I know you're a perfectionist. You can't stand any flaw in yourself. But we need to stop the bleeding."

"Flaw." The word cut through me like a poisoned knife. It left me limp.

Yes, I'm a perfectionist. If I lose an eye, it's over. Everything I worked for—Ghost Squad, the team, my whole identity—done.

Many years later, when I lost a finger in that Europe prison, I used to stare at my hand and cry. Saw myself in the mirror, all scars and missing parts, and just sat on the floor and sobbed.

I was terrified of losing my eye. I'd rather die. That was my mindset then—I'd never been hit so hard before.

Even later, as the scars added up, every wound made me hurt. But instead of wanting to die, I wanted to live more. Maybe that's growth.

But it comes at a price, doesn't it? You tell me. I don't know. Every wound brings pain, blood, loss—but when it heals, I throw myself back into the fight, the op, and forget the pain ever happened. That's what they call survival, right?

I remember something I wrote: "My lover, my country—if you asked, I'd fight for you again, to help you rule this world."

It's always like this. Sometimes I ask myself, is it worth it?

I don't know.

Maybe there's no answer. But I could do it all again, even now, even I am old.

Let's keep living, because you never know when you'll be called to fight again.

Who am I? I'm Specter.