Chapter 22
Mack Reese, AKA Truck, is leaning back on a bright orange Reeves stretcher with his arms crossed behind his head.
Fucking hell.
“What’d you do to yourself?”
“Piece of metal in my leg. I told this lovely medic one of you guys could cut part of it off right here.”
The medic scrunches her nose up and smacks his chest with a little tap. “Crazy man.”
“I’m a SEAL. We’re all crazy,” Truck tells her with a cocky smirk. He hooks a thumb at me. “Just ask him.”
I don’t confirm or deny. “He’s fine. He’s been through worse.”
Now that I have eyes on Truck, relief loosens the choke-hold on my neck, taking with it some of the darkness that memories of my father always leave.
Damn, it’s been a long time since I had to tap into that anger.
Trying to hide my mood, I grip my friend’s shoulder. “Seriously, no other injuries?”
“I’m fine. I stepped into a gap between two pieces of stone. The debris shifted. Idiotic move. Didn’t see the metal. It would be a lot easier to get me out of here if you could cut off the majority of the metal.”
He looks over at my arm, which is now a bloody mess. “What about you? You’re bleeding.”
I hold up my arm and twist so I can see the cut on my inner arm. It’s a three-inch gash near the tricep, but more to the inside. There’s a steady red stream coursing down my arm now. The blood is mixing with sweat and looks worse than it did a few minutes ago. There are new scrapes and bruises around the original injury too.
I look down. My shirt is dark with blood. My pants are splattered too.
“It looks a lot worse than it is.” I wave their concern away. “Just another day in the office.”
The medic sputters and turns pale behind her oversized protective glasses. “Now?”
“No use waiting.” I motion for her to move around the side. “Hold his lower leg.” A second later, the metal is half the size. “Gonna be sore.”
Truck looks relieved. “I’ll be good as new in twenty-four.”
The medic is about to argue with him when a shout goes up in the air. “We have him!”
Murmurs race through the rescue teams. All around us, radios buzz and crackle to life. Everyone freezes in place to listen.
People are talking in several languages. I catch snips of Spanish, Italian, French, and what I think is Czech.
The medic at Truck’s side removes her glasses. Two very pretty blue eyes flick my way. Shit, Truck is a goner if she’s been batting those eyes at him.
With a big smile, she translates the radio chatter. “The American! The team has him now. They found him. He’s unconscious but breathing.”
“That’s great.” Truck winces as he moves. I wonder if it’s for effect, but I forget when he asks me, “Beast, is everyone on the team accounted for?”
“Yes. Now that I found your sorry ass laying down on the job.”
He chuckles. His relief that the team is safe is plainly visible in his smile. “Good thing you’re freakishly strong, you can help carry me out of here.”
I grunt. Cross my arms and give him a pissed-off look. “I should make you crawl. If you saw the rock I just lifted, you wouldn’t even ask.”
“Hey! Hey!” An out-of-nowhere slap hits my back. It’s the man that asked me for help. He’s grinning from ear to ear and his mouth is running a mile a minute. “This man is our hero. He is the reason the American is on his way to the surface.”
My body tenses. I don’t like praise. Never have.
I’m sure I’ll go to my grave the same way too. You don’t unlearn what you learn from getting beaten.
I deflect the man’s attention. “Just doing my part. Everyone here is responsible. Except him.” I point toward Truck with a look of disdain. “He’s just lazing around, flirting.”
The medic finds my remark funny. Truck… not so much.
Another lesson I learned about Truck a long time ago—don’t accuse him of flirting. He hates the word. Denies it like his life depends on it. Swears he’s sworn off women.
Right. He can lie to himself all he wants.
Ten minutes later, I’m really cursing him for stepping in that hole. It’s a pain in my ass and my back.
“Quit squirming!” I gripe.
He snickers. “I’m not, you guys are rocking back and forth.”
“No shit. You try walking on marbles while carrying a jackass down a debris field.”
The other guys chuckle.
Fuck. It takes forever. I’ve carried injured comrades out of battlefields many times—sometimes even under gunfire—and I’ve never found it this hard.
“At last!” one of the men remarks as we climb toward the top of the last mound of rubble. Beyond the knoll is the medical triage area.
Truck is laying back like a king. The female medic—from Norway—climbs down alongside us.
Truck is ramblin’ on about something with her the entire time.
Definitely fliiiirting.
This is new. I’ve seen him banter it out, but this is next level. What’s his endgame here?
Truck is about as cynical as I am about dating.
Maybe he did hit his head.
“Slower!” someone behind me calls out. The uneven debris in front of us is some of the most treacherous.
All my focus zeros in on my foot placement. Taking a tumble could hurt everyone. We move carefully in unison trying to keep the stretcher steady.
Once we’re on more even footing, I steal a glance toward the base area.
Eagerness pulses through me. I need to see Camile.
I scan the crowd for her now-familiar copper-red hair.
In a sea of brown heads, she should be easy to spot.
Where is she?