This is Sue's Challenge - her sentences are in bold, and the names she gave me were Mark and Jonathan.
All I had was the clothes on my back and a pocketful of loose change. Neither were much use in the cold downpour that washed bomb debris down the broken street. Not all the wreckage was down to me. The Taliban had already killed or driven out everyone. I took a deep breath, ignoring the aches in my ribs and back. I was alive, relatively undamaged, and my task was done. The hidden watching post and its state of the art surveillance equipment were destroyed. Now I had to stay alive and get out of there.
To be honest, I hadn't expected to survive this, my last mission. Black ops personnel aren't exactly expendable, but our survival rate isn't high. That goes double for the Ghost Squad. And I was a ghost, the blackest of black ops operatives.
"Mark," Jon had said on our last night before I left, "for God's sake, stay alive." We'd clung together in the darkness, too aware of all that could go wrong, how much was at stake.
"I'll do my best," I promised. Then, "Jonathan Laybourn, will you marry me?"
Twenty hours later, Jon pulled me into the chopper at the rendezvous.
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