"Exactly. So stay conscious so you can tell her that."
But Dylan's fading despite my efforts. His pulse weakens under my fingers. His breathing turns more labored, each breath a visible struggle. The blood flow hasn't stopped despite the pressure I'm applying.
"Kane, faster."
"Already pushing it. These roads weren't made for speed."
Mercer leans forward from the back. "How bad?"
"Bad. He needs Willa now, not later."
The drive feels endless. Every bump in the rough terrain jars Dylan, makes him gasp in pain even semiconscious. My ribs scream with each jolt, but that pain is distant compared to watching Dylan fade.
Mountains give way to the approach road. Kane navigates the hidden turns that lead to Echo Base's concealed entrance. The massive doors recognize our vehicle's signature and begin rolling back before we fully stop. We drive into darkness, the doors closing behind us.
Then fluorescent lights flicker to life, harsh after hours in the wilderness. The transition from darkness to controlled illumination feels jarring. Too bright, too clean, too controlled for the violence we're bringing back with us.
Sarah meets us in the vehicle bay, her expression tight with controlled concern. Tommy stands behind her, his tactical display still active in his hands. Reagan appears from the operations center, her face going pale when she sees the blood.
"Willa's prepped in medical," Sarah says, already moving to help. "Go."
We move Dylan fast. Kane and I lift him from the vehicle while Sarah grabs the medical kit. Dylan's head lolls, unconscious now despite my efforts to keep him awake during the drive. His skin has gone clammy and pale, the kind of color that means shock is winning.
Willa waits in the medical bay, her trauma station already set up. Instruments laid out with surgical precision. IV stands ready. Everything organized for immediate access.
We wheel Dylan in and Willa assesses him in seconds, her expression sharpening.
"Penetrating trauma, high shoulder," she says, already moving. "Probable vascular involvement."
Willa works with the precision of someone who's done this too many times, completely alone. Her hands move steady and sure, finding the damage, stopping the bleeding, keeping Dylan alive. She moves between stations with practiced efficiency—checking vitals, inserting IV lines, accessing the wound.
I stand against the wall, staying out of the way. My ribs scream. Each breath hurts worse than the last. Probably punctured something when those rounds hit the vest. The adrenaline that kept me moving through the extraction is fading, leaving behind the reality of my own damage.
Willa works quickly, her focus absolute. Dylan's vitals display on the monitor above his bed, numbers that mean something to medical personnel but look like abstract data to me. Except for the heart rate. That I understand. Too fast, too erratic, the rhythm of a body fighting to survive.
"BP's dropping," Willa mutters to herself, adjusting the IV flow.
She works inside Dylan's shoulder, her movements controlled despite working solo. "Bleeding's worse than I thought. Damn near clipped the subclavian."
Minutes blur together. Willa continues her solitary battle to save Dylan's life, moving between tasks with the efficiency born from years of working alone in field conditions.
Finally, the bleeding stops. Willa steps back, strips her gloves, takes a breath.
"He's stable." She crosses to me, eyes sharp and assessing. "Your turn. Sit down before you fall down."
She doesn't wait for agreement, just starts cutting away my tactical vest. The Velcro releases with harsh ripping sounds. "This is going to hurt."
She's not wrong. Stripping the vest feels like she's peeling away my ribs along with it. The bruising underneath has already turned spectacular shades of purple and black, spreading acrossmy entire chest. Willa's fingers probe carefully, professionally, mapping the damage.
Each touch sends lightning through my torso. I focus on breathing, on not flinching, on maintaining some shred of dignity while she catalogs my injuries.
"Cracked ribs. Multiple fractures. You're lucky the vest held or we'd be having a very different conversation." She reaches for supplies. "This is going to hurt."
The process of wrapping my ribs feels like she's driving those rounds into my chest all over again. Each pass of the tape, each adjustment of the padding, sends fresh agony radiating through damaged bone. Sweat breaks out across my forehead despite the climate-controlled medical bay.
Willa works with clinical efficiency, her hands sure despite the pain she's inflicting. This is her domain. Her battlefield. She's patched us up more times than I can count.
"No heavy lifting. No running. No getting shot again for at least a month." She meets my eyes. "I know you won't listen to any of that, but I said it anyway so when you make it worse, you can't claim ignorance."
