21 - Dog
As Dog stepped around the tree, his boot landed on something hard and unyielding, and then it snapped.
Not a stick. A metallic shriek ripped through the quiet, followed by searing, impossible pain that rooted itself instantly in his calf.
The trap’s iron jaws twisted with savage force, driving rusty teeth deep as his body weight pressed down, wrenching his entire lower leg.
“GODDAMMIT!” The curse tore from Dog’s throat, raw and involuntary, laced with pain that bordered on nausea.
His good leg buckled beneath him, and he hit the ground hard, leaves crunching beneath his bulk.
His head struck a root, stars exploding behind his eyes, but the jolt did not dull the vise clenched tight around his leg.
A bear trap. A goddamn, rusty bear trap. Hidden beneath the beautiful, deceptive tapestry of autumn leaves. In Maine. In freaking October. The irony was a bitter taste in his mouth, mingling with the coppery tang of what he knew was already a serious bleed.
Rage, hot and blinding, flared through him.
Not at the trap, not at the anonymous idiot who’d left it, but at himself.
Him. Barkley Emerson Berkshire the Fourth.
Navy SEAL. Special Operations Medic. Years of training, countless deployments, living and breathing situational awareness, always scanning, always alert, always ahead.
And he’d just walked into a goddamn relic of frontier trapping like a rookie recruit.
What the hell happened? His guard was down.
His focus had been on Margaret, on the peacefulness of the meadow, on the quiet intimacy of their conversation.
He’d let himself relax, just for a moment, and now this.
He was supposed to protect her. To be her shield.
And here he was, flat on his ass, his leg clamped in iron, likely useless.
“Emery?” Margaret’s voice, soft and trembling, cut through his pain-hazed thoughts. It sounded so close, so fragile. She didn’t know what had happened. She just heard the crash, his curse. Her fear was a fresh stab of regret.
Panic, cold and sharp, tried to seep in, but he slammed the mental door on it. Medic first. Always.
His hands, slick with blood, fumbled desperately for the trap mechanism, but it was buried deep, twisted into the earth and embedded in his injured leg. The serrated teeth had torn into muscle and possibly bone.
The searing agony in his already damaged leg was unbearable. Waves of nausea rolled over him as pain radiated through the fragile tissues he had been painstakingly nursing.
This was no ordinary wound. It was catastrophic. A rusty trap meant a high risk of tetanus and aggressive infection. The deep crushing damage threatened nerves and blood vessels alike.
He knew with cold certainty gathering in his gut that he might lose his foot.
“Margaret,” his voice was rough and strained, but he forced calm into it. “Grab my back pack and come around the tree, just be careful where you step.”
He heard her sharp inhale before she froze. Her eyes widened, and her face paled as she whispered, “What happened? That’s blood!”
For a moment, it seemed as if fear might overwhelm her.
His gaze caught the slight tremble in her hands and the way her shoulders tensed as if struggling to steady herself.
Then she squared her posture and set her jaw firmly, and he could almost feel the instant she realized she had to be the one to help.
“Yeah,” he gritted out, the effort of speaking almost too much.
“Yeah, I’m hurt. Stepped in a trap. A big one.
” He tried to push up, to brace himself, but the world swam.
His leg, now throbbing like a separate, malevolent entity, refused to support him.
He couldn’t get up. He needed her, but he needed her to be smart.
“Listen to me, Margaret.” His medic training, honed over years, took over, pushing aside the pain, pushing aside the self-recrimination. “I need you to get the backpack. Find the first-aid kit. It’s a small black pouch.”
His eyes scanned the immediate area. No movement in the trees, but the image of being hunted flashed through his mind. They were sitting ducks. Both of them.
Margaret appeared, the canvas backpack clutched in her hands, her face ashen as her gaze dropped to his leg.
Her eyes widened in horror, fixed on the archaic steel jaws clamped around his calf, the glint of rusty teeth, and the dark, rapidly spreading stain on his pant leg. A soft, choked cry escaped her.
“Oh my God, Emery,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “What is that? You’re,” she swallows hard, shocked at the sight, “you’re bleeding so much.”
