Fire races up my leg and, for the first time in my life, real terror threatens to take over my entire nervous system. The enemy in front of me falls dead to the ground, but bullets continue to rain toward us.
I pull another clip from my belt, but my hands are trembling to the point that I can barely manage to hold it. The reasonable side of me knows I’ve been shot. The initial pain in my leg, however, is gone, and that’s a horrible sign.
I look down at my utility pants, the darkened room making it impossible to assess the damage.
There’s screaming and yelling, men dying all around me. I don’t know if it’s the enemy or my own actions of stepping out of formation that have caused a tragic end to one of my own teammates.
The stupidity of what I’ve done drifts in and out. It’s as hard to grasp as the clip I can’t manage to get back into my rifle.
I curl into myself, wondering when I became such a coward. I know there’s still fight in me, but I can’t muster it. I taste blood, which makes no sense if my injury is to my leg. I realize as my vision grows hazy, there’s a good chance that I’ve been hit more than once.
My mic crackles with chatter in my ear, but my head is past the point of deciphering what’s being said. Guilt swims inside of me, like acid eating and tearing away at every part of me.
The second those two are down, I hear Spade screaming into the mic, “I’ll be able to get them out of there.”
More shots echo around us.
“The intel was bad,” Hound rages, his voice a growl in my ear. “There are three times more men here than we were told.”
“I’ll help you, Spade,” Slick says. “Rocker, are they gone?”
The situation we’ve encountered has to be bad if Rocker’s team is already making entry into the compound.
I feel myself being dragged across the floor and despite knowing it’s Cerberus, my mind creates demons dragging me to hell. I fight as best I can, but my motor skills are malfunctioning. Rough hands hold my shoulders down.
“You have to keep him still,” I hear Slick say.
“How bad is it?” Spade asks.
“I need a fucking tourniquet,” Slick roars.
I’m jostled even more, but the movements feel as if they’re coming from a secondhand source, as if I’m not the one experiencing it, and I know that’s bad. I know by the dizziness I feel, and the way my eyes don’t want to work correctly, that I’m in trouble. “You’re going to be fine,” Spade assures me, but I can tell by the tone of his voice that he isn’t exactly sure if he’s lying or telling the truth.
“Report,” Kincaid yells into the mic, but the bullets have yet to cease.
We’re still right in the middle of it. Other team members battling three men down because I’m on the floor bleeding out and Spade and Slick are both with me. If someone else is injured because of my callous disregard for protocol, I don’t know that I’d want to survive this.
Pain shoots up my arm and I do my best to fight it.
“It’s morphine,” Spade spits. “Calm the fuck down.”
Gunfire ceases, but even the lack of noise doesn’t bring any more clarity.
“Are they all dead?” I ask, my words slurred and heavy.
“All dead,” Spade confirms.
As my eyes flutter closed, knowing death is near, I can’t help but think it was worth it.
Chapter 3
Slick
“Fucking drive faster,” I roar.
The engine of the SUV grumbles as Rocker presses harder on the gas. Although riding in the back of the SUV with Aro isn’t the most comfortable, I’m more concerned with my hands on his wound as I continuously try to stanch the blood flow.
It’s bad, like really fucking bad. His right leg is mangled. He had to have taken two hits from an AR-15 for it to do this kind of damage. My heart is racing and I have no hope of getting it under control anytime soon.
“Jesus, look out,” Thumper growls, but before I can heed the warning, the SUV rocks violently back and forth.
My hands fall away as I attempt to brace myself in an effort to keep from falling directly onto Aro. He’s passed out from a combination of the pain and morphine he was given in the field, but the last thing the man needs is a crush injury from me.
To see over the middle seat to figure out what was in the road that Rocker had to avoid, I’d have to let go of Aro again. And that’s not something I’m willing to do. The tourniquet has worked well, but his wound is too bad to stop the flow of blood completely.
“Three minutes out,” Kincaid says, his voice echoing through the vehicle’s Bluetooth. He’s tracking us on our way to the hospital.