“Come on now. You wouldn’t do that to an old friend.” Russ started to lower his weapon. Turned and aimed at Mitch.
Drake fired one shot.
Russ crumpled to the floor.
“That was your biggest mistake. I’m not your fucking friend, a-hole.” Drake fired again.
Mitch kept sucking in ragged breaths. Russ didn’t.
Snarling, Drake tossed the gun on the counter then knelt by Mitch, packing the shoulder wound with clean dishcloths. “Remind me to call the appropriate authorities. Tell them OPAQUE’s got a delivery for them.”
Silently nodding, Mitch faded in and out of consciousness as Drake cut away his compression shirt then cleaned and packed the bullet wound. Pain shot straight from his shoulder to his spine to his brain.
Noises—voices—louder—and louder. Josh? Stealth? The crash of a door being busted in vibrated in his head.
“You two secure the house. Put restraints on Keith Ayers. He’s a traitor,” Drake shouted as he pressed a clean cloth into Mitch’s hand. “Hold this on your wound. Where do you keep the medical kit?”
“I don’t know…maybe one of the cabinets”—nausea crashed through Mitch’s system—“one of the drawers…”
The slamming of drawers and cabinets solidified that searches were happening, but time was a blur. Finally, Drake knelt back down beside him and pushed his hand aside. Then proceeded to work the gunshot wound with antiseptic and bandages and antibiotic cream. His gentleness lacked finesse, but Mitch had no doubt that he’d survive.
“House cleared.” Josh raced past, pausing for only a second, then headed toward the pool area. “I’ll work on radar.”
Stealth reappeared and crouched beside Mitch. Fisted his grip into his own. “I got you, man. I got you. Breathe. In. Out. In. Out. Come on keep your eyes open. Stay with me.”
Another five, ten, twenty minutes passed. Minutes that felt like hours. Time that only intensified Mitch’s instincts for finding Liz. And he’d find her. He’d for damn sure find her.
Drake grinned as he finished the bandage. “You’re one lucky SEAL. Clean shot straight through.”
Mitch motioned to the Neoprene jacket laying on the counter. “Get me into that.”
“Don’t push your luck.” Drake didn’t move. “I don’t think you’re in any shape to—”
“Where? Where is she?” Mitch struggled to get to his feet.
Stealth helped Mitch up and into the Neoprene jacket. “We saw a big guy carry her to a motorized raft, but we were still too far out to stop them.”
“Slugger. His name is Slugger, and he’s gonna wish we’d never met.”
Drake made sure the bandage was still in place as Mitch zipped the jacket.
“CT did a smash and rip job on your Q40,” Stealth said. “Josh is tracking the raft from the computer in the pool area.”
Bracing himself against the furniture, Mitch gradually straightened. Took a deep breath. Barely flinched. Tried to rotate his arm. Cringed. Grunted—loud as hell—and gritted his teeth as he made his way to the closet where CT had tossed his knife, gun, and holster.
Josh was busy clicking on the computer and calling in coordinates with OPAQUE headquarters when Mitch entered the pool area.
“Is she the orange blip on the screen?” he asked, buckling his holster and gun in place.
“That’s them. Looks like there’s Liz and one CT guy.” With his finger, Josh traced the track they’d been taking so far.
Mitch swiped first one side on his knife’s blade against his Neoprene swim shorts, then the other, then slid the blade into the knife holster still strapped to his leg. “Where’s Reese? How long till he catches up with them?”
“He’s still on the beach trying to get the Q40 working,” Stealth said.
Mitch pushed him aside. “Why didn’t you say so?”
Moving faster than even he thought possible after being shot, he raced to the deck and vaulted over the rail. Landed on the sand below and rolled then trudged in the direction of the Q40. Pain tried to make a run for his brain, but adrenaline and his get-the-hell-out-of-my-way attitude threw up a barrier.
