“Outlaw Three Golf, this is Gatehouse, over.” the radio broke the monotonous drone of the thermal system. I thumbed the CVC helmet, pausing to hear the chirp of successful radio encryption.

“Gatehouse, Outlaw Three Golf, go ahead, over.” I tried to mask my boredom. Fucking checkpoint duty. If I’m subjected to much more of this, they won’t have to kill me.

“Outlaw Three Golf, we’ve got a taxi coming down MSR Dallas straight for us… and he’s haulin’ ass, over.” Now, this could be interesting.

I popped my sweat soaked brow up to the gunner’s sight, slewing the Bradley turret over to the roadway. The checkpoint bunker, Gatehouse, wasn’t lying. That fucker was hauling ass, trailing a plume of dust in the scorching afternoon heat. I lazed the cab, the display reading 750m. At 300m, I could fire.

The boys at the gate signaled to stop, fired a warning shot, and then the range finder displayed 300m. I launched HE-HI in quick bursts, shredding the taxi.

Boom boom boom. Boom boom boom.

The family burned.