Serial Fiction | Ben [Ch. 1]

A companion to the Olivia series

Content Warning: Ben contains mature content not suitable for readers under 17. This series explores subjects and scenes that may be unsettling for some readers. Content is rated Mature (17+) for realistic violence, strong language, and dark themes.

Reader discretion is advised.

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3 Months Before Olivia

I met Greg Martin at a meeting for veterans—kind of like AA but for the people the government screwed up and then left behind.

We sat in a circle of broken men with half-healed scars, sharing stories nobody else wanted to hear. Stories about nightmares that don’t fade, about bodies left behind, about ghosts that show up when you least expect them.

And don’t fucking laugh, but Martin was the one person who understood me. That listened to me recount the mission and gave me something other than pity in return.

Jackson, Garcia—Dakota and Gabe—I couldn’t burden them with the shit that crawled through my dreams after that mission. They’d been through enough already.

The brass made it clear after the last op: no more guns in our hands. Not because we weren’t capable—because we were broken. Three guys they couldn’t trust with live ammo anymore.

Photo by Damir Samatkulov on Unsplash

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3 Months Prior…

The room was too cold for being in the desert. We sat around that metal table like condemned prisoners—all five of us, but only three would make it back alive. I knew it before the first briefing slide even popped up on the screen.

Colonel’s voice droned on about objectives, coordinates, timelines—words meant for others, not me. I tuned it out and ran through the mission in my head, piece by piece: insertion point, possible enemy strength, extraction window. Same as every other time… but this one was different. This was the last mission any of us would get.

I glanced at the team. Dakota—the golden retriever of the group, grinning like we were on a fishing trip, not walking into hell.

I wouldn’t see that smile for six more months.

Gabe was quiet, as always, fingers tapping on the notebook, eyes calculating the odds and variables like this was a goddamn chess match.

Johnson and McCane were bright eyed, bushy tailed operatives, just excited to call themselves Delta.

I should’ve protected them.

I could feel that familiar heat that flares when everything’s on the line. But I kept it locked down. Anger’s a tool, not a weapon. Lose control, and you lose lives.

I like the violence—I’m not gonna lie—but I didn’t fuck around when it came to the mission.

This mission was supposed to be a simple weapons grab. For once, I wanted to make it out without a body count on my conscience. But that’s not how it works. Not anymore.

Photo by Aleksey Kashmar on Unsplash

We rolled out just after dusk. The sky was bruised purple and black, and the air was thick—humidity clinging to skin, sweat already slicking my palms inside my gloves. And that heavy silence that presses in when everything’s about to explode.

Our insertion was quiet. No flash, no noise—five shadows slipping through the underbrush, each of us locked into the rhythm of the mission. Dakota kept up a steady stream of half-jokes, low enough not to break focus but enough to remind us we weren’t ghosts yet. Gabe never looked away from his gear, fingers dancing over comms, feeding intel and scanning frequencies.

Johnson and McCane fell into step behind us—eager, unaware. I caught Johnson fumbling with his rifle sling; his nerves showed through his jerky movements. McCane’s eyes darted constantly, breathing shallow.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and forced my jaw to unclench. No time for soft spots.

We hit the target zone—the compound was dark except for a few scattered generators and guard patrols.

Gabe’s voice was clipped and calm, “Two guards front gate, rotation every four minutes. Thermal cam shows three inside.”

I counted in my head, visualized the angles. Entry point was narrow, fences sharp and unforgiving. No room for error.

Dakota whispered, “Feels like we’re walking into a meat grinder.”

“Stay focused,” I hissed back. The time for jokes was over.

Seconds stretched, heartbeats thudding louder than the world around us. We moved like ghosts—silent, deliberate, deadly.

Then the first shot cracked.

Photo by Daniel on Unsplash

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That first shot cut through the night like a serrated blade—sharp, sudden. It wasn’t one of ours.

I dropped to the ground without thinking, rolling behind the rusted-out shell of an old hatchback. My heart thundered, but my breathing stayed slow—trained, deliberate. I felt the grit of dirt in my palms, the damp of sweat clinging to my skin. Every muscle tensed, ready.

“Contact front,” Dakota’s eyes were wide, even in the shadows, under his NVG’s¹.

I could hear the sharp bark of gunfire—round after round slamming into metal and concrete; the echo bounced between walls like a bad omen.

I caught movement at the edge of my vision. McCane was staggering, one hand pressed against his shoulder where blood was seeping through his plate carrier. He grimaced, mouth working without sound, panic setting in behind his eyes.

Johnson cursed softly and moved to return fire—right out in the open. A bright flare lit his leg, and suddenly he went down. There was a scream, a sharp thud, and then silence that screamed even louder.

The world slowed, but the chaos didn’t. My jaw clenched tight as the weight of it hit me—two gone, in seconds.

Dakota was moving fast, yanking McCane low behind cover, his hands shaking just enough to make my gut twist. Gabe was steady, his eyes scanning, calculating the kill zone, calling out targets with cold precision.

I felt the heat rise behind my eyes, that familiar surge of anger—raw and biting. But fury had no place here. Now was survival. Control or die.

I barked orders—cover, suppress, maneuver. My voice was gravel, stripped of anything but necessity.

