“You’re not,” Melvin said. He pressed his fingers above the wound.
“On your feet. We move.”
Reynolds nodded and let Melvin haul him up. The convoy surged out of the courtyard. Engines roared as they pushed back onto the road, dust swallowing the broken buildings behind them.
They limped back inside the wire without further attack.
At Al Asad’s gate, the TOC braced for their return. Windshields cracked. Tires caked in dust and blood.
Melvin climbed down from the lead Humvee, careful not to twist his shoulder.
Mac moved through the cluster of soldiers.
“You look like hell,” he said quietly.
Melvin offered a tired grin. “You should see the truck.”
Mac scanned him quickly. “Do I need to worry?”
“I’ll live.”
“You scared the hell out of me.”
“I know.”
Reynolds was already being wheeled toward the medical wing. Mac stopped in front of Melvin. “You hit?”
“Glass and shrapnel. I’ll live.”
Mac studied him, then brushed a thumb lightly along the taped cut beneath Melvin’s eye. The touch lasted only a breath. Then discipline returned. Behind them the stretcher rattled toward the medical doors.
“What happened to Reynolds?”
“Something got him out there. Bit him.”
Mac turned, crouching beside the moving stretcher. “That’s not a dog.”
“No.” Melvin held Mac’s gaze a second longer than necessary.
The stretcher disappeared through the medical doors, and they followed.
The medical bay smelled of bleach. A medic dug shrapnel from Melvin’s shoulder.
“Lucky,” the medic muttered. “Another inch and you’d be writing left-handed.”
Melvin forced a laugh. “Been meaning to practice.”
Mac hovered nearby, eyes fixed on him. When the medic slipped, Melvin’s hand dropped from the cot. Mac caught it instantly. Their skin met for a moment that could pass as practical. Melvin flexed his hand once, brushing Mac’s knuckles before letting go. Mac’s eyes flicked to Melvin’s chest. The edge of the laminated card showed faintly through the pocket seam. Mac said nothing. Something eased in his shoulders.
Then the medic returned and the moment vanished.
A runner burst through the flap. “Sir, Reynolds. He’s not right.”
Mac was already moving. Melvin followed. Inside the medical wing, Reynolds lay strapped to a bed, his body convulsing. Muscles rippled beneath the sheets as if something pressed against bone. Relief flickered across Reynolds’ face when he saw them.
“It’s loud,” he rasped. “I can hear everything. My heartbeat… like it’s not mine.”
“What’s loud?” Mac asked.
