Page 2 of Hard to Kill

Hackett turned white. “Shush, ma’am. You’ll jinx it.”

“Sorry.” She was. Stupid thing to say.

“Quick, spit out of the truck.” He gestured.

“Will that undo the jinx?”

“Unless you spit on a land mine.”

She laughed and spit, which was easier said than done, what with the dry air and the dust.

Satisfied, Hackett picked up the conversation. “I got something better than the GI Bill. I can run.”

She knew what he meant. The guy was fast; from the time he was in basic training, he had a reputation for running faster, farther, longer than the other recruits. He could sprint, yes, but on long-distance runs, his long legs ate up the ground. The only times he didn’t come in first were those times when his fellow soldiers, gasping and exhausted, hooked their fingers into his belt so he could drag them across the finish line.

Hackett continued, “I’m going to be the best runner in the history of college sports. I might go to the Olympics, and that’s going to give me a leg up—if you know what I mean—when it comes to sportscasting. That’s what I’m going to do. Communications degree, sportscasting job.”

“So, you’ve got a plan.”

“I do.” He turned toward her. “What about you? What are you going to do when you get out?”

“I’m in for the long haul. I’m career military.”

“But you’re pretty!”

She looked at him sideways.

“I mean... You don’t have to... Not that you’re not a damned good soldier...” He glanced around wildly, looking for an escape, stiffened, pointed and yelled, “Watch out!”

She jerked the wheel sideways, missed the mine, but the Humvee behind them was following too closely and wasn’t as lucky. The front right wheel impacted and exploded, blasting that Humvee on its top and knocking their Humvee on its side. Metal blew everywhere; in a spray of blood, Corporal Hackett flew over the top of her as she remained buckled into her seat.

How did he get out of his seat belt?

But Kellen didn’t have long to consider how dire the blast had to have been to sever Hackett’s seat belt. She hit the sand through the open driver’s-side window hard. Her ears rang, her vision blurred. The sand burned her skin everywhere it touched, her face and neck, her right palm.

Somewhere close, Corporal Hackett screamed.

She had to get up. She had to help him. There had been blood. She wiped at her face. Too much blood. And the sand—it could roast them alive.

The Humvee. On its side. She unbuckled her seat belt, crawled through the interconnected shards of windshield, grabbed her camo jacket off the back of her seat and spread it in the shade under the Humvee’s hull and over the blistering-hot sands. She wiped the blood from her eyes and located the first aid kit. She dragged it toward Corporal Hackett’s crumpled form, out on the flats.

Why was he still screaming? She wiped again at the blood trickling down her face.

Wait. It wasn’t all his. Some of this was hers. She ran her fingers through her hair and dislodged a shard of glass. More blood. Damn it. She should have left the shard alone.

Corporal Hackett first. She could faint later.

She staggered over—she couldn’t seem to walk a straight line—and dropped to her knees beside him.

He stopped screaming. “You’re a girl,” he said.

“Last time I checked. You got a back injury?”

He struggled for breath. “No back injury.”

“Good. I’ve got to get you out of the sun, so I’m going to drag you into the shade of the Humvee. Right?”

He was breathing deeply now. “Right.”

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