Moving forward meant risking a bullet, but standing still meant death. I slid from cover to cover, every step calculated. The smell of sweat, blood, and spent gunpowder was so thick, anyone else would’ve choked.

The firefight stretched on like a nightmare in slow motion—shouts, gunfire, the sick wet thud of bodies falling.

I slipped around the corner, senses stretched tight. The shooter was alone, pacing near a rusted generator, unaware of me in the shadows.

I crept close, the rough concrete scraping my palms as I dropped low.

As soon as I was an arms length away, I popped up and, with a practiced grip, clamped my hand over his mouth—just enough to steal his breath and silence the scream.

His body tensed against mine, panicking just a little too late.

I jerked my other hand up, twisting his neck sharply to the side. The faint snap echoed in the still night. He collapsed soundless, a dead weight melting into the dirt. I scanned the compound fast—two men down already. No time to mourn.

I slipped through the low wall, pressed my back against the cold concrete. Every breath shallow, every muscle coiled. The target was just ahead—a bulky guy barking orders like he owned the night. Probably thought himself untouchable.

I inched closer, silent as a shadow. He never saw me coming.

I grabbed the back of his neck with one hand, slammed the heel of my palm into the base of his skull. The crack echoed loud in my ears. He staggered forward, disoriented.

No chance to scream.

With my other hand, I yanked a folding knife from my belt, blade snapping open with a familiar hiss. Fingers clamped tight around his collar, pulling him toward me.

He tried to jerk away; I shifted weight, slammed my knee into his ribs, grinding breath from his lungs.

His body jerked, collapsing against me.

I pressed the knife into the side of his throat. I moved the blade deeper—careful, controlled—until he stopped moving.

I didn’t breathe until the last flicker left his eyes and the night swallowed him whole. I wiped the sweat and blood from my face, reached out to radio Dakota and Gabe.

“Extraction point secure,” I said flatly.

Silence.

“Extraction point secure, copy” came through. I couldn’t tell whose voice was on the other end until the ringing in my ears faded.

“Bodies in tow?” I asked, voice low.

I didn’t say it aloud, but we all knew: no man left behind. No matter the cost.

My hands were slick with blood, heart pounding, lungs burning for air. I forced myself to breathe slow, to focus.

Mission wasn’t over until we were all clear.

Then movement—a small shadow darting between the rubble. A kid. No more than seven, dirt-smudged face, eyes too wide, too haunted for his age. He froze, just staring. At me.

I could see the face of the man I just killed in the kid in front of me.

For a moment, the world narrowed down to his eyes—fear and something like betrayal. Like loss.

There was no anger or hate in those eyes. Not until he saw me. Watched what I did.

I wanted to look away. Wanted to pretend it didn’t happen.

But it was real.

The radio buzzed to life—Dakota’s voice tight, shaky. “Ben, we’re out. Bodies secured. Extraction inbound.”

I saw the very moment that kid became a state sponsored weapon. Protocol was to eliminate survivors. They become enemies.

I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

All I felt in that moment was pure, unfiltered rage. And that kid wasn’t my target.

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Back at base, the cold walls of the hangar bay felt like a tomb. Dakota and Garcia were seated silently in the corner, staring at the ground.

Dakota looked up; “Baker, wait—”

I didn’t bother responding. I was on a new mission. Once I reached the CO’s office, I knocked once, hard, and pushed the door open.

The CO looked up from his desk—eyes sharp, unreadable. Almost flat.

“Come on in, Captain.” He said, sarcastically.

“We need to talk.” My voice came out shakier than I would’ve liked.

He gestured to a chair, but I stayed standing. “Two of my guys are dead. No weapons found. You want to explain that?”

His mouth opened, but I cut him off before he could say a word. “SAY SOMETHING, DAMN IT.”

“You went off the rails out there, Baker.”

“No!” I took a breath, and lowered my voice—for a moment. “I followed orders. We found no weapons. There were children in the kill zone, sir.” My hands gripped the metal chair in front of me until my knuckles went white.

His expression didn’t move an inch. Just tight and emotionless.

Without thinking, I flung the chair to the wall. It hit with a loud crack; it did nothing to soften the anger twisting in my gut. “KIDS, COLONEL. THERE WERE KIDS.”

His eyebrow raised—the first sign of surprise I’d ever seen cross his face. He leaned back, steepling his fingers. “You and your guys had a long night. You should get some rest and then reconsider your version of events.”

I felt my fists clench. “No! I want the goddamn truth, and I’m not leaving without it.”

“Truth,” he sneered. “Is a luxury you don’t get in this business. You completed the mission. You destroyed the weapons of mass destruction. You still have a chance to walk away from this labeled a goddamn hero.”

I stepped closer, voice rising. “Are you—are you threatening me?”

“You, Jackson, Garcia—you three will get an honorable discharge, mental health related.” A slow, cruel smile spread across his lips. “One word out of you, and I’ll draft other than honorable discharges; brand you psychotic murderers who slaughtered civilians without orders. We erase you. No trial. No appeal. Just you, and some black site.”

The room spun. Years of loyalty, sacrifice, everything I believed in—crumbling into dust.

“Think of your team.” He watched me with cold satisfaction. “Consider this mercy.”

I swallowed hard, feeling the weight settle deep in my bones. The mission was done.

But I lost everything in that room.

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Until the next chapter,

—The Narrator.

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