Then boom.
“RPG, left side!” the driver shouted as a plume of fire tore past them.
They skidded into position and dismounted under fire.
“CONTACT LEFT!”
Melvin hit the ground running, his team fanning out behind him. The panther in him surged awake before the first rounds cracked past. The world sharpened into angles, movement, and scent. He caught the metallic bite of blood on the wind before he saw Lucero go down.
It wasn’t a shift. Just instinct rising where training and animal sense ran side by side.
He heard Mac on the comms, steady and clear.
“This is Carter, pushing up from the south. Engaging enemy on high ground.”
Then a different voice, panicked.
“Man down! Lucero’s hit, he’s going blue!”
Melvin was already moving, rounding a blast-damaged Humvee. Reynolds was dragging Lucero behind cover. The kid was pale. Blue-lipped. Chest plate cracked.
Barely breathing.
“Cover me!” Melvin barked. He dropped beside Lucero just as Mac slid in with the med bag, their knees brushing in the dirt.
“He’s coding!”
“Chest wound. Sucking,” Mac confirmed, cutting fabric away with a knife.
Air gurgled from a torn hole under Lucero’s ribs.
Melvin reached for gauze.
“No time,” Mac snapped. “We need something flat. Sealed.”
Melvin’s breath hitched.
“The card,” Mac said. “That slang card. It’s laminated.”
Melvin’s fingers closed around it instantly. The laminated card Mac had handed him months ago. Back then it had just been words.
Arabic phrases. Tactical slang.
Now it was stiff. Waterproof.
Life-saving.
Melvin tore it free and pressed it down over the wound, the laminate cold against hot bleeding skin. Mac sealed the edges with tape and pressure, leaving one corner untaped so air could vent from Lucero’s chest cavity, his hands firm over Melvin’s.
Lucero gasped.
The gurgling stopped.
It worked.
“Cardiac arrest!” Mac shouted.
Melvin moved fast. Locked his fingers and started compressions. “One, two, three, four, come on Lucero!”
