"Kane—"
"We don't leave people behind. Ever." I tighten my grip on Dylan's good shoulder. "You're coming with us. End of discussion."
Dylan doesn't argue further. He knows the team well enough to know when an order is absolute.
"Then we make a stand. Rally Point Charlie, defensive positions. Mercer, how long until they converge?"
"Not long. They're coordinating. Smart tactics."
We push harder. My ribs grind with every jarring step, sending white-hot pain through my chest. Dylan's losing more blood. I can feel it soaking through his gear, warm and wet against my supporting arm.
The ridge rises ahead. Rally Point Charlie. We scramble up the slope, using trees and boulders for cover. Kane reaches the position first, already setting up fields of fire. Mercer finds high ground, his rifle tracking approaches.
"They're slowing," Mercer reports. "Cautious now. I've made them pay for being aggressive."
The Committee forces probe our position. Testing. Looking for weakness. Mercer's rifle keeps them honest, dropping anyone who gets too aggressive. Kane lays down suppressing fire when they try to flank.
But it's a losing game. We're stationary, they're mobile. Eventually they'll find an angle, coordinate a rush, overwhelm our position through sheer numbers.
"Stryker," Kane says quietly. "How's Dylan?"
I check Dylan's pulse. Too fast, too weak. "Needs extraction soon or he's not making it."
Kane studies the terrain, calculating angles and distances I can't see. "Mercer, can you hold this position alone?"
"Affirmative. For a while."
"Good. Dylan and Stryker, you're moving. I'll draw their attention south. Mercer holds the ridge, makes them think we're still here. You get Dylan out."
"Kane—"
"That's an order. Get him to Willa. I'll catch up."
We move while Kane opens up, his weapon barking in controlled bursts that sound like a much larger force. The Committee teams shift their focus, converging on his position. Mercer adds to the deception, his rifle cracking from multiple positions as he repositions between shots.
Dylan and I slip away through the chaos, moving as fast as his failing strength allows. Behind us, the firefight intensifies. Kane drawing them deeper, Mercer making them pay for every meter gained.
But Dylan's fading. Each step comes slower than the last. His breathing turns ragged and uneven, the kind of rhythm that means shock is setting in.
"Stay with me," I tell him. "Willa's waiting to tear you a new one for getting shot. You know how she gets when people show up bleeding in her medical bay."
"Your fault I got shot," Dylan manages. "Covering your ass."
"Exactly. So you have to stay conscious to tell her that. Make sure she blames me instead of you."
The extraction vehicle waits where we cached it, hidden under camouflage netting. I get Dylan into the passenger seat, his head lolling against the headrest. Blood soaks through the makeshift pressure dressing I applied during the firefight.
Kane appears from the tree line, moving fast. Mercer follows, weapon still tracking their backtrail. Kane takes the driver's seat while Mercer climbs into the back, his rifle still ready. Kane drives, pushing the limits on rough terrain while I keep pressure on Dylan's wound.
Dylan's eyes drift closed.
"Hey." I shake him gently. "Eyes on me, brother."
He blinks slowly, trying to focus. "Tired."
"I know. But you don't get to check out yet. Willa's going to patch you up and then you're going to complain about her bedside manner for the next week."
"She doesn't have bedside manner." The words slur together. "Just has sharp instruments and bad attitude."
