I try to raise my pistol, but the weight of it drags my arm down. My brain screams at me to shoot, but my muscles refuse to obey. I’ve never killed a man, and that hesitation is going to get me killed.
I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing for the impact.
Then Cassian moves.
He lunges, throwing his body across the narrow corridor to shove me out of the line of fire. As he crosses the open space, he raises the captured rifle with one hand and pulls the trigger.
The mercenary fires at the exact same time.
Thud-thud.Cassian’s shots take the soldier in the face. His helmet cracks, and he drops to the concrete floor, dead before he hits the ground.
But the soldier’s rifle goes off as he falls.
THWACK.
The sound is wet. Heavy. Like a hammer hitting a side of beef.
Cassian jerks backward, slamming back against the stone wall. A spray of blood erupts from his left shoulder.
Silence rushes back into the corridor, ringing in my ears.
I stand there, paralyzed.
Cassian is swaying. The rifle drops into its sling, clattering against his chest. Reaching up with his right hand, he clutches his left shoulder.
Blood pours between his fingers, thick and endless. It soaks the black T-shirt, turning it slick and shiny.
“Cassian,” I whisper.
He turns slowly.
His face is ashen gray. His teeth are gritted so hard that a muscle feathers in his jaw. Sweat beads on his forehead, mixing with the dust.
But none of that seems to matter to him. Instead, his hands sweep rapidly over my arms and torso, checking me for wounds.
“Are you hit?” he rasps.
“No,” I say. My voice breaks. “No, I...”
I look at his shoulder. The fabric is torn. The flesh underneath is mangled.
“You’re shot,” I say. The words feel stupid. Obvious.
He stumbles. One knee hits the floor.
“Cassian!”
I shove the pistol into my waistband and rush to him, falling to my knees in the dust.
“I’m fine,” he lies, trying to push himself up. But his arm gives way, and he slumps against the wall, sliding down until he’s sitting on the floor.
“You’re not fine!” I cry.
I reach for his shoulder.
“Don’t,” he winces, grabbing my wrist with his good hand. His grip is weak, his fingers ice-cold. “We have to keep moving.”
“You’re bleeding…”
