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Roaring a string of curses, impatience clawed deep…shredding my soul with every impotent second that ticked by.
In the distance, smoke billowed, rolling up into the sky. I didn’t give two fuck’s about the barn. All I cared about was getting to the ranch to make sure Emma and Mack were all right. The cows were safe in the field, the ATVs and everything else was insured. Mack’s belongings could be replaced…if he fucking lived. My heart squeezed and my chest tightened as I blew past the firetruck—lights flashing and sirens wailing.
“If that motherfucker has touched one hair on Emma’s head…” I growled, gripping the steering wheel tighter.
As the bloodthirsty rage continued boiling inside me, I knew the suffering I’d put Aubrey’s killer through would pale in comparison to the torture I planned to inflict on Wesley. By the time I was through, there’s be nothing left of the lunatic to identify.
When I finally reached the ranch, the barn was fully engulfed. Acrid smoke hung in the air. Barely lifting my foot from the accelerator, I whipped into the driveway, kicking up dust and gravel. As the truck fishtailed, I steered onto the grass before skidding to a stop in front of the porch.
The firetruck’s siren wailed in the distance as I retrieved my Glock from the glovebox and bounded out of the truck. Using the open door as a shield, I quickly glanced around the property, searching for Wesley’s vehicle, but didn’t find it. That, coupled with the fact I wasn’t being pinned down with a hailstorm of bullets, filled me with dread.
I drew my weapon and crouched low. Sweeping my gaze, and the gun’s muzzle, back and forth, I quickly darted to the side of the house. It would have been faster to barge through the front door, but since everything had gone down in the kitchen, I hoped to sneak up on Wesley and take him out there. Yeah, I wanted to make him suffer, but blowing his brains out would net the same result—the cocksucker’s death.
After reaching the back of the house, I darted my head around the corner, but no one was there. Quickly and quietly, I crept to the back door. Crouching low again, I studied the splintered frame and pieces of wood and glass littering the floor. The prick had kicked his way in. I remained still for several gut-churning seconds, listening for voices or movement. But all I could hear was the crackling fire, the siren growing louder, and Mack’s faint, agonized groans.
Raising my gun, I bolted upright and swept the room. Mack lay on the floor in a puddle of blood, blinking up at me with a glassy gaze.
“Emma?” I mouthed to him.
“Gone,” he rasped in a hoarse whisper, face twisting with guilt.
My heart shattered.
My whole world caved in.
The ground beneath me disintegrated, sending me tumbling back into a blackened, searing hell I’d sworn I’d never revisit.
I’d failed her…failed Emma, just like I had Aubrey.
Biting back a howl of rage, regret, and shame, I forced myself to focus on my fallen teammate. I tucked my gun in the back of my jeans, grabbed a handful of towels from the drawer, and knelt down beside Mack. As I ripped open his shirt to assess his wound, the kitchen melted from my periphery, replaced by the hot, Iraqi desert. My knees no longer pressed against the hardwoods, but sank into the fine Fallujah sand as I poured clotting compound inside the hole in Mack’s arm.
“Sorry,” he wheezed, yanking me from the flashback.
“Stifle that shit, soldier,” I growled, blinking fully into the present.
“It’s s-sailor, you…p-prick.”
It was the exact response I’d wanted to hear.
“Fuckin’ right it is. Now shut the fuck up. I know you were ambushed. There wasn’t a damn thing you could do. I’m just glad you’re still alive, man.”
Though he wouldn’t be if Wesley’s bullet had been two inches lower, into his heart.
Mack murmured something but I couldn’t hear him over the siren coming up the drive.
Steeling myself for what had to be done, I drew in a deep breath. “Okay, brother, you know the drill. I’ll do it fast…get it over with quickly. All right?”
He groaned, then nodded and clenched his teeth.
As the sirens abruptly stopped, I rolled Mack onto his side, then quickly brushed his blood-soaked shirt aside. Exhaling with a low grunt, his body trembled. When I spied the exit wound, relief rolled through me.
After placing several towels against the hole in Mack’s back, I carefully eased him onto the floor again. He blew out a ragged breath, then held me with an anxious gaze.
“In and out, brother. You’re gonna be fine,” I said, praying it wasn’t a lie.
As expected, jostling him around had the wound bleeding in earnest. I quickly folded several towels before pressing them firmly against his chest. Mack grunted and cursed, then grunted again. If we’d been on a mission, I would have torn into my IFAC (Individual First Aid Kit) and at least stemmed the flow of blood. But we weren’t, and Mack needed far more help than I could give him.
Outside, the sound of Kirk Reyes—my dad’s old golfing buddy, and the fire Lieutenant—barking out orders filtered through the open door. Lifting Mack’s good arm, I placed his hand on the towels.
