The slope rose ahead. On its shoulder stood a slab of limestone, pale in the dark. She crawled onto it, belly flat, rifle ready. Three silhouettes appeared through the fig trees, weapons high and eager.
Her left shoulder flared white-hot, but her hands stayed steady. She waited. Not counting, listening.
Wolakota, the night whispered back. Not a word, a state of being. Not mine or yours, ours. The ground, the dead, the living, the breath between.
When the first man’s boot touched the rock, she fired into it. He screamed, dropped, muzzle flashing into the dirt. His round buried itself harmlessly. She shifted and shot the second man in the elbow. He folded, chest exposed, and she took the opening. The third dove, fired wild. Dirt sprayed her cheek.
She rolled right, pain ripping through her bad shoulder, but she came up behind a fallen log. The world narrowed to breath and heartbeat.
Then she heard it, the sound she’d been waiting for.
A snarl. Deep, fast, all business. Raider.
The Malinois hit the fourth man out of the dark, all muscle and precision. Razor followed close, a shadow with purpose.
“Raider, out!” he called. The dog released instantly. The man reached for his weapon and Razor dropped him with two quick shots.
“Thunderhawk!” D-Day’s voice cut through the noise. “Talk to me!”
“I’m up,” she called back. “Contact left and rear.”
“Copy.”
Blitz finished the last shooter. Silence rolled back in, the jungle breathing again.
Zorro’s voice came next. Calm. Steady. “I’ve got you, Lady Thunder.”
She looked up. He was already beside her, one knee down, hands moving, efficient, careful.
“I’m functional,” she said.
“Good.” His tone said he’d decide that himself. “We followed your trail of dead. Nice shooting.” His face went serious. “Track my finger.” She did. “Pupils equal and reactive.” He checked her scalp and jaw, fast and gentle. “Any ringing? Nausea?”
“Later.”
“That’s a yes,” he muttered. He listened to her chest, quick and methodical. “Air’s good. No pneumo.”
He found her left wrist. “Swelling and discoloration. Sprain?”
“Hurts like a bitch.”
He chuckled and wrapped it. “Nice work.” He palpated the joint of her left shoulder, pain sparking under his fingers. “Seated. We’ll immobilize.” He tested her pulse, watched her fingers move. “Still good perfusion.”
He dug into his med kit. “Sling and swathe,” he said, more to Razor than to her. Razor handed him a triangle bandage. Raider sat at her boot, alert but calm. She sent a quick hand over his furry head. He turned and licked her face.
“Pain?” he asked.
“Manageable.”
He cracked a fentanyl lozenge, clipped it to a safety line, and offered it. “Don’t chew. Just let it work.” She took it and set it between cheek and gum. The warmth spread quickly, blurring the sharp edges.
“Vitals stable,” he told D-Day. “Left shoulder reduced, right wrist wrapped. GCS fifteen.”
“Copy,” D-Day said. “Moving in two.”
“Blitz, Buck, curtain to the creek. Razor, you’re on her six.”
Raider pressed against her thigh like a live anchor. Bailee found the dog’s ruff with her fingers. The contact steadied her more than the drug.
