Page 71 of Mayflower

And here’s the thing about war. Someone always has a special interest in one. And then there are soldiers. They get paid. They have to do their job regardless of their moral compass, and that’s how you explain PTSD and mentally fucked up vets. Being a soldier doesn’t give you an option to step away from your contract when you are in the active line of duty. You simply don’t get to decided what’s right or wrong. And unlike other jobs where you can tell your bosses to fuck off, soldiers don’t have that luxury. They have to obey.

“Sir, GA is our priority,” the Commander says coldly.

“Not people? Fuck you!” Archer punches the guard.

I am about to intercept another guard, but suddenly, there’s a collective click of triggers cocked. The Commander and his men stand in a line with guns drawn at us, stopping us in our tracks.

The Commander presses his finger to his earpiece. “Prepare to execute,” he says into the radio.

Then, a calm, low, commanding voice cuts through the deafening silence in the Center right behind him. “Abort. I said tell them to fucking abort. Or I shoot. Right. Fucking. Now.”

It’s Ortiz, pressing his gun barrel against the back of the Commander’s head.

The Commander lifts his hands slowly in the air in surrender.

Bishop cautiously steps toward the Commander and takes the gun out of his hand, then turns to face the other guards pointing guns at him. He smiles. He fucking smiles. “Drop the guns before we blow his head off.”

There’s nothing the guards can do when their superior is at gunpoint. Again—soldiers.

Bishop takes the radio out of the Commander’s hand, brings it to the Commander’s lips, and presses the button. “Tell them to stop.”

“Abort,” the Commander says, his face reddening. “Do not move until further orders.”

“What the hell?” Marlow whispers, and we all turn to the screen again.

There’s another little figure separating fast from the line of guards and running toward the bright flashes.

“What the hell,” I murmur. “It’s?—”

“Zoom in,” Archer orders.

It’s a person, a little person. But he is coming from the guards’ side.

No, no-no-no-no.

My heart does a flip, and blood rushes to my ears.

On instinct, I whip around, searching for Sonny, but only see his guard running toward me across the Center. “Sir, the kid…” He looks horrified. “He disappeared. One second, he was here, another?—”

I want to punch him, but I whip around and stare at the screen.

“It’s Sonny,” I murmur, my guts twisting into a knot. “It’s Sonny. It’s fucking Sonny!”

I can’t breathe. I stall. I inhale sharply, but the breath stalls in my throat with a ball of bile. “It’s…”

The little figure, Sonny, waves his arms in the air.

“Get that kid out of there,” I yell, then dash to Bishop and yank the radio out of his hands. “Get the kid out of there. He’s ours. Repeat. Get him out!”

The radio beeps. “Sir, he snuck through. He is approaching the explosion line. He is shouting something to them. We are not getting in the potential line of explosives. Not a chance. We can start firing.”

“No!” I roar, blood pumping in my head. “I’m going there! Hold the fire!” I rush away, but Archer fists my shirt at the shoulder, yanking me back. “You can’t go there.”

I yank my arm out of his hold. “I am.” I turn to Marlow. “I need a bulletproof vest. Now! And several men!”

I turn to the Commander. “If anyone fucking shoots in their direction, I will take your men out one by one. You included. Understood? One single shot at the kids, and I put a bullet in your head.”

With that, I storm out of the building.

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