Page 5 of Zorro

“Doutora Ana?” he asked.

She blinked, nodded. “Sim.”

He sliced her bonds. “We’re taking you home,” he said, just as the jungle behind them erupted with gunfire. No hesitation between thought and action. He dove, knocking Ana and Lucas beneath his body. Pain flared, white-hot and brutal along his ribs on the left side, low and vicious, knocking the breath from his lungs.

He dragged both hostages down with him, covering them with his own body as rounds tore through the air overhead. His shoulder hit mud hard, vision swimming, but he shielded them with his body

“Contact! Left! Left!” Gator’s voice barked over comms.

His buddies did what needed to be done, shifting and rolling off the hostages just enough to put his back to them, weapon up, eyes sweeping the trees.

Navarro was staring at him, wide-eyed, stunned. “Were you hit?”

“Nah, just a scratch. Pinged off my vest. I’m okay.” Zorro gave her a crooked grin through the pain. “That one was for you. No charge.”

The SEALs took no more chances and spread out. In the distance, a chopper’s rotors sang. D-Day helped the hostages to their feet.

“Aw, no help for the hero?” Zorro said.

D-Day grinned, and Zorro was happy to see all the shadows gone from his friend. “You’ve legs.” He headed toward exfil.

There was that sound again, imperceptible, but it was the same sound he’d heard before the hostage rescue.

He scanned the area slowly through the gray gloom, and his eyes snagged on a scrap of cloth. He brought up his weapon and took a step.

“Incoming,” Joker shouted as gunfire lit up the night. Zorro dropped down immediately, but his attention was split. Someone needed him now. Not when this firefight was over. Right fucking now.

Even with the rain hammering the canopy, Zorro heard it again. A wet rasp, barely audible that most people would’ve missed. Just a breath lost in the downpour. But Zorro’s ears were trained for the wrong kind of quiet—the sound of a person on the edge of his last breath. Someone trying to be quiet, soft, slow, the lungs giving up. The kind of exhale that didn’t draw back in. He knew that sound. Knew it like muscle memory.

Someone was dying. Right now. Nearby. He froze on his stomach, pivoting his head toward the sound as his hand tightened on the stock of his rifle. He didn't even have to look. His back was covered. The jungle worked at hiding it, but the sound was close, low to the ground, slipping through the ferns and ground detritus.

He moved without thinking. Toward the pain. Toward the dying, drawn by something he couldn't ever explain. He, like his brothers, were more than hybrids; they were jacks of all trades and honed weapons. His job was to do his best. Not just to fight but to find them before the silence did.

He crawled toward that quiet plea for help, soaked to the skin, keeping his guard fully up. Another sound filtered to him. He stiffened, then he surged forward. He set down his auto, taking in the very pregnant woman.

“LT,” he depressed his comm. “I need help.”

Her eyes followed him, filled with terror, clutching her swollen abdomen with a fierce protective look, blood seeping between her fingers, her breath harsh in her labor.

“I need those bastards off my six. I’ve got a situation here that needs my attention now.” He held up his hands. “American military. May I help you?”

She breathed out a soft, relieved breath, nodding once.

Immediately Gator, Joker and D-Day showed up with weapons bristling. “Fuck me,” Gator said. “What do you need?”

“I need to be upright—now.”

“Got it,” D-Day said in a voice that told Zorro his ancestors had stormed the beach in Normandy. He and Gator moved off doing what they did best: assault. He worked faster than he ever had before. He dressed her wound quickly and efficiently, set up a plasma bag just as quickly. She was going to need it. This was going to be hairy.

His world narrowed down to three feet. Everything else disappeared. The woman, the baby whose head was crowning between her legs, were his calling. He didn’t worry about bullets or tangos or his buddies. All his focus was here. He was built for war, but his hands were made for healing. “I know this is going to hurt like hell,” he said in Tagalong, “but you’re going to have to push when I say.” She was going to cause more bleeding, and he wished like hell she could just not move, but her child was her priority. It was in her expressive dark eyes. She nodded once.

Ten minutes later, the jungle quiet was broken by a lusty, defiant cry. Zorro wrapped him in his field shirt. It was a miracle that the bullet missed him completely. He was simply perfect. Ten little fingers, ten little toes.

Gator shook his head, looking between Zorro and the baby. But Zorro just looked down at the newborn. “Yeah. We got a warrior in the making.”

“What the fuck did I just hear?” Joker said through the comms. “Was that a baby crying?”

“Yeah,” Gator said, his voice hushed. “He fucking delivered a kid in a firefight. That’s a new one.”

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