Chapter 1: Train Like You Fight

Heat pressed down on the desert training complex like a physical weight.

By early afternoon, the Arizona sky had bleached itself into a hard, colorless blue. The air shimmered above sand and concrete, bending distance and softening edges until the whole place felt unreal.

The plywood storefronts and cinderblock walls looked less like buildings than memories of buildings. Cheap replicas of distant places built to be entered, cleared and shot to pieces again and again.

Staff Sergeant Tony Jimenez moved through the mock town with his rifle high and his head still.

He was thirty and lean-muscled with a shaved head and big brown eyes. A thin scar ran along his left jawline. His face wasn’t handsome in any conventional sense.

There was something in the set of his jaw, or the way he held his shoulders squared even at rest, that told you he’d made peace with pressure.

He wore his gear like it was part of his body and moved at the head of his patrol with the tight, measured gait of a man who understood the principle of training like you fight.

His men followed in disciplined spacing, boots crunching softly over dirt and broken masonry. Fifteen of them. Good soldiers. They carried their weapons with disciplined familiarity.

Tony glanced to his left. He noticed Martinez was breathing too hard behind his goggles, sweat dripping off his chin strap. He volunteered to carry the heavy M-249 SAW despite being one of the smaller statured men in the unit.

“Get some water down,” Tony said quietly.

Martinez blinked, then nodded and reached for his tube.

They wore multicam uniforms darkened at the chest and shoulders with sweat. Plate carriers rode high and tight, weighed down with heavy ballistic plates, fully loaded magazines, radios, hydration bladders, and mission-essential gear. Kevlar helmets sat low over goggles scratched from months of use in the desert. M4 carbines were held close to the body, muzzles steady, fingers straight along trigger guards unless needed.

Tony motioned his men forward with two fingers and watched them flow into cover the way they’d been drilled to do until it’d become second nature. It was almost beautiful, in a grim kind of way, the poetry of trained violence. A line of men moving through ruin with the grace of dancers who happened to be wearing plate carriers and carrying assault rifles.

But Tony wasn’t admiring it. He was listening. And scanning.

Something in the air felt wrong.

It wasn’t fear. Tony knew fear like he knew the sharp smell of gunpowder on a range. Fear was distinct. Fear was honest. What he felt now was… off. A misalignment, like a video whose sound was played half a beat too slow.

Tony slowed and raised a clenched fist.

The patrol stopped in unison and melted into cover.

Tony crouched behind a waist-high cinderblock wall just as a shadow appeared to his right.

For half a second Tony’s muscles tightened, then he recognized the shape and quietly let out a breath.

Staff Sergeant Alex Hutchinson always emerged from shadows like they had learned to hold his shape. Slightly taller than six feet, with the broad-shouldered build of someone who’d learned violence young and made it his profession. Hutch kept a tight buzz cut, with pale eyes and clean-cut features that made him look younger than his thirty-two years. Where Tony carried the weight of leadership, Hutch carried the weight of execution and bore it without complaint.

His jaw was clenched, focused, the way it always was in the field. He settled into cover with practiced ease, rifle angled forward, eyes working the alley ahead as if he’d been there all along. Hutch was a professional soldier who didn’t waste movement or words.

“What do you see?” Tony asked quietly.

Hutch watched the alley another second before answering. “Nothing.”

Tony nodded. “Exactly.”

Ahead, the lane narrowed toward a sagging blue wooden gate hanging off one hinge. Beyond it sat a courtyard partially screened by a five-foot wall and a clutter of broken crates, plastic drums and other debris. Plenty of places for an enemy marksman to hide.

Just east of the gate, a two story building sat, seemingly empty, with windows overlooking the alley and courtyard.

Anyone watching them operate could see the difference immediately. Hutch was the better soldier in pure execution. He moved faster, shot cleaner, and reacted with a precision that bordered on instinct. In a fight, there was no one Tony trusted more.

Tony, however, carried something less visible but no less essential. He understood people and understood timing. He had an intuitive sense for when to press and when to pause, how to communicate intent without clutter, even under pressure. Where Hutch mastered the how of soldiering, Tony excelled at the why, translating chaos into simple, executable direction.

