Each compression drove through his arms.
“Don’t quit!” Melvin shouted.
Ten compressions.
Lucero jerked.
A cough. Blood sputtered from his lips.
Mac pressed fingers to Lucero’s neck. “He’s back,” he said, breathless. “We’ve got him.”
Melvin sat back on his heels, shaking. His hands were slick with blood.
Mac looked at him, wide-eyed, grit and sweat streaking his face.
For a moment nothing else existed. Not the gunfire. Not the desert.
Just Mac’s eyes on his.
Then the rotors hit the air. The medevac roared in low. Mac and Melvin crouched beside Lucero, shielding him as the med team rushed in.
“He’s stable, barely,” Mac called. “He needs a trauma bay now!”
Seconds later Lucero was loaded onto the litter. The Blackhawk lifted into the dust.
Melvin dropped back, breathing hard.
Both of them were covered in Lucero’s blood.
“You alright?” Mac asked finally.
Melvin nodded. “Are you?”
“Let’s get our guys home,” Mac said, pushing to his feet. He offered a hand. Melvin took it, their grip lingering a second before letting go.
The ride back was silent. No jokes. No music. Just engine noise and gravel under the tires.
Reynolds stared at nothing.
Melvin leaned forward, watching the desert smear into dust and light. Mac sat across from him, hands clasped between his legs. Something had shifted.
They rolled through the gates just as the base lights flicked on.
Weapons cleared. Gear turned in.
Captain Baxter met them outside the TOC. His expression unreadable. “Lucero?”
“Evaced,” Mac said. “Still breathing when they lifted.”
Baxter nodded once. “You both did what needed doing.”
His eyes lingered on their bloodstained sleeves. “Get cleaned up. Full debrief tomorrow. Tonight you did good. All of you.”
Mac gave a quiet “Roger that, sir.”
“You saved a life out there,” Baxter added. Then he turned and walked inside.
Mac and Melvin stood in the settling quiet, the generator’s thrum the only sound.
