“He’ll be alright,” Marcus said tersely. He packed fresh gauze around the wound while Carlos cursed in colourful Spanish, despite his lack of strength to follow through with the threatened ass-kicking.
“Chopper is two minutes out,” Oliver told them, as he came to stand behind Aberlour. He put a hand down on Abe’s shoulder and squeezed. It was a firm hand. A steadying grip and Aberlour was silently glad for it.
“Is there an exit wound?” Oliver asked Marcus.
Their field medic shook his head, and no one asked him for any further details.
“Two minutes, Chichi. Hang tight, yeah? Then it’s booze, girls, and cigars for two weeks,” Aberlour told their usual firecracker of a teammate.
Carlos responded with a forced smile that was really more of a painful grimace, but it was somewhat devilish all the same.
“Amen,” Carlos said, with a nod, as he leaned back and looked up at the night sky.
Aberlour walked away with Oliver following closely. Once they’d put some distance between themselves and the rest of the team, they felt free to openly discuss their concerns.
“What the fuck happened?” Oliver asked.
“Ghost probably knows, but—I’m guessing one of the guys got spooked, maybe he caught a glimpse of Carlos, thought it was the—ghost thing, or whatever, and took a shot. Those guys are always trigger happy. It was a fluke. A stupid fucking fluke,” Aberlour said, shaking his head.
His hands formed into fists, his jaw clenched, and his gut was on fire with fury over what they’d been through on this mission. Four days of trekking through this fucking jungle, on high alert for every strange sound. Four days of sneaking through enemy lines and sharing sleeping quarters with deadly spiders and venomous snakes. Four days, and not once had their presence been discovered. Yet somehow, just four miles from their safe zone, some trigger-happy moron had managed to blow a hole in Carlos’ shoulder.
Aberlour’s fingers twitched with the need for some target practice using the fucker who’d hurt Carlos. He’d killed a dozen men on this mission, but none of them had seen him coming. He needed—he needed to be feared, if only for a second. Needed to see the realization shine in the eyes of good-for-nothing men. Death had come, and it looked like Aberlour. That is what hewanted. It was a sick, broken thought, but as his chest tightened with anger, it was all he could think about.
“Hey!”
Oliver’s hand, clutching at Aberlour’s bicep, grounded him for a moment. Even in the dimly lit area where they were standing, Aberlour could make out that warm, comforting smile on Oliver’s face.
“Carlos will be fine,” he reminded Abe.
“I know.”
“There was nothing you could’ve done.”
“I know,” Abe repeated dutifully.
Oliver did not believe him. He took a step closer, and his hand slid from Aberlour’s bicep to his hand. His fingers weaved through Abe’s then, and he squeezed.
“There was nothing any of us could’ve done. It was a terrible situation. With shit intel, in a fucking hellhole, but we’re all alright, yeah? You got us out. We’re here.” Oliver squeezed his hand again, and spoke hurriedly, as if all that mattered now was that Abe believed him.
Aberlour took a deep, steadying breath and let it out. He looked over at Carlos, who was lying there resting, and gave a sharp nod.
“Okay,” he said. Oliver squeezed his hand once more. “Okay,” he repeated, a bit more confidently.
Clutching the back of Abe’s head, Oliver pressed their foreheads together in a familiar move from their bootcamp days. “Darling and Dumber,” Oliver said, voice lowered, tone soft—the strong affection and sentiment for Abe’s ears only. “We can’t fail. Not if we’re together.”
They were dangerous words. Like a pact, or an oath, and Aberlour feared them as much as he ached for them. He gave Oli a firm nod but didn’t speak. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to talk. Not right then at any rate.
Suddenly, they heard the chopper approaching rapidly. Team Specter jumped into action, no longer noticing how wet and tired they felt. This was the last push to get them home. They gritted their teeth and helped Carlos onto the helo without speaking, all exhausted and worried about their comrade.
Carlos would be fine. Aberlour silently repeated that to himself as he paced the waiting room outside sick bay. The rest of Team Specter was spread around the room. JD was lying down on the floor, his jacket rolled into a pillow, sound asleep. Oliver had gone in search of a hot shower at Aberlour’s insistence. The sound of Oliver’s teeth chattering had not been helping his frayed nerves. Ghost was sitting quietly in the corner of the room. He’d already called his wife to talk for a few minutes. They couldn’t say much, but he could at least let her know he was still alive. Marcus had gone to contact Sabine, muttering something about life being short as he’d left the waiting room.
The medical team went to work on Carlos immediately, pumping him full of fluids and plasma before taking him to the operating room so they could dig the bullet out of his shoulder. It wasn’t a major operation. He’d be fine. He’d be fine.
Carlos would be fine.
It didn’t matter how many times Aberlour said it, he still didn’t believe it. His hands were clenched, his fingers digginginto his skin as exhaustion, worry, and impatience swirled inside of him, transforming his usually calm disposition into one filled with a wretched, almost animalist anger.
“It was an accident,” Ghost said, the sound of his voice startling Aberlour.
