The General Was Left Behind on Christmas Eve: The Legend of the Golden Rifle Rescue
The second kept coming. Winter took another turn. The ambulance clipped a building, metal screaming. The vehicle shook. The motorcycle was gaining. The rider raised his rifle. Calloway threw the fire extinguisher. It hit the rider’s chest. He wobbled, lost balance, and the motorcycle skidded and flipped.
«Nice throw,» Winter said.
«Baseball? High school.»
They reached the river. Winter slammed the brakes. The ambulance stopped inches from the edge. They got out and looked back. Headlights approached—lots of them.
«How’s your swimming?» Winter asked.
«Terrible.»
«Mine too. Let’s go.»
They jumped. The water was black, cold, murderous. Winter’s body seized. Hypothermia was instant. She forced herself to swim, kicked against the current. Beside her, Calloway struggled. His ribs, his exhaustion—he was sinking. Winter grabbed him and pulled him up.
«Stay with me, General.»
«Can’t. Too cold.»
«Yes, you can. That’s an order.»
He kicked. Weakly, but he kicked. They swam. The current pulled them downstream, away from the city, toward darkness. Behind them, rebels reached the riverbank and fired into the water. Bullets hissed past, splashed, missed. Winter and Calloway dove under, staying down, lungs burning.
When they surfaced, the city was distant, lights fading, voices gone. They reached the far shore, dragged themselves onto frozen mud, and lay there, breathing, shaking.
«We made it,» Calloway whispered.
Winter didn’t answer. She was staring at the city. The church. The bell tower. She’d left the golden rifle there. In her rush to save Calloway, she’d abandoned it. The weapon she’d carried for twelve years. The weapon that defined her. Gone.
Calloway saw her face and understood. «I’m sorry.»
«It’s just a gun.»
«No. It’s not.»
She stood and looked at the city one last time. Then turned away. They walked into the darkness. Two survivors. Two ghosts. Behind them, Christmas morning broke over the dead city.
They walked for two hours, south, away from the city. The landscape was frozen farmland—no roads, no lights, just snow and darkness. Calloway’s body was failing. Winter could see it. He stumbled every few steps. His breathing was shallow. Hypothermia, internal bleeding, shock. She supported his weight, kept moving.
«Leave me,» he said. «I’m slowing you down.»
«We move together.»
«Winter. That’s an order, General.»
He didn’t argue.
At 0800 hours, they found a barn. Collapsed roof, walls barely standing, but it was shelter. Winter pulled Calloway inside, found hay, made a pile, and laid him down.
«Stay awake,» she said.
«Tired.»
«I know. Stay awake anyway.»
She checked him over. The ribs were bad. Possibly punctured lung. His left leg was swelling, infection starting. He needed a hospital, antibiotics, surgery. She had none of that. She had a first aid kit—military issue. Bandages, painkillers, field dressings. She did what she could: wrapped his ribs, elevated his leg, gave him pills.
«This isn’t enough,» he said.
«It’ll hold.»
«You’re a bad liar.»
«I’m an excellent liar. You’re just perceptive.»
He almost smiled, then coughed. Blood on his lips. Winter’s stomach tightened. Punctured lung confirmed. She pulled out her emergency radio—the one from Logistics. Turned it on. Static. She adjusted the frequency, tried military channels. Nothing. Tried again. Different frequency. Finally.
«Anyone receiving? This is Rescue Six, searching for General Calloway.»
Winter keyed the mic. «Rescue Six, this is Winter. I have the General. Coordinates as follows.»
Silence. Then, «Winter, you’re supposed to be KIA.»
«Death was exaggerated. Do you copy my coordinates?»
«Copied. ETA 30 minutes. Can you hold?»
«Negative. General needs immediate medical. Punctured lung. Internal bleeding.»
«We’re coming fast. Stay put.»
The radio went silent. Winter looked at Calloway.
«Help’s coming. 30 minutes.»
«That’s a long time. You’ve lasted two weeks. You can last 30 minutes.»
«Those rebels? They’re coming too. They heard the transmission.»
He was right. The radio wasn’t encrypted. Strand’s men monitored all frequencies.
Winter moved to the barn door and looked out. The landscape was empty—for now. She checked her pistol. One magazine. Fifteen rounds. Against an army.
«How many do you think?» Calloway asked.
«All of them.»
«Can you hold?»
«I held the church. I can hold a barn.»
«The church had height. Cover. This is open ground.»
«Then I’ll be creative.»
She set up position, used hay bales for cover, created firing lanes, limited approaches. At 0820, the first vehicle appeared. A truck. Eight rebels. They spread out, took positions, didn’t rush. Smart. Disciplined.
Winter waited. Let them come closer. At 200 meters, she fired. Dropped the point man. The rebels scattered, returned fire. Bullets chewed through the barn walls.
Winter relocated, fired again. Another rebel down. They advanced, used cover, moved in teams. Professional. Winter shot the team leader. They stopped advancing, regrouped. She used the pause to check Calloway. Still breathing. Barely.
«Hang on, General. Not planning to leave.»
Another vehicle arrived. More rebels. They surrounded the barn, cut off escape routes. Winter counted. 20 combatants. Her. 15 rounds. The math wasn’t good. But math didn’t account for training. For will. For pure, stubborn refusal to lose.
She fired in bursts. Controlled. Precise. Every round hit. Every round mattered. The rebels pushed forward. She held them. Barely.
Her pistol clicked empty. She dropped it and grabbed the rebel rifle from earlier—AK-47. Full magazine. The rebels were at the walls now. She could hear them, smell them. She fired through the gaps. Point blank. No aiming required.
Three rebels fell. But more came. Too many. One broke through, coming at her with a knife. She met him hand to hand. No time for technique, just survival. She took the knife, drove it into his chest. He dropped.
