Guilt inflames my chest; insecurity taunts me.
If this is a setup, I’m the one who would have figured it out. I’m the one whoshouldhave figured it out.
Distracted, I miss the fucker army-crawling on the floor behind the metal desk off to my left.
I barely see the blur of motion as that piece of human excrement raises his rifle. My head spins toward the movement, just quick enough to realize that I'm a dead man?—
Ridge leaps out of nowhere.
He throws himself bodily into the air just as the report of the rifle splits my ears in two.
As if the world is thrown into slow motion, Ridge flies sideways, blond hair slick with sweat and grime. In mute horror, I watch his chest contract as the bullet hits his vest.
I suck in a breath, the taste of copper heavy in the air as both Ridge and I return fire.
Bullets spray, peppering the metal desk. It pings and clangs as holes gouge through it.
There's a thump as Ridge hits the concrete, and I run and stand over his prone form, covering him.
That's when I get a clear view of the Noth bastard who tried to take me out. He's young, with curly black hair and a nosethat looks like it's been through a pencil sharpener. A wound is already bleeding on one of his thighs, and by his frantic hand motions, his gun is jammed.
Karma.
His eyes widen and his mouth opens when he sees me train my weapon on him.
"No, please!"
I blast the plea from his face, the bullet cracking open his jaw.
Normally, that would be the end of it. Normally, in a battle, I’m cool and collected, and I don’t waste ammo in a situation that doesn’t warrant it.
But not today.
Today, an agonized torpedo detonates between my ribs, creating a sucking chest wound spurred by the following knowledge—my mate is in danger, I might not have done enough to protect my alpha group, and my idiotic distractedness might have killed Ridge.
Wrath guides my hands as I shoot a straight line into the Noth as if I'm trying to cut him in half. Relishing in every twitch, every spurt of blood, I don't stop until my magazine is empty and my bullets bore through from skull to crotch. But beneath the veneer of my delight is a furious howl waiting to unleash.
Because Ridge isn't getting up. His eyes are closed.
"Come on, sleeping beauty," I tease, though my words come out gruff and stiff.
The joke falls flat because his eyelashes don't even flicker. He doesn't moan.
It feels like I’ve swallowed a shadow, darkness invading my throat as my gaze darts around the rest of the room. My feet pivot around him, still protectively standing guard.
His chest might be moving slightly, but I can't be sure. I can't look for long enough, not with threats still lurking.
My throat burns as if I just drank a gallon of bleach, and I grind my molars as I load a fresh magazine.
That motherfucker better not die for me.
I raise my second gun, ensuring no one can sneak up on his six. Mentally, I scream at him as sweat trickles down the back of my neck. I clear one doorway only to jerk to another. Paranoia amps up my blood now that I'm alone. Now that one of us is vulnerable.
Memories from our last deployment threaten to emerge, scraping and abrading the inside of my eyelids.
Bombs throwing up sprays of dirt like someone just did a cannonball into a pool.
My ears ringing as I see one of my fellow soldiers get blasted, his arm flying back from his body. Detaching. The spray of his blood is warm, like it's shooting from a hose that's been sitting in the summer sunshine, as it blasts across my face.
