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Sweat trickles down my spine, a testament to the morning's grind, but I'm buzzing with a hit of endorphin-fueled joy. My muscles hum with fatigue and strength in equal measure, and I can't help but feel like I've just conquered more than just a climbing rope—I've scaled a mountain of self-doubt.
"Damn, that was epic," I say, wiping my brow with the back of my hand. The training ground is still heaving with activity, the air thick with determination and the metallic tang of exertion.
"Girl, you're on fire today," Sam chimes in, her tone admiring yet teasing. "What did you eat for breakfast? Gunpowder?"
"More like a big bowl of 'kick-ass' flakes." I chuckle, rolling my shoulders to ease the tension. My body sings with the effort, every cell alive and kicking.
We take a moment, leaning against the cool metal of the obstacle course structure, watching others tackle the challenges we've just crushed. A fresh group of recruits are huffing their way through, and the drill sergeant's voice cuts across the field, sharp as a whip.
"Look at them," Sam says, nudging me with her elbow. "Remember when that was us?"
"Green as hell and twice as nervous?" I reply, grinning despite the ache in my limbs. "Feels like another lifetime."
"Feels like we're gearing up for something big, Cal." Sam’s voice lowers, her gaze flicking to mine with an intensity that matches the spark of anticipation in my gut.
I nod, solemn for a moment. There's a murmur of unrest lately, whispers of missions that could change everything. But I shove the unease aside. This is what we've trained for—what I've trained for. My heart beats a steady rhythm of readiness.
"Whatever it is, we'll face it together. Like always." My words are a vow, a promise forged in sweat and solidarity.
"Damn straight." Sam bumps her fist against mine, and we share a look of mutual respect. It's us against the world—or at least against whatever the military throws our way.
"Come on." I push away from the wall, feeling the pull of my muscles, the good kind of ache. "Let's go grab some grub before they make us run another five miles for fun."
"Race you to the mess hall!" she challenges, already darting off with the speed of a cheetah on a caffeine kick.
"Hey, no fair!" I call out, laughter bubbling up as I sprint after her, the sense of accomplishment from earlier fueling my strides. With each step, I feel more certain, fiercer.
I'm ready for the challenges ahead, ready to leap into the fray.
At least, I hope I am.
CHAPTER
TWO
Frank
I watch the soldiers scurry around the base, a well-oiled machine of khaki and sweat. The sun beats down hard on my already weathered skin, adding another layer to the roadmap of lines etched across my face. My reflection in the window ain't a pretty sight—creases carved deep from years squinting against desert storms and sleepless nights under foreign skies. The stubble on my jaw feels like sandpaper. It's been days since I last shaved, not that anyone here gives a damn about my rugged charm—or lack thereof.
"Get your asses in gear," I bark out, voice rough as gravel, the command more habit than heart. They jump to it, no questions asked. Respect or fear? With me, lines blur like the horizon at dusk.
I rub a hand over my face, feeling the grit and grime of the day. Another wrinkle, another scar, each one a story that no one's got time to hear. It's just Frank Donovan, they think, the lifer with more stripes on his arm than softness in his soul.
They don't know the half of it.
As I lean back against the metal frame of the makeshift office, my eyes flicker closed for a moment. In the brief respite, memories flood in—nights spent staring up at a sky too vast, too empty, wondering if someone's out there doing the same, thinking about me. But who would be? Ain't no room for love letters or midnight whispers in this life I've chosen.
"Frankie D., always the first in, last out," I whisper to myself, the nickname a relic from a less complicated time. The sacrifices I've made for these bars and stripes weigh heavy on my soul. Missed birthdays, anniversaries that never were, all for Uncle Sam and the promise of something greater.
Yeah, I've kissed Lady Liberty more times than I can count, but she's a cold mistress. She doesn't keep you warm at night, doesn't leave lipstick stains on your collar, or love notes in your rucksack. She takes and takes until you're left wondering what the hell you're fighting for—if not for love, then what?
Snap the fuck out of it, Donovan, I chide myself. Ain't no use crying over spilt MREs. But somewhere beneath the layers of dust and duty, a spark ignites. Maybe it's high time I find someone willing to dig through the trenches and see the man behind the medals.
A mail call breaks the monotony of the afternoon, the soldiers perking up like kids at Christmas. I lean against the doorway of the supply room, arms folded across my chest, watching the scene unfold. Private Jenkins jumps up as his name echoes through the barracks, a grin splitting his face ear-to-ear. He snatches the letter from the hands of the distributing corporal like it's the winning lottery ticket.
"Who's it from, Jenkins?" someone hollers from the back, voice laced with good-natured envy.
"Jenny," he beams, waving the envelope like a damn victory flag. "My girl back home."
