Free Cold Hard Truths 1: Vices by Nash Summers

bulletproof vest over some old, ratty T-shirt and blue jeans covered in white powder, dirt, and other stains that I didn’t want to know about. He had dark, bloodshot eyes, curly hair, and too much scraggly facial hair. His tanned face had craters in it, letting the world know that he was a used man, weathered far before his time.
    My teammates climbed the stairs, guns poised, and motioned for one another to move forward, signaling with hand motions and looks. They readied themselves on either side of the door of T8’s room, where his men were waiting, crouched down. The door was nudged open barely a few inches, and suddenly guns started firing. A smoke bomb went off, and I cursed out loud. They had a better chance using the smoke bomb and eliminating my sight as well as the other men’s for a minute. I knew that, but it was still difficult to sit by and watch. I was useless up here, waiting for the smoke to clear, watching the small screen at the top of my visor count down from one minute.
    There were more bright flashes of light, shots fired, but I couldn’t hear or see anything. I pressed firmly against the trigger, ready to pull it the second the smoke cleared. I wished in that moment I was in there with them instead of lying up on the roof. I knew I’d been useful up here, but the waiting always got to me.
    The smoke in the room started to clear, and I could begin to make out vague faces. A few more seconds passed as I swiveled the crosshairs of my scope from one side of the room to the other.
    What I saw made my breath catch. I felt like I was choking.
    Two men down on the ground, bleeding, motionless. Both were T8’s men. Seno had another man by the throat, squeezing him with his giant hand, holding a gun to the man’s temple. Bruno was on the ground, blood slathered across his left arm. Two men were holding Carver on his knees, one man with his dirt-covered hands in Carver’s hair and around his neck; the other man had a gun to the side of Carver’s bloody face and his arm wrenched up behind his back. Carver was bleeding badly from a split lip, from his temple, from his forehead and hairline, and from numerous spots on his body that the two men next to him mostly covered.
    T8 was standing in front of Carver, only a few feet away, swinging the laser machete in Carver’s direction, waving his arms and ranting like a madman. He walked up to Carver, held the machete a few inches from his face, and started screaming something at him.
    I couldn’t breathe. I could barely focus my eyes on what I was witnessing, and I felt like I was about to throw up. Sometimes people say that it takes your brain a moment to comprehend what you’re seeing, but that wasn’t the case laid out in front of me.
    He wouldn’t make it out of this—I knew that the second the smoke cleared. Carver was going to have his beautiful neck split open by a drug-peddling psychopath while I was forced to watch, frozen in something far past fear and straight on to horror.
    My throat was sore, my mouth dry, my eyes almost unblinking.
    “J, hold your position.” Bruno’s voice sounded like barely a whisper in my ear. No one in the room was paying attention to him. All eyes were on Carver and T8.
    “I don’t like the way T8 is waving that machete in front of Carver’s face,” I replied in a low, shaky voice.
    “It wasn’t a request, Jones. Hold your damn position. If you think you can get a clear shot on one of the men holding Carver, then take it, but don’t let a single bullet fly anywhere near T8,” he snapped. I knew he had the authority to make the call. If Carver was ever compromised, Ko was in charge. If Ko wasn’t around, Bruno was next in line. I knew he was making the right call, the only call we could make to save the mission. I wasn’t supposed to harm a hair on T8’s head, even if he was prepared to run Carver through. The chances of me getting in a clean shot to one of the men holding Carver were less than 17 percent. I