Paragon ✓

The Beginning

The square was nothing more than an enclosure of dusty buildings. Shattered windows and torn chunks of stone, the scars of steel rain, decorated every wall. Warm wind whistled through the open plaza, piercing the quiet. Once-colorful linens fluttered from the wooden skeletons of abandoned vendors' stalls, tattered and bloodstained. The air was thick with the smell of rust and decay, the putrefaction of bodies left in the hellish heat.

Tucked into the shadows, a young man crouched. His dusty skin and dark hair melted into the wall beside him, invisible to even the most sharp-eyed observer. His contempt was just as imperceptible; the blank look on his face concealed all but the flash of his eyes.

Twenty civilians dead without as much as a single enemy injury.

The contractors had messed up. Holden covered his mouth with his shirt. The waste laid by clumsy hands disgusted him.

He glanced over at the twins, awaiting their signal. They hid behind a bullet-riddled car, twenty feet away. Revulsion replaced the usual laughter in their eyes.

The sound came first: the quiet click of a weapon being loaded. The twins motioned with their fingers, indicating the source of the noise. Holden nodded, already eyeing the hole in the façade of an opposing building, about the size of a fist. Behind it, the enemy waited.

Positioning himself, Holden's trousers scraped against the dirt; a whisper that died in the breeze. Soon, the clamor would take hold. He took aim.

The killing was the easy part; everything before and after was hard.

Another click; his own weapon this time. A slow exhalation and he squeezed the trigger. Beneath the gunshots echo, the thud of a body as it fell to the floor.

The remaining insurgents scattered, giving away their positions as they jumped back from their fallen comrade.

They ran for cover, or perhaps to fight back. They never got the chance. Holden traced the sound of their footfalls, firing each time one materialized in front of shot-out windows. One by one, six men went down. It took only six shots: three from Holden, two from Frankie, and one from Colton. It was over in seconds. Holden returned to the cover of the building, leaning his back against the rough stone wall.

Silence returned to the square.

Another soldier might have assumed it was over. Holden never made assumptions, and he knew it was never over. Frankie held up two fingers.

With their backs to each other, Holden and the twins skirted the outside of the square in opposite directions, advancing on the hideout in a soundless way.

A soft patter prickled his ears, and he glanced up. Ten feet above his head was a balcony, half of its banister crumbled away. Holden examined the wall. There were no gutter pipes or ledges to hold onto, but there were the notches and chunks in the stone, handily carved by bullets and grenade shrapnel.

He swung his rifle, a 7.62-mm SCAR-heavy, over his shoulder and began to climb, listening for noises between each upward movement. He heard the swoosh of fabric and the pacing of bare feet, followed by a muffled, distinctly childish cry. He groaned inwardly. It was always more complicated with kids.

Holden reached the balcony and swung himself over, landing in a crouch on the banister. A small, wide-eyed boy stood in front of him, trembling hands squeezed together in a fisted prayer. A living shield. The insurgent standing behind the boy held a pistol in his right hand. Once, twice, three times; he fired in rapid succession.

Holden twisted and leapt off the ledge, thankful for the enemy's poor marksmanship. His own weapon was drawn and aimed before he landed.

A click. The insurgent had run out of bullets. His eyes widened with recognition at the inhumanly agile movements.