He turned, eyes finding Rachel. She was still pressed against his side, arms wrapped around her knees. Her hands trembled. Herbreathing came quick and ragged, but when their eyes met, hers were clear, focused, still fighting.
Across the floor, Carver knelt with one hand clamped to his shoulder. Blood seeped between his fingers, spreading dark across the concrete beneath him.
"You good?" Ghost's asked.
Carver let out a breathless, pained laugh. "Define good. Still breathing."
Boots pounded in the corridor outside. Ghost's rifle came up, then lowered as he recognized Torch's movement pattern, the way Predator cleared the corner.
They swept through the entrance, weapons raised, eyes scanning. Torch's gaze hit Carver first, tracking to the blood, then shifted to Rachel. His whole body went rigid, shoulders squaring, jaw setting, eyes going cold.
Predator moved straight to Carver. He grabbed him under his good arm and hauled him up.
"We need to move," Torch said. But his eyes stayed on Rachel.
Ghost turned fully.
The sight hit him harder than the firefight had.
Rachel stood a few feet away, no longer crouched behind him. Her shirt, his shirt, the one she'd stolen from his dresser, hung in torn pieces. Bare skin showed through the gaps, marked with bruises already turning purple. Her hands clutched at the ruined fabric, trying to pull it together, trying to cover herself.
Ghost's gaze moved to her face. Her eyes met his, clear and defiant. Her hands trembled where they gripped the torn fabric, and blood had dried on her temple, but she held his gaze without flinching.
She was still fighting.
51
Blood streaked her cheek from a cut near her temple. Bruises bloomed purple-black across her ribs where the fabric had torn away. Zip tie marks circled both wrists, raw and weeping, the skin scraped down to exposed flesh beneath.
Ghost's throat tightened. His face went hot, heat spreading down his neck and through his chest until his whole body felt like it was burning from the inside. His hands curled into fists at his sides, knuckles already aching from the breach. His trigger finger twitched against his thigh. The need to cross back to where Rogue held Langley and put a round in him pulled at him, immediate and visceral. But Rachel needed him. She came first.
Around them, the team shifted. Boots scuffed on concrete as they turned, not completely away, but enough. Giving her space. Giving Ghost room to do what needed doing.
He stepped close. His hands moved to the torn fabric still hanging from her shoulders. The shirt was ruined, barely clinging to her by threads. He grabbed at the base of the tear and pulled. The cotton tore the rest of the way with a sharp ripping sound that echoed off the warehouse walls.
He peeled it down her shoulders carefully, his fingers gentle despite the rage building in his throat. The fabric stuck to her skin in places, sweat and blood making it cling. He worked it free and let it fall to the ground in a ruined heap at her feet.
Rachel stood there in just her bra and shorts, her arms instinctively crossing over her stomach.
Ghost's gaze traveled over her. Really looked at what they'd done.
Blood had dried in a dark line from the cut on her forehead, tracking down her temple. Her left cheek was swollen, the skin already turning purple from where someone had hit her. Split lip. Raw patches around her mouth where tape had been ripped off, taking skin with it.
Lower. The bruises on her ribs were stark against her pale skin, deep purple marks, some with the distinct shape of boot treads. Multiple impacts.
His eyes dropped to her wrists. The zip tie marks circled both, not just red, but raw. Bleeding. The plastic had cut deep enoughto expose flesh beneath. Blood had run down her palms, dried brown between her fingers.
Her knees. Jesus, her knees. Torn open, gravel still embedded in the wounds. Blood had run down both shins.
Each bruise on her body, each cut, each raw mark where the zip ties had bitten in, Ghost catalogued all of it. Fuel for what came next.
But first—
Ghost stripped off his tactical vest and let it drop. The impact with concrete echoed through the warehouse. He grabbed the hem of his shirt and dragged it over his head, the fabric catching on his shoulders before pulling free. Cool air hit his bare chest and back.
He stepped close. His hand touched her shoulder, her skin warm beneath his palm, almost feverish. He guided her arms up, slow and careful, then tugged his shirt down over her body.
It swallowed her. The hem hit mid-thigh, but it covered her. Protected her from the eyes, from the cold warehouse air, from everything that had just happened.
