I FOLLOW AIDEN PHILLIPS past the burning house toward the woods out back. Smoke is everywhere. My lungs are burning. I stop to peek into a gray Ford pickup truck parked on a concrete slab. I point my gun into the passenger compartment, then into the cargo bed.
Both empty.
I can hear Phillips picking his way through the underbrush ahead of me. I take a position a few yards to his left and start moving with him.
The only light comes from the fire behind us. It’s enough to see only about twenty feet ahead. Beyond that, it’s pitch-black. Phillips stops behind a tree to peer through his telescopic sight. He points to the left and motions me forward.
I hear footsteps crunching in the distance. Phillips takes off past me in pursuit. I swing wide and get stuck from the knees down ina patch of brambles. As I try to twist free, my Glock falls out of my hand. I reach for it and hear a crack reverberate through the woods.
I look up. No Phillips.
I hear a groan from up ahead.
“Aiden?”
I yank my gun out of the briars and run in a crouch toward the sound. I find him behind a downed tree, curled into a ball, his rifle off to the side.
“I’m hit,” he croaks through gritted teeth.
I drop my gun and run my hands over his shoulders and arms. Clean. I roll him onto his back. That’s when I see it. A purplish slice in the flesh of his right thigh. A crimson stain is spreading through his jeans across his groin and legs.
I lean in close, tug at the hole in the denim. I’m hoping not to see a rhythmic spurt from a vessel in his inner thigh. I see only oozing, pooling blood.
“You’re in luck,” I tell him. “It missed the femoral.”
Phillips reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folding knife. “Cut my sleeve off,” he says. “Wrap it.”
I open the knife and jab the point into his work shirt over his biceps, then slice it until the sleeve comes off, leaving his arm bare. I wrap the cloth around his bloody thigh.
“Tighter!” He groans.
I’ve done plenty of field dressings in my life, but nothing this primitive. I add another twist and secure it the best I can.
“Can you walk?” I ask him.
He grimaces with pain. “I dunno. Maybe.” I put his arm around my shoulders and pull him upright. He takes one step on his bloodied leg and falters. “Maybe not.” He groans again.
“Hold on.” I reach for his rifle and sling it over my right shoulder, bend my knees, and grab his arms. Then I do a dead lift. Lucky for me, he’s a relative lightweight, probably a hundred and seventy pounds, fully dressed. Still, it’s more weight than I’ve lugged since my army days. I stagger back through the trees with Phillips over my shoulders. I’m running on pure adrenaline, just like in a hundred other firefights. I’m waiting for the shot that takes me down.
By now, the flames have engulfed the whole house. One side is buckling outward, leaning toward the pickup.
I say a little prayer that Polermo isn’t the type to worry about auto theft. When we get to the driver’s side of the truck, I lower Phillips to the ground and reach in through the open passenger-side window.
I yank down the visor.Yes!The keys drop onto the seat. I drag Phillips around to the other side. I can feel the fire at my back as I open the passenger door and lift him onto the seat. He lets out a grunt. I check the makeshift bandage. Still in place. The bleeding has slowed, but he’s looking pale. I know the signs. Shock is setting in.
I fasten his seat belt, then grab my cell phone out of his pocket. I open Google Maps. “The nearest hospital is in Kilmarnock. Twenty miles.”
I turn the key in the ignition and put the truck in gear. Phillips reaches over and grabs my arm. “John, wait,” he says. “Listen to me …”
CHAPTER 95
Maine
GINA MAINE PUTS HER last dirty plate in the dishwasher and starts it. She wipes her hands on a towel, then bends over the sink and splashes some water on her face. She’s so exhausted from her shift at the VA hospital that she hasn’t even bothered to change out of her scrubs yet. But now it’s time for bed, and she really needs a shower.
She’s halfway down the hall when she hears banging on her front door, followed by a quick series of dings on her doorbell. Gina’s heart pounds as she heads through her living room. She keeps the chain lock fastened when she opens the door a crack to look out.
“Yes? Can I—” She stops.