She turned. Another rebel. She fired the AK. It jammed. The rebel raised his rifle, but then he collapsed instantly as a high-caliber round found its mark.
Winter spun. A helicopter appeared over the ridge. Black. Military. Door gunners firing. The .50 caliber machine guns tore through the rebels, shredded their vehicles, and turned the battlefield into chaos. The helicopter landed. Soldiers poured out—Delta Force. They secured the perimeter and eliminated remaining threats.
A medic ran to Calloway. Started working. IV. Oxygen. Field surgery. A colonel approached Winter.
«You’re Winter?»
«I am.»
«You were KIA.»
«I got better.»
«You just saved a general.»
«He saved me first. Long time ago.»
The colonel looked at the dead rebels, the bullet-riddled barn, the impossible odds.
«Command wants to debrief you.»
«Tell command I’m retired.»
«You can’t retire. You’re already dead.»
«Then I’m a ghost. Ghosts don’t do paperwork.»
The medic called out. «General stable. But we need to move. Now.»
They loaded Calloway onto the helicopter. Winter started to walk away.
«Where are you going?» the colonel asked.
«Home.»
«We can give you a ride.»
«I prefer to walk.»
She disappeared into the snow. The helicopter lifted off, carried Calloway to safety. Below, the barn burned. The rebels retreated. Christmas morning continued—cold, quiet, victorious.
Winter didn’t go home. She went back. The city pulled her. The unfinished business. The golden rifle. She waited until dark, then crossed the river again. Same route. Same cold. Same hell.
The city was different now. Quieter. The rebels had pulled back. Strand’s command was fracturing. Losing the general broke their morale. But they were still dangerous, still armed, still hunting.
Winter moved through the shadows, reached the church, the bell tower. The rifle was gone. Of course it was gone. The rebels found it, took it, probably analyzed it, tried to trace it. They wouldn’t succeed. The rifle’s serial number had been filed off years ago. No records. No trail. But it was still hers. And she wanted it back.
She descended the tower and moved toward the command post. Strand was there. She could see him through the windows. Wounded shoulder, bandaged, angry. The rifle sat on his desk. Trophy. Symbol. He was studying it, running his fingers over the gold plating, trying to understand the weapon that had destroyed his operation.
Winter counted guards. Four outside. Three inside. All armed. All alert. Seven targets. Zero ammunition. She needed a different approach. She circled the building and found the power junction. The same one she’d sabotaged before. The rebels had repaired it—amateur work, exposed wires, easy access.
She cut the power. The building went dark. Guards shouted, flashlights clicked on. Winter entered through a ground floor window. Moved through the darkness, used the chaos. A guard appeared. She took him from behind. Sleeper hold. He dropped quietly.
Second floor. Two more guards. She used a pipe. Quick strikes. They fell.
Third floor. The last guard was smarter. Heard her coming. Turned. Fired. The shot went wide. Winter closed distance, disarmed him, used his own rifle. He dropped.
She continued, climbed the stairs, reached the eighth floor. Strand was waiting, pistol aimed at the door.
«I knew you’d come back,» he said.
Winter stopped, hands visible. No weapon drawn.
«The rifle,» she said.
«It’s beautiful. Custom work. Gold plating. Excellent scope. Whoever made this understood their craft.»
«Give it back.»
«Why? It’s just a tool. Metal and polymer. What makes it special?»
Winter didn’t answer. Strand smiled.
«You’ve killed for it. Risked everything for it. It’s more than a weapon to you. It’s memory.»
«Of what?»
«People I lost. Missions I survived. The person I used to be.»
Strand set the rifle on the desk but kept his pistol aimed.
«You can have it. But first, answer a question.»
«What question?»
«Why save the general? You’re not active duty. You have no orders. No loyalty. You died three years ago.»
«I owed him. One signature on a form.»
«That’s your reason?»
«Sometimes that’s enough.»
Strand shook his head. «You’re a weapon that refuses to rust. A soldier who won’t quit. Don’t you see? We’re the same. We both believe in something bigger than ourselves.»
«We’re not the same. You torture. I protect. I fight for freedom. You fight for a flag. I fight for people who can’t fight for themselves.»
«Like the general?»
«Like everyone.»
Strand studied her. The pistol didn’t waver. «I could shoot you right now.»
«You could.»
«Why don’t I? Because you’re curious. You want to know if I can take the rifle before you pull the trigger.»
«Can you?»
Winter moved. Not toward the rifle—toward Strand.
He fired. She was already moving. The round missed by inches. She closed distance. Three steps. Two. One. Disarmed him. Took the pistol. Pressed it to his chest.
«The rifle,» she said.
Strand laughed, blood on his teeth. «Go ahead. Shoot me. Become what I am.»
Winter’s finger touched the trigger. She thought about it. All the people Strand had killed, tortured, destroyed. She could end him. Should end him. But she didn’t.
«I’m not like you,» she said. «I only kill when I have to.»
She lowered the pistol, took the rifle, and slung it across her back. Strand watched her, confused, angry.
«You’re letting me live?»
«You’re wounded. Your operation is broken. Your men are deserting. You’ve already lost.»
She walked to the door, stopped. «Merry Christmas, Commander.»
Then she left. Behind her, Strand sat in darkness, bleeding, beaten, alive.
Winter descended the building. The guards were still unconscious. She moved through the ground floor, exited into the street. The city was silent. Snow falling. Christmas morning in full bloom. She walked to the river, looked back one last time.
The church bells started ringing. Someone had repaired them. The sound echoed across the ruins: peace, hope, renewal. Winter turned away. The rifle was heavy on her back—a good weight, familiar. She entered the water, swam downstream, and left the city behind.
