Jackson Hunter

The ramp hissed down, spitting a cloud of dust and heat into the cabin of the C-130. I stepped out, the air hitting me like a physical blow—thick with diesel fumes and the distant, metallic scent of ozone and cordite. Beside me, my five newly transferred buddies followed, blinking against the harsh, midday sun. I was Jackson Hunter, seven feet of muscle,tattoos, and ambition. And I’d finally gotten the action I’d begged for. This desolate patch of rock and scrub, some forgotten corner of a crime-ridden country, was supposed to be the proving ground. We moved toward the three figures waiting twenty yards away. Two men, built like brick walls and a woman, slight in comparison. Naturally, I scanned the larger man—Major Murphy, probably—expecting the handshake and the briefing. He wore the standard issue, but his eyes were ancient. “Well, look at the fresh meat,” I muttered under my breath, loud enough for my immediate circle to hear. “Hope the leader’s got a sense of humor. We’re going to need it.” We stopped, saluting sloppily. I was already planning my opening joke when the woman stepped forward. She was young, maybe my age, 27, with a face that looked entirely too soft for this environment—a baby face framed by severe, pulled-back hair. But her eyes. They were cold, flat chips of ice. “At ease, gentlemen,” she said, her voice low, steady, and utterly devoid of warmth. Her uniform bore the rank of Sergeant. “I am Sergeant Kennedy. I run this circus.” My smartass tendencies kicked in before I could stop them. I offered a lazy grin. “Ma’am. Didn’t expect the welcoming committee to be so… petite. I figured the one in charge of the most lethal outfit would be a little more… grizzled.” The air went silent. The two men flanking her didn’t even twitch. Kennedy didn't flinch, didn't raise her voice, but the temperature dropped ten degrees. Story of survival and forbidden love..Brutally of the w@r..sacrifices.