The barn was silent except for the sound of knuckles hitting a sandbag. No music. No crowd. Just one boy and pain.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Zane Cross's fists were raw. No gloves. No wraps. Just bone on canvas. His breath steamed in the cold air, sweat dripping off his jaw like a leaky faucet. Outside, the Georgia woods were pitch black, stars scattered above like bullet holes in the sky.
He didn't care what time it was. Didn't care that tomorrow was graduation. He had one goal.
Delta.
Not Army. Not Rangers. Not SEALs.
Delta Force — the unit they don't talk about. The one that doesn't exist. The one that handles the world's ugliest messes so no one else has to.
His father used to tell him stories. Real ones. Classified missions no one believed. "You don't join Delta," he'd say. "You survive it. Then they own you."
Zane wanted that. Needed it. Not for medals. Not for pride.
Because when you grow up watching your dad drink himself into silence every night, when your mom dies with bills in her hand, when you realize no one's ever coming to save you—
You don't pray.
You don't beg.
You get strong.
Zane punched harder.
THUD.
Blood smeared across the bag. His right knuckle split open again. He kept going.
"Zane!"
The barn door creaked open. His uncle Rick, eyes bleary from the bottle, leaned in.
"You comin' back inside or tryin' to break your damn hand again?"
Zane didn't answer.
Rick sighed. "Army recruiter'll be here at 0900. You don't need to go in beat to hell."
"I'm not joining to stay safe," Zane muttered, still punching.
Rick walked up behind him, looked at the blood on the bag, the bruises on Zane's ribs. He said nothing for a while.
Then: "You really think you got what it takes to be Delta?"
Zane stopped. Turned around.
"No," he said, chest heaving. "But I'm gonna find out."
9 Hours Later
The recruiter's office smelled like dust and coffee. Zane sat across from Sergeant Miles, who wore a bored expression and a Bronze Star.
"You sure about this?" Miles asked. "Delta's not something we offer. Not directly. You gotta earn your way up."
"I will."
"You'll start infantry. Maybe Airborne. Could be years before you even touch Assessment."
"Good."
Miles looked at him. Really looked. Saw the bruises on his knuckles. The focused, unblinking stare.
"You remind me of a guy I served with," he said finally. "He made it into Delta. Came out colder than ice. You ready for that?"
Zane nodded once.
Miles pulled the enlistment form forward. "Sign here."
Zane picked up the pen. His signature was shaky but firm.
Zane Cross.
U.S. Army Infantry.
Objective: Delta Force.