The up-armored Humvee doors clanged like loose tin every time they hit a rut. Sandblasted khaki window frames howled; the windshield was a white spiderweb of impact stars.
"This fucking glass ain't gonna cave, right?"
Murphy's voice, dry as the air outside.
John Hastings dragged on the last two inches of his cigar, two quick hits to keep the blood moving, then jammed the butt into the dash seam and cranked the window up.
"Storm's coming."
He scraped dust from his beard, pulled the DDM4A1 higher between his thighs, and settled back against the seat like a man who'd already accepted he might die in it.
"Hey, nerd, turn the goddamn music up!"
Logan kicked the back of Murphy's seat hard enough to rattle teeth. Black T-shirt, sleeves cut off so the ink could flex—dude looked like he was auditioning for Triple Canopy on his day off.
"Call me nerd again and I'll let you bleed out next time, dickhead," Murphy muttered, but one glance at John's nod and he twisted the knob anyway.
Johnny Cash poured through the blown-out speakers: "I am a poor wayfaring stranger…" John's CD, same one he'd been playing for three straight days.
"Christ, Boss, this shit's older than dirt. You're literally the youngest guy in the truck."
Logan kept bitching, boot tapping the floorboard off-beat, palms slapping the handguard of his rifle like it owed him money.
John let the guitar sink into his spine, then started singing under his breath—voice shredded from cigars and cordite.
"…traveling through this world below."
Somehow it fit. Rough, low, no polish. Perfect.
"Gray Horse just birthed a fucking bard," Logan laughed, head back, silver wedding band flashing as he scratched his creased forehead.
Murphy saw the old man actually smiling and joined in, beating the wheel like a tom-tom.
"There's no sickness, no toil, nor danger…"
Two busted baritones, thick enough to chew.
Logan finally shut up and threw his voice in—half a step flat, full volume.
"In that bright land to which I go."
They were grinning like idiots now, rifles across their laps, singing louder than the wind.
"I'm just going over Jordan…
I'm just going over home."
Harmonica wailed. Logan raised both hands and slapped the roof like he was front-row at a concert.
John caught the silhouette on the rooftop—black tube, warhead glint.
Smile died.
"RPG!"
The rocket hit five meters off the nose in a white-orange flash. Murphy yanked left, smashed through a market stall. Burlap and spices exploded across the windshield.
Second blast—close enough to cook the air inside the truck.
"FUCK!"
John jerked awake, heart still trying to punch through his sternum.
Green beret. Leather seat. Wrong fucking vehicle.
He met the cabbie's eyes in the mirror.
"You good back there, boss?" Thick Dhaka accent, fast but worried.
"Yeah." John dragged the beret off, wiped cold sweat from his hairline, fingers brushing fresh stitches.
"You sure, man? You look like shit. Still want Kilo Bravo in Williamsburg, or you need to lie down first?"
"Lease ran out," John rasped. "Bar's fine."
He buttoned his collar, tucked both dog tags under the white shirt, and leaned back.
Smooth ride. No potholes hiding IEDs. No rooftops with PKs. Just Brooklyn—goldens on leashes, construction guys in hard hats, sewer steam that smelled like rotten eggs instead of burning plastic and flesh.
No incoming whistle. Just horns and sirens. Sparrows on the wires instead of FPV drones with grenades.
John stared at the city like it was a movie he'd walked into halfway through.
"Hey, Johnny."
Logan's voice—younger, happier—came from the left. Gray suit, no ink past the cuff yet, wedding band catching the sun.
"Old man's gonna retire soon. Bet you make captain before he does. Then sergeant major. Shit, I'm not even betting—I already know I win."
He grinned, scratched his jaw, flashed the Italian label inside his jacket like a kid with new money.
"First three rounds on me when we get there. Still bourbon, right?"
Then the light changed and he was gone.
John looked back at the real window. Same street. Same nothing.
He pressed the tags against his chest until the edges cut.
"You drank gin, you lying son of a bitch," he whispered.
Thumb traced the name he didn't need to see anymore.
"You lost the bet, fucking asshole."