The leather band was ancient, cracked, and heavily worn after more than twenty years of constant wear. Attached to it was a faded, tarnished metal plate engraved with a single name that remained visible despite decades of scratches, sun exposure, and sheer neglect.
That name was Burton.
Most people who saw it just assumed it was some kind of old military souvenir or a cheesy sentimental trinket. To me, however, it stood for a promise made during one of the darkest, most terrifying nights of my life, a promise I had carried through every job, every move, and every passing year since coming home.
When General Henderson finally stepped up and asked where I got the band, I told him it had belonged to Sergeant Isaac Burton. The mention of the name immediately caused his expression to tighten because he told me that the official personnel records showed Burton had been killed before the extraction team reached them during an ambush in Afghanistan.
