Eight minutes. Fuck, I need to move him.
“Stay with me, Scotty,” I whisper, and it sounds more like a desperate plea than a command. I clamp my hands around his ankles, keeping my head ducked as a continuous stream of rounds are fired, and I drag his limp body across the sandy ground.
Helicopters, gunshots, grenades, yelling, shouting, voices all ring out around me as I get him into a nearby abandoned building. I shove an old wooden table and chairs to make room and lay him on a dusty rug.
I take his helmet off and try to find the bullet wound. My stomach sinks when I see it just above his collarbone, blood pouring from it. I press my gloved fingers into the wound to stop the bleeding, and it earns me a reaction.
His eyes flicker, and when I hear his gravelly voice groaning, I breathe a sigh of relief.
“Scotty, hey. Hey, talk to me, buddy.
He moves his head, and it adds pressure to his neck, and more blood pours out between my fingers.
Fuck, I need help. I radio Brad, and he’s in the compound in seconds.
“It’s his neck,” I yell at Brad as I press the palm of my hand over the wound so firmly, I’m worried I’ll crush his neck, but I need to stop the bleeding.
“Come on, buddy, you’re not going out like this. Stay with us.” I yell at him over the noise of the gunfire.
Brad tosses his bag to the floor and gets out the first aid supplies.
“Tori,” Scotty croaks.
“She’s fine, buddy. Let’s fix you,” I reassure him.
“I didn’t tell her…” He gasps like he’s fighting for his next breath, and I know this doesn’t look good for him.
Brad rips open the bandages, passing them to me, and then takes out an IV bag as the sound of grenades and firearms exploding around us fills the space, and I pray all my men are still standing at the end of it.
“You can call her when we get you back to camp.” I try to say as calmly as possible, as I try and press the gauze to where the bullet entered his neck, but the way the blood is seeping through my fingers, this isn’t looking good.
Fuck.
“I don’t think this is going to work; we need to close this fucking wound,” I bark at Brad, my tone panicked as he tugs up Scotty’s sleeve, looking for a vein to put the IV in.
“Tell her I love her,” he rasps.
“You can tell her yourself, buddy, okay? Just stay with me, Scotty. Keep your fucking eyes open, you hear me?” I shout, gripping his face in my free hand.
“Look after her…” He gasps.
“Scotty?” I scream.
“Promise.” He says the word like it took every last bit of his strength to say it.
“I promise,” I say on a shaky breath, panic flooding my body as I helplessly watch the light leave his eyes. He stares blankly at me, and a roar rips from my chest.
Brad tugs the quick release on Scotty’s bulletproof vest, ripping open his shirt and beginning chest compressions.
I keep my hand on his neck, his blood flow now slowing down, alerting me that he’s slipped away. “Wake up, Scotty, come on,” I plead.
Brad counts as he administers chest compressions, and I feel for a pulse, but there’s nothing. The color drains from Scotty’s face as quickly as sand flowing through a sand timer.
I know no matter how many times Brad pumps his chest or how many times I yell at him to open his fucking eyes, he’s already gone.
“Brad, Brad,” I call, clamping a hand around his wrist.
“One, two, three, four…” Brad repeats, as if on autopilot.
