They come at midnight.
Not loud. Two men, on foot, over the back fence in the section between camera angles. Between the gap in our coverage that Recon identified in his security sweep.
They've done their homework on our layout, which tells me this isn't improvised. Sal's people have been watching this compound for longer than today.
What they didn't account for is that Recon put a man in that gap specifically because it was a gap.
The radio call comes in fast, and the compound responds. I'm already moving.
I come around the east side of the main building and see them.
Jesslyn is against the outbuilding wall. She went back for her laptop. I knew she'd go back for her laptop; I should have posted someone on the outbuilding, so that's on me. And now she'scaught in the open space between the two buildings with Remy, who came outside at the exact wrong moment.
Two men are moving through the compound. I see them before they see me.
I put the first one down at twenty meters. Single shot, center mass, clean. The second spins toward the sound and I'm already moving, cutting across the lot, using the truck for cover, closing the distance before he can orient.
I come around the truck and pull Jesslyn down behind it in the same motion — hand on her shoulder, firm, bringing her below the frame, my body between her and the remaining threat.
She doesn't fight it. She goes down and stays down, hands grabbing my cut, face turned up to mine.
No panic. Eyes clear, breathing controlled, grip tight but not desperate. Frightened. I can see the specific brightness of real fear in her eyes, and I know she’s completely functional inside that fear.
I put two fingers to my lips. She nods.
The second man is moving. I track him through the truck's windows, watch his shadow cross the lit space near the east fence, and when he clears the truck's nose, I take the shot.
Two men down. The compound goes quiet in the way it goes quiet after gunfire. The active threat is removed, and the aftermath is settling in.
I stand, scan the perimeter, and hear Recon calling clear from the east side.
I look down at Jesslyn.
She's already looking past me.
"Remy," she says.
I turn.
Remy is on the ground. One hand pressed to her left thigh, the other flat on the dirt, and the dark stain spreading through her jeans is moving too fast.
I'm already crossing to her when Jesslyn gets there first.
She doesn't wait for direction. She's on her knees beside Remy with both hands on the wound, palms flat, full pressure, weight behind it, before I've taken three steps. Her technique is correct. Her pressure is correct. Her hands are steady.
She has never done this before. I know that with the certainty of a man who has watched a lot of people handle wounds. She's working on instinct and nerves. The instinct is good, and the nerve is something I don't have words for.
"Stitch," I call out. Loud, to the compound. "Stitch, east lot, now."
Remy is conscious and looking up at Jesslyn with an expression that starts as shock and works its way toward something else entirely.
Jesslyn is looking at the wound. Both hands, not lifting the pressure, not adjusting without reason. Her jaw is set. She said this afternoonI know what fear looks like when it's wearing anger's face, and right now she's showing what it looks like when the fear is real and the response is to move toward it anyway.
Stitch comes at a run. He takes in Jesslyn's hands on the wound, says, “Good, keep it exactly like that,” and she does.
I stand six feet away and watch her save Remy's life.
Her hands don't shake. Her eyes don't leave the wound. When Stitch tells her to shift, she shifts exactly as instructed. When he says good work, she doesn't respond. She's already focused on the next thing he needs.