“I know,” he ground out, fighting the urge to black out. The pain was like a white-hot poker twisting in his flesh. “Listen to me. Don’t panic. I need you to pull out the first aid kit.”
Her hands fumbled, but she managed to unzip the main compartment of the backpack, pulling out the small black pouch he’d described. “Okay, I have it. What now?”
“Good. Open it,” he instructed, trying to keep his voice steady despite the nausea clawing at his throat. “There should be a tourniquet inside. It’s a black strap, with a plastic windlass and a buckle.”
Margaret’s fingers flew, pulling out a compact black strap. “This one?”
“Yes, that’s it.”
Dog’s face tightened with pain, but his voice remained steady as he explained what he was doing.
“I’m going to put this tourniquet on now.
First, I need to place it as high as possible on my thigh, right near the groin.
” His hand shook slightly, but his movements were deliberate as he wrapped the strap tightly around his upper leg.
“It has to be really tight to stop the bleeding. I’m pulling it snug now. ”
He grabbed the small plastic rod called the windlass and began twisting it slowly. Each turn sent a sharp jab of pain through his leg. “This part hurts, but it’s what tightens the strap enough to slow the bleeding. Keep watching me.”
A single tear rolled down Margaret’s cheek, but her gaze never wavered from him.
The bleeding slowed, and a faint shudder passed through him as the pressure took hold. He glanced at Margaret, who was pale but watching intently.
“Good. That’s the tourniquet doing its job. Now, I need you to grab my phone from the side pocket of the backpack, alright?”
She moved quickly, fingers fumbling at first before pulling out the rugged satellite phone.
“Got it,” she said, looking at him.
Dog’s voice was firm but calm. “Hand it here, please.”
He took the phone with his bloodied fingers. His vision blurred momentarily, but he pushed it aside and pressed the pre-programmed speed dial for Warden.
The satellite connection took a moment, the silence agonizing.
“Warden,” he rasped as soon as he heard the click.
“I’m down. East meadow. Stepped in a bear trap.
” He gritted his teeth as a fresh wave of pain assaulted him.
“It’s my bad leg, Warden. Deep. Rusty. My foot is history, man.
The teeth are into the bone. I’ve got a tourniquet on, but I need immediate extraction.
Air-flight to a trauma center, this is beyond field repair.
” He could hear Warden’s sharp intake of breath.
“What’s your status? Any hostiles?” Warden’s voice was clipped, efficient, back in SEAL mode.
“Negative hostile contact. Just a derelict trap. My situational awareness was compromised. I failed,” Dog added, the self-reproach heavy in his tone.
“Look, Warden. Margaret is here. She’s safe right now, but she’s going to be exposed during my extraction.
I need you to prioritize her. You all need to be here for her.
A pause on the other end. “Copy, Dog. I’m already en route. ETA five, maybe less. Thorn is right behind me. Jake and Enzo are mobilizing. But let’s be clear, Dog. You still have a bounty on your head. You are the mission, just as much as Margaret. We’re getting you both out.”
Dog didn’t argue. He knew Warden was right, even if his gut still twisted with the shame of his lapse. “Understood. Just keep Margaret safe.” He ended the call, dropping the phone clumsily back into the backpack Margaret held open.
“Don’t you dare,” Margaret hissed, her voice low and fierce, sharply contrasting her earlier fear.
He opened his eyes, surprised by the sudden intensity.
She wiped her face roughly, smearing blood across the bridge of her nose before continuing, “Don’t you dare say you failed.
This wasn’t your fault, Emery. It was an accident.
A stupid, cruel accident. You didn’t fail. ”
He tried to protest, a grunt of pain escaping him. “Margaret, I?—”
“No!” she snapped, cutting him off, shaking her head sharply.
“Stop right there. Don’t you dare tell Warden to ‘keep me safe’ like you’re not the one bleeding out in a damn bear trap right now.
You need protection just as much as I do, probably more.
Do you even remember you have a bounty on your head?
They’re coming for you too, not just to drag me out of here. ”
Her eyes, usually soft and warm, hardened and blazed with fierce, desperate loyalty. Her voice cracked with frustration as she leaned in closer. “We’re in this together, Emery. You don’t get to sideline yourself or pretend you’re less important. Not now, not ever.”
