Chapter 8 #2
"There's an outcropping ahead," I whisper. "Defensive position. We get there, we're safe."
She nods.
We sprint the last twenty yards.
The shot takes Sierra in the shoulder.
She goes down hard, cry of pain cut short as she hits the snow. Blood spreads across the tan fabric of her jacket—dark, wet, too much.
Something breaks open inside my chest. Not thought. Pure instinct. The kind that got me through Kandahar when my team was pinned down and bleeding out in the sand.
I grab Sierra under the arms, haul her behind the rock outcropping. She's deadweight for three seconds before her legs start working again, trying to help. I shove her flat against the stone, cover her body with mine while I bring the rifle up.
Return fire. Three-round bursts toward the ridge. Force the bastard to keep his head down.
The magazine runs dry. I drop behind cover, fumble for a fresh one. My fingers feel thick, clumsy. Wrong.
"I'm okay," Sierra gasps beside me. Her voice is thin, stretched tight. "I'm okay, it's just—"
"Quiet." The word comes out harsher than I mean. I slam the fresh magazine home, chamber a round. Scan the ridge through my scope. No movement. Either he's repositioning or he's gone.
Doesn't matter. We're not safe here.
I turn to Sierra, finally let myself look at the wound. Blood soaks through her jacket, drips onto the snow beneath her. Too much. Way too much.
"Let me see." My hands reach for her jacket, and that's when I notice they're shaking.
No. Not shaking. Can't be shaking. Steady hands are what keep people alive.
But these hands shake as I rip open Sierra's jacket.
She hisses in pain when I peel back the thermal layer. The wound stretches across her shoulder—an angry furrow carved through skin and muscle. Shallow. Could've been so much worse. Could've hit the subclavian artery. Could've punched through her chest cavity.
Could've killed her.
"How bad?" she asks. She's looking at my face, not the wound. Reading me instead of her own injury.
"You'll live." I pull the first aid kit from my pack, hands still trembling as I tear open the packaging. Combat gauze. The expensive stuff that clots fast and holds under pressure. I packed it thinking I might need it for myself.
Didn't think I'd be using it on her.
The water from my canteen runs pink as I flush the wound. Sierra's jaw locks tight, but she doesn't make a sound. Just watches me work with those dark eyes that see too much.
I pack the gauze against the wound, apply pressure. Her blood is warm against my palm, pulsing with her heartbeat. Alive. Still alive.
"That was too close," she whispers.
"Welcome to my world." But my voice comes out wrong. Too rough. Too raw. Like something's clawing its way up my throat.
I wrap the bandage tight, secure it with medical tape. Check for seepage. The white gauze is already staining red at the edges, but the bleeding's slowing. She needs proper medical attention. Antibiotics. Maybe stitches.
But even without them, she'll live.
My hand lingers on her shoulder—the uninjured one—longer than it should. Feeling the rise and fall of her breathing. Solid. Real.
She covers my hand with hers. Her fingers are cold, shaking slightly from shock and adrenaline. "Chris."
I meet her eyes. See my own fear reflected back at me.
"You're going to be sore as hell tomorrow," I manage.
"Tomorrow." She laughs, brittle and sharp. "Assuming we survive today."
"We will."
I scan the ridge through my scope. No movement. The shooter's either repositioned or retreated. Either way, we can't stay here. This position is defensible but it's also a trap. One way in, one way out.
"Can you move?" I ask.
"Yes."
I help her to her feet. She sways slightly, catches herself against the rock. Blood seeps through the bandage, dark stain spreading.
"We need to get you to a hospital."
"No." Her hand grips my arm, fierce despite the pain. "No hospitals. No police. Not yet."
"Sierra—"
"They'll ask questions. File reports. And whoever just shot at us will know exactly where to find me." She meets my eyes, and the fear is there, raw and honest. But underneath it, something harder. Determination. "We can't run from this."
The words hang between us in the cold mountain air.
She's right. Running means living in fear, always looking over our shoulder. These people already know where she lives. Already know we're onto them. Running just delays the inevitable.
"No," I say slowly. "We can't."
For the first time in a year, the weight of that acceptance settles over me. Not burden. Purpose.
I managed to crawl away from the fight once, but the fight followed me here. The difference is, this time, I'm not alone.
Sierra leans against me, blood warm where it soaks through her jacket. Her breath comes in quick puffs of vapor in the freezing air. She's trembling—delayed shock, adrenaline crash—but she hasn't broken. Hasn't crumbled.
"We need a plan," she says.
"First we get off this mountain." I keep my rifle ready, eyes scanning for movement. "Then we regroup."
"And then?"
"Then we take these bastards down."
Her fingers dig into my jacket. She should be terrified. Should be demanding I take her to the hospital, call the police, let someone else handle this.
Instead, she straightens, pulls away from my support. Tests her weight on both feet.
"I can move," she says.
The forest is too quiet. Whoever took those shots is still out there, watching. Waiting for us to break cover, but we don't have a choice.
I check the rifle one more time, then meet Sierra's eyes. "Stay close. We move fast and we don't stop until we're clear."
She nods once, and we disappear into the trees.