“Boyd. Down. Stay down.”
The voice sounds familiar, built of gravel and granite.
Wraith?
I don’t care. It’s a trick.
I land a punch on a Kevlar vest, breaking the skin on my knuckles.
“Secure him.”
Another weight lands on my legs. Leaden. Immovable.
Bronco?
I roar a soundless scream of frustration.
“Get off me. They have her.”
“We know. We know, brother. We got you.”
A hand clamps onto my shoulder. Hard. Grounding.
“Hold him still. He’s hypothermic. He doesn’t know who we are.”
I look up.
A face hovers over mine. Sharp angles. Dark gaze behind tactical goggles.
Dax Calloway. Wraith. The sniper.
“Boyd.” His voice cuts through the wind. “It’s Wraith. You’re safe. Stand down.”
“Iris...”
“We’re going to get her. But we have to get you first.”
“No time...”
“Ford, hit him.”
“On it.”
A sharp pinch bites my neck.
Warmth floods my system. Not the burning heat of the epi, but a soft, sliding darkness.
“No—”
I fight the drug, trying to push them off.
“Load him up.” Wraith issues the order. “We’re burning daylight.”
The world tilts as I’m lifted into the air. The rotor wash beats against my face.
Then the darkness wins.
Consciousness returns in jagged shards.
