Simmons gave one last shudder and died. His eyes glazed over and stared through Riley. She had been straddling the body of her now-dead commanding officer in the backseat of the minivan, pressing her wadded-up uniform top against the ragged shrapnel hole in his gut.

Riley released her grip on the soggy cloth. Her fingers dripped with blood.
“Simmons is gone. He’s fucking gone,” Riley informed the rest of her unit, filling the forward seats in the minivan.

The vehicle, which Riley estimated was doing about 60 m.p.h over the snow-covered gravel road, slammed a pothole. Riley’s skull smacked against the ceiling.
“Jesus, Benson!” Riley shouted to the driver, “you trying to kill me, too?”