Free Refugee Road (Freedom Fighters Series Book 1) by Nikki Landis

supply run was going to take a good portion of the day. It would be nightfall before we returned to camp. If things got tricky or if we were followed, we may not make it back tonight. There was always a plan B. Secrecy was important. We had to avoid detection at all costs. I didn’t care how long we were gone. No pressure for me. This was all on Darren’s shoulders.
    I loved these spur of the moment supply runs. It broke up the monotony. The truth was that it took all of the pressure off my objective and I was able to relax, just a little. The focus wasn’t on wiping out the enemy but on stealth. It was a game. Of chance. Of fortune. A roll of the dice. A game I enjoyed and one I was quite good at.
    Once we were back inside camp, I quickly showered my body and changed clothes. I stopped at the chapel, kneeling before the cross and saying a quick prayer of protection. I asked God to keep us all safe and bring us home.
    I wasn’t very religious but my mother had been a devout Christian and it felt wrong not to continue her beliefs. She would have wanted that. With the war, I didn’t know what I believed anymore. Faith was a forgotten and distant concept. I continued the tradition for her sake, familiarity, and the slight comfort it gave me.
    I paused and loaded up at the armory before meeting with Darren. I had a dagger and a small knife, my pistol, my semi-automatic, and ammo. We packed a few flashlights, some food rations, filled our canteens, and strapped on our bed rolls.
    I also kept my whistle. Darren had given it to me when I first joined. If I got separated from him I was supposed to use it so he could find me quickly. I had forgotten it the night I saw Alec. He hadn’t been happy. In fact, he had been furious. I remembered it this time, patting the outside of my pocket with a smirk on my face. I would use it loudly next time, just to rub it in his face.
    Darren had invited XXX (real name unknown), me, Malcolm A.K.A. Slug, Diva, and Big Dog. Each of us were chosen for our specific talents. XXX was a lethal marksman and sniper. He was also well known for his explicit jokes and sense of humor. Malcolm was a strategist and a deadly accurate shot, especially with a shotgun or rifle. He knew schematics and maps with an almost photographic memory.
    Diva was an African American girl, a little older than me, and excellent at melee weapons. She could shoot a bow, throw knives, and slash a sword like a medieval knight. Impressive was not a strong enough word. And Big Dog was…big. At six foot five, he was tall and hundreds of pounds of solid muscle. His strength alone was an asset but he was also a good shot. We all had to be these days.
    As for me, well I was a decent shot, excellent climber, and an adept lock picker. Darren had me trained by a fellow soldier, Edward, before he was killed last year. We didn’t speak of him. Ever. But he had taught me well. We never spoke of our dead once they were buried. It was an unwritten code. The only place we mourned them was the wall. Every name was etched in stone there. Every soldier, friend, and family member lost.
    Our rag tag band of six set out an hour later, trekking through the harsh forest with considerable speed, agility, and silence. The snow had melted giving way to a muddy squishy slosh that covered your boots and impeded our progress. Despite this, we made excellent time. All of us were decent trackers and knew how to cover our prints. Another necessity. You learned to be good at it or you got killed. Most things in this life were that simple. Survival was the code.
    No one in our group was afraid to die. After experiencing as much as we have, it was only another stage. Moving on meant freedom from the monotony and the barrage of constant nightmares and guilt, the end of torture and torment every waking minute, and the end of pain and suffering. To be afraid, you had to have something to lose. And none of us did. We lost it all long ago. Thanks to K.D. Thanks to the