“Yes, he got me in the vest. Still hurts like a bitch though.”
“Yeah, tell me about it,” Rawley said.
All at once the forest roared; automatic weapons cracked in savage bursts, the bark-shattering echoes bouncing among the trees. Voices tore through the air, mingling with the frantic rustle of men diving for cover in the underbrush.
Rawley risked a glance left. Laramie hurled himself behind a pine just as a round tore through it, splinters of pale bark spraying outward like deadly rain.
“Fuck!” Rawley hissed, teeth clenched. “Laramie, are you hit?”
“I’m good,” Laramie rasped, voice tight. “You?”
“Same.”
Another hail of fire erupted. Bullets thudded into nearby trunks with bone-shaking dullness. One round whistled past his ear so close that the rush of air stung his skin.
“Holy shit! That was too fucking close.” His heart hammered. He counted to three in the tense pause, then stepped from cover, squeezing off three rapid shots at the distant muzzle flashes before diving back behind the pine’s rough flank.
Through the haze of gun smoke and swirling leaves, he saw Laramie in sync, lean, fire, duck, eyes locking across thirty feet of open ground. Laramie’s grim shake of the head said it all.
“We’re fucking outgunned!” Laramie’s voice came through his earpiece.
Rawley’s fingers were shaking as he fished his phone from beneath his Kevlar vest. He punched in the emergency code, said their coordinates into the receiver, then jammed it back into his pocket.
“Backup’s is on the way!” he roared, hoping the attackers’ would hear. The only answer was another merciless barrage.
He swung his head right and spotted Killian crouching behind a moss-covered boulder. Killian rose, leveled his rifle, and opened fire, only to duck as bullets pinged the stone inches from his head.
“You okay?” Rawley asked.
“Still here,” Killian snapped.
Rawley gave a curt nod he knew went unseen. When the fire slackened, he bolted out, unleashed four shots, then dove back behind the oak just as bark exploded overhead. He caught sight of Killian again, one deft squeeze of the trigger, and a man crumpled mid-step in a spray of dirt. Killian crouched low, rifle at the ready.
“Nice shot,” Rawley said, adrenaline burning in his veins.
“That’s one,” Laramie said as more rounds slammed into the trees.
“Son of a bitch,” Rawley muttered, heart in his throat. “I don’t think we have a chance against those AK-47s.”
“I hear sirens,” Killian’s voice came through his earpiece.
Rawley strained to listen. A distant wail grew louder, slicing through the staccato of gunfire.
“Thank God,” he breathed, relief flooding him.
“But they’re not backing off,” Laramie warned, voice dark.
Rawley pressed his forehead against the tree, sweating even as cold as it was. Bullets pelted two feet from his head. He tasted smoke and fear. Sirens drew closer, but he didn’t dare hope they’d arrive in time. These attackers were locked on death’s promise, no retreat, no surrender, willing to bleed for whatever dark cause sent them here. And Rawley knew the next moments would decide if any of them walked out alive.
As sirens wailed in the distance, Rawley locked eyes with Laramie then Killian. Three fingers up. Three. Two. One. Go. They erupted from cover, weapons blazing, the cold air shredding with gunfire that echoed through the dense forest canopy. Three rounds punched into his Kevlar vest with the force of sledgehammers, one at a time, each one knocking him back a step and hammering against his ribs like iron spikes. His back slammed against the rough bark of a tree, and he collapsed onto the forest floor, just as a bullet hit the tree where his head had been. Snow sinking into his jeans as inky darkness clawed at the edges of his vision like a hungry beast. His lungs seized. One of the shots must have bruised or collapsed his lung. He tried to sit up but his limbs felt like they were encased in concrete.
“Rawley!”
Laramie’s voice came through, but Rawley couldn’t speak out. Death’s cold, skeletal fingers clawed at him, dragging him down. Skylar’s face flashed before him, her pale blue eyes, those dimples when she smiled. Damn it, he should have told her. Never saying the three words burning in his chest like hot coals. Stubborn, stupid bastard. He shook his head as he tasted the metallic tang of blood flooding his mouth.
“Can’t breathe,” he rasped out, the words like sandpaper in his throat. Killian and Laramie made their way to him and sat him up against the tree and tilted his head forward so he wouldn’t choke on his blood. His chest felt like it was being crushed in a vise, each shallow breath a knife-twist of agony.
“Don’t talk. You probably have blunt force trauma to your lung or maybe a cracked or broken rib or two. Rawley? Backup’s here. Those fuckers ran and some of our men went after them. Stay with me!”