“We need to secure that courtyard,” Tony whispered as he pointed a gloved finger toward the bluish wooden gate.

Hutch nodded without looking at him. “Copy that. Watch those upper windows to the east.”

Tony issued a sharp signal with his gloved hand, and the patrol divided smoothly into two elements. Tony led Alpha team along the west side of the alley, while Hutch took Bravo along the east. Weapons up. Standard spacing. Both elements moving north along the alley in unison. Communication was hand signals and body language.

Cover. Movement. Cover.

Every step reinforcing Tony’s confidence in his men.

They were fifty meters from the derelict powder blue wooden gate ahead, marking the entrance to the courtyard.

The teams continued forward, mindful of the threat posed by the second story windows on their right.

Thirty meters out, a plastic bag skittered across the dirt and snagged on the broken gate.

Every rifle shifted toward it.

Nothing.

Then the east windows erupted with gunfire. Paint rounds hammered the alley walls over their heads.

“Contact right,” Hutch shouted as he moved into cover.

The patrol moved into cover with practiced speed. The men dropped behind rubble and doorways, returning controlled bursts toward the second story windows.

Tony glanced at Hutch, who had settled on one knee and began firing controlled bursts from his M4. Even with paint rounds, or sim-munitions, Hutch fired like he meant it. His jaw clenched. His eyes narrowed and he leaned into the bursts expecting a full recoil. Train like you fight.

Sim rounds snapped against the walls, scattering dust and paint. The sound was sharp enough to raise heart rates without triggering panic. Tony forced himself to look outside the fight. No movement at the gate. Their flank was clear.

“Alpha, suppress!” He barked. “Bravo, move on the building!”

His team laid down paint rounds hard enough to keep heads down while Hutch and his team moved towards the structure in fast, disciplined bounds.

He glanced at the gate just in time to see a shooter moving into position. Tony fired a burst that stitched the enemy across his chest, neutralizing the threat.

Hutch’s Bravo team made a clean entry into the building, clearing room by room, while Alpha moved to secure the exterior of the building.

Bravo team cleared the building quickly.

The engagement lasted less than five minutes.

A whistle cut through the air.

“END EXERCISE!”

The tension bled out of the patrol almost instantly. Weapons lowered. Goggles lifted. Quiet laughter followed, along with fist bumps and firm pats on the back.

Tony rose and rolled his neck. His combat shirt was soaked. Dust clung to the sweat on his forearms and face.

Hutch emerged from the east building and walked over, noting the paint marks on the marksman at the gate. When he got to Tony, he extended a gloved fist. “Good call on the gate.”

Tony returned the fist bump. “You were right about the windows.”

Hutch nodded and took a long pull from his canteen.

Lieutenant Mitchell appeared with two evaluators in tow. His eyes were sharp but satisfied as he wrote on his clipboard.

“Solid run, boys. I tried to outsmart you, but you handled it well.”

“Thank you, sir.” They replied.

Mitchell glanced at Hutch, then back to Tony. Something shifted in his face.

“We’ve received reports out of Southeast Asia. Some kind of virus. Quarantined. Reports of riots. Large-scale violence.”

“Sounds pretty bad, sir.” Tony remarked.

“Bad enough that HQ wants us ready. Maybe it stays overseas. Maybe not.”

Tony nodded. He thought of the leave form Mitchell had signed. Tony and Hutch had been looking forward to a week off in California. Long Beach. Cold beer and sunshine. More importantly: No uniforms. No rifles.

“Sir,” Tony said carefully, “does that affect-”

Mitchell cut him off. “Your leave is still approved.”

Tony blinked. “Are you sure, sir? Even with-“

“You’ve earned it. Both of you.” Lieutenant Mitchell acknowledged. “Now get out of here before I change my mind. I’ll call if I need you.”

“Yes, sir,” Tony answered. A knot loosened in his chest.

They headed back toward the staging area with the rest of the patrol. The training operation had gone exactly as intended. No surprises. No mistakes.

By tomorrow morning, he and Hutch would be driving his Jeep Wrangler six hours to Long Beach, California. Away from the heat, dust and mock third world towns.

Back to Michael. Back to family.

The thought warmed him.

Behind them, somewhere far beyond the desert horizon, trouble had already begun.