Normally, Zayne would be able to roll over with Edwards on top of him and rise with her easily. This was simply a matter of enduring the pain. And he'd be damned if he allowed that to keep him from his squad.
Unacceptable weakness. Completely unacceptable.
Zayne yelled for Brock again in a furious roar. “Medic!” If Brock didn't make it either… His mind shut down the thought, refusing to imagine losing his oldest friend.
He attempted the roll once more, right when a broken door swung open, and Brock burst out.
“Are you serious?” Brock dragged Graves after him with a scarlet handwrapped around the new soldier's jacket. “Do not do that again.”
Zayne breathed out slowly, leg screaming with pain. For all that effort, he accomplished nothing but worsening the leg injury.
“Yeah, that's what you get,” Brock said. “I'm glad it hurt. Maybe you'll finally learn your lesson.”
The relief of seeing his friend and the new private rushed through him in wave after wave. “Don't take forever next time.”
“I had my hands full with this one.” Brock forced Graves to sit against the pale brick of the apartment building and pushed the kid's head up. “Stay here. You’re okay.”
“Is he hurt?” Zayne asked.
“He’s fine. Just scared.” Brock slid to the ground, grabbing for Edwards’ wrist.
“Her clotters—”
“I know.” After a moment, his friend laid Edwards’ hand gently against her belly, voice quiet but confident. “She’s gone.”
His hold on her wound tightened. Thoughts vanished into the silence.
Brows knit, the medic flourished a thin flashlight to examine the metal spearing Zayne’s thigh. “I think…” The light caught Zayne’s hands pressing into her abdomen. “You're straining your wound applying that kind of pressure to her.”
Zayne didn’t move.
What could he have done to save her?
Misery consumed Brock's eyes. “Edwards is dead, Sergeant.”
“I know. We have men near the dumpster. Check on them.” His voice remained level despite the intense hold he maintained on an injury that no longer bled.
Brock shook his head. “The projectile’s gone through her into your thigh. I need to extract it.”
“I know what’s in my own leg. I know Edwards is dead. I don’t know about our men burning in the garbage. I’m fine right here.”
“No.” Brock put on a pair of gloves. “With all due respect, Sergeant Riven, this is my call under these circumstances. As soon as you’re stabilized, I’ll go to them.”
If Brock thought there was a chance anyone remained alive, then he'd run to them first. Still, the dead deserved their care. “Brock—”
“No, Zayne. That's final.”
He clenched his muscles. Pain splintered through his leg, and he growled low. “Get this out of me then. Immediately.”
“I need a minute. Your skin melted against it.” Brock injected him with a red cap. He shouldn’t waste their pain medicine on something like this, not when there’d be soldiers with far more serious injuries.
Alcohol poured over his wound, and he dug his fingers into Edwards, clenching his eyes shut.
He hadn't even seen who shot her. Damn him.
Garbage smoldered.
Smoke drifted up.