He stared at her, momentarily speechless. Her fire, ignited by his self-blame, was raw and unexpected. It sliced through his shame, making him feel seen in a way he hadn’t allowed himself before. It was a powerful, unyielding rebuttal to the voice inside that told him he’d failed.
“They’re coming,” he told her, forcing a thin smile. “Fast. They’ll be here any minute.”
He was aware of Margaret kneeling beside him, her hand tentative on his shoulder. He closed his eyes, trying to manage the pain, trying to push past the burning humiliation of his failure. A Navy SEAL, brought down by an antique trap. It was almost laughable, if it wasn’t so damned serious.
The distant thud of heavy boots on autumn leaves grew steadily louder, accompanied by the muffled crackle of comms traffic.
Dog forced his eyes open, his gaze sweeping the tree line.
Then, through the golden light filtering through the trees, he saw them.
Warden, his face grim, was the first, Thorn right on his heels, weapon ready.
Behind them, Jake and Enzo moved like ghosts, fanning out into the perimeter, eyes scanning, already setting up a defensive posture.
Warden’s eyes locked onto Dog’s injured leg, then up to his face, a silent question passing between them.
“I screwed up, Warden,” Dog said, the words heavy with shame. “Let my guard down.”
Warden didn’t chastise him. Instead, he knelt, his gaze intense. “We’ll talk about it later. Right now, let’s get you stabilized.” His eyes flickered to Margaret, who stood frozen, watching the arrival of the heavily armed men.
“Thorn, stay with Margaret. Get her to the gazebo. Keep her clear and secure.”
Thorn nodded and moved toward Margaret. But she didn’t move. Her posture was firm, her eyes sharp and unyielding.
Dog chuckled despite the pain. “She just told me off in no uncertain terms. Don’t think you’re getting her to budge.”
Thorn nodded toward Margaret, recognizing immediately that she wasn’t going anywhere.
With a slight sigh, he shifted his focus and quick-stepped over to Dog.
Without hesitation, he knelt beside him and began stabilizing the injured leg, carefully assessing the position of the trap and the tourniquet already in place.
His hands moved confidently but gently, padding around the trap to prevent further damage during extraction.
Warden circled the site, crouching near where the bear trap had sunk deep into the earth.
He grunted as he loosened tangled roots and dirt, muttering under his breath, “I thought I found all my grandfather’s traps when I cleared his land.
” He glanced over at Dog with a half-smile.
“Well, if we are handing out blame, this one’s as much mine as it is yours. ”
Dog gave a weak grin, the pain still biting but the camaraderie easing the tension slightly.
“Got it,” Warden said gruffly as he helped to wrap the old steel jaws for stabilization.
Thorn did not pause his work as he glanced up. “We keep it on until surgery. There is no point risking more damage here.”
Dog’s breath came ragged, but he managed a nod.
A distant thrum grew louder as the chopper appeared overhead, circling and searching for a safe approach.
The gazebo’s shadow stretched across the meadow—a quaint refuge that offered safety but no room for rescue.
Thorn had carried Dog there moments ago, aided by the others, but now the reality pressed in: no helicopter could land here.
The dense trees and uneven ground around the gazebo left no flat clearing wide enough for an LZ.
They had no choice.
A basket was lowered as the rotors whipped up a swirling cloud of dust and leaves, stinging the eyes of those on the ground. Margaret quickly covered Dog’s face with her scarf to protect him.
The rotor wash howled around them as Thorn secured Dog into the rescue basket with practiced efficiency. Every movement was precise, careful not to aggravate the injury any further. Dog winced but kept his gaze steady, locking eyes with Margaret.
She knelt beside him, her voice low but firm above the roar of the helicopter. “Stay strong, Emery. I’m right here. I’ll meet you at the hospital.”
Dog managed a faint, grateful smile, squeezing her hand as Thorn tightened the harness straps. The basket swayed gently beneath the chopper as it began its slow ascent.
Margaret stood frozen for a moment, watching as the basket lifted higher, carrying Dog away from the safety of the meadow and into the uncertain sky. Her heart pounded with a mix of fear and resolve.
As the helicopter disappeared over the treetops, she whispered, “Hold on, Emery. I’m coming.”