Smoke wafted through the half collapsed structure, curling through shattered windows and holes punched through clay walls by gunfire and rocket blasts. Violet's boots barely made a sound as she stepped over the corpse of a Taliban insurgent, rifle cradled to her chest, her left hand locked around the grip like it had grown from her arm.
The headset crackled softly in her ear. "I have visuals on the hostages."
The voice belonged to Lieutenant Ayoubi, a local Afghan National Army officer attached to their unit for the mission. He was young, eager, and terrified beneath it all. "The Americans are on their way."
A soft breeze blew in through the hole in the wall, brushing against her face. Dust followed, stinging her eyes, but she didn't blink.
"They won't be here in time. They're getting ready to shoot! We need to move in now-!"
"Damn." A growl from the French commander, Captain Toussant. "Contact Bougainvillea's dog. We can't risk the Americans getting pissed off if one of their people gets killed."
She heard her name through the radio, not her real one. The one the soldiers whispered when they didn't know she was listening, which she always was.
Bougainvillea's Dog.
Major Gilbert wasn't here. He'd been pulled back for a debriefing three days prior. Left her under the command of Captain Touissant, who didn't know her at all.
Didn't trust her, either, but he would use her.
They always did, and that was fine.
"Evergarden." The captain's voice came through the radio now, not whispered through smoke. Hard. Cold. Commanding. "Move in, you've been greenlit by High Command."
"Yes, sir." Violet replied, already on the move.
The compound was a shantytown fortress of dried mud, corrugated metal, and sun-bleached tarps. A labyrinth of courtyards, storage rooms, and goat pens, each turn indistinguishable from the last. She'd memorized the satellite images in less than two minutes during the briefing. Six hostiles, four confirmed hostages. Two American contractors, one interpreter, one medic. All bound in a back room beneath the main barracks.
Violet stepped over another body. Still warm. She hadn't killed this one.
She turned a corner, pressing herself into the wall, rifle raised. The sun was a burnt smear of orange in the sky above, filtered through the dust storm blowing over the eastern rise. It reminded her of the firebombing back in Nasir Bagh. The smell did, too.
"Hostile moving to checkpoint Bravo. Armored vest. Kalashnikov." Ayoubi spoke again.
"Confirmed." Violet's voice was without breath, without hesitation. "Engaging now."
The man never heard her. His rifle hung at his side, loose grip, lazy eyes. She was already moving when he noticed her. He raised his weapon too late. Violet pulled the trigger.
One round. Center mass. A pause. Another in the head.
She kept moving.
Her breath stayed steady even as her body slid into the rhythm of entry and clearance. Left foot forward, muzzle up, check your corners, muzzle down, watch for wires, check the shadows. The patterns burned into her bones, a catechism she'd learned in blood and sand.
She reached the barracks door. It was closed, the hinges rusted, a padlock barely hanging from the latch. She raised her left foot and drove it through the wood, splintering the frame with a sharp, dry crack.
Gunfire immediately erupted from inside.
Violet didn't flinch. She rolled right, just inside the doorway, and returned fire when she could.
Three men. Two already repositioned to take cover. The third, the shooter, stood exposed, screaming in Dari, something about infidels and dogs. She shot him through the shoulder, the hip, then the head. The other two tried to run.
One made it three steps.
She stepped over the last man with precision, already pulling a flash grenade from her vest. The hallway curved, cutting behind a stack of empty crates and what looked like a broken refrigerator. The hostages would be there per the briefing.
She pulled the pin and counted One, two, three, and threw.
The flashbang detonated with a high-pitched whomp, light and sound slamming into the walls like a hammer. Screams followed, voices distorted by panic and heat.
Violet moved in.
The room was dark, but she didn't need light. Her eyes adjusted before she stepped through the door. Four hostages. All on the floor. Three male, one female. The woman was bleeding from a shallow head wound. The older contractor had blood on his hands but no visible injuries. They were blindfolded and zip-tied. The two insurgents watching them were dazed from the flashbang, just enough time.
Violet didn't hesitate.
All it took was two rounds, and two bodies dropped.
One of the hostages flinched.
"No sudden movements." Violet said, holstering her rifle. She pulled out her knife and moved to the closest man. "I'm here to get you out."
The knife bit through the zip tie. The man gasped, lifting his head as she pulled off the blindfold. He stared at her with wide eyes, as if he hadn't been blindfolded when the flashbang erupted.
"Y-You're just a kid."
Violet blinked. "I'm a soldier, Sir."
Extraction took exactly three minutes. Ayoubi and two French paratroopers arrived just as she finished clearing the compound's rear gate. They didn't ask questions, and just helped walk the hostages out.
The helicopter landed seven minutes later. Americans. Big, loud, and five minutes too late.
As the dust kicked up by the rotors filled the air again, Violet stood alone at the edge of the road, rifle slung, blood that wasn't hers drying on her knuckles. The sun was down now, hidden behind the haze. Everything was tinted rust and ash.
Captain Touissant walked up to her. Hands in his vest pockets. He looked at the compound, then at the hostages being loaded into the evac chopper.
"You went in early," he said, more observation than accusation.
"You gave the order," she replied.
He studied her for a long moment. His eyes never made it to hers.
"You did good."
"I followed orders."
He nodded, but it looked like a wince. "Go get cleaned up. You're off duty until the briefing."
Violet saluted. "Yes, sir."
Later, in her tent, she washed the blood off her hands. Her right knuckle was swollen where she'd hit a wall corner without realizing it. Bruises forming up her forearm from rifle recoil. She had been too efficient again. Too fast. That always happened when the Major wasn't around.
She sat on the edge of the cot and unstrapped her boots with practiced mechanical movements. One by one, she set them aside, then reached for the battered journal that sat inside her duffel. The Major had given it to her after her first confirmed kill.
"Keep track of what you feel," he'd said.
She'd written in it every day since. Never feelings, exactly. But she kept notes.
Journal Entry — Operation Dust Veil
Time: 1843 hours
Location: Eastern Compound, Sector 7
Weather: Dust storm; limited visibility
Objective: Hostage retrieval — status: success
Casualties: 6 enemy combatants — 4 neutralized by me
Hostiles showed minimal tactical coordination.
Interrogation not required. Mission cleared.
Personal Note: I followed orders.
That night, she dreamed of fire. She always did, after successful missions. Fire and the Major's hand on her shoulder.
Violet blinked, and the lettuce on her fork came into focus again. She had paused mid-lift, the edge of her plate untouched.
The sun shone through the café window, coloring the table in soft, golden streaks. Marinette was laughing at something Alya said. The background hum of conversation and cutlery formed a melody she hadn't learned to read yet.
But she could feel it, even if she didn't know what it was.
Violet would get a medical exam after class.
She stabbed another piece of lettuce, lifted it, and ate it.
A/N
I just keep on disappearing huh?