Page 39 of A Ballad of Blackbirds and Betrayal

“Medical team will handle this,” Atticus decided.“We need to pursue that fourth vehicle.The Range Rover’s compromised—we’ll take their lead SUV.”

He turned to Sabrina, eyes intense even through his mask.“You stay with the medical team.”

“The countermeasure is working,” she countered, already moving toward the SUV.“They’ll be stable.You need me with you.”

“Sabrina—”

“Don’t argue with me.We’re wasting time.”She slung her medical pack over her shoulder.“Either we go together, or I find my own way there.”

Something between a growl and sigh escaped him.“Stubborn woman.”

“Determined,” she corrected, sliding into the passenger seat.“There’s a difference.”

The ghost of a smile touched his mouth as he took the wheel.“Is there?I hadn’t noticed.”

They reached the airfield minutes later, approaching through the east access point using Cal’s bypass code.The Gulfstream waited on the tarmac, its engines already warming as two figures loaded a container up the boarding stairs.

“Direct approach is too risky,” Atticus said, studying the aircraft through binoculars.“One stray bullet could rupture the containment unit.”

Before Sabrina could respond, gunfire erupted from across the field.

“Santiago,” came a tense voice through comms.“Agent down.Jenkins is hit and bleeding out.We’re pinned behind the fuel depot.”

Atticus’s jaw tightened.“Warlock, ETA?”

“Seven minutes out,” Nate responded.

“Santiago doesn’t have seven minutes,” Sabrina said, already preparing medical supplies.

Atticus caught her wrist, his grip gentle but firm.“Be careful,” he said, his eyes locking with hers.“I still plan to have that conversation when this is over.”

“I’m counting on it,” she replied, and slipped away into the darkness.

ChapterThirteen

Sabrina forced herself not to look back.

The sporadic crack of gunfire from the direction of the Gulfstream echoed across the airfield, each shot sending a jolt through her system.August in Texas meant the air simmered at nearly hundred degrees, the air thick enough to chew.Sweat trickled down her spine beneath the tactical gear, and the taste of dust and aviation fuel coated her tongue.

Her boots made almost no sound as she moved from shadow to shadow, keeping low and using the maintenance buildings for cover.Heat radiated from the tarmac beneath her feet, the concrete having baked all day under the merciless Texas sun.

Every instinct screamed at her to turn around, to run back toward the sound of fighting where Atticus was confronting Mitchell’s security team alone.But the memory of Jenkins bleeding out behind the fuel depot drove her forward.Combat medicine had taught her to compartmentalize—to focus on the patient at hand rather than the battle raging around her.

“Santiago,” she whispered into her comm as she approached the fuel depot.A cicada’s rhythmic chirping nearly drowned out her voice.“I’m on approach from the east.Confirm position.”

“Copy that,” he replied, voice tight.“We’re behind the main fuel tank, northwest corner.Two hostiles approximately fifty yards southwest of our position.They’re keeping their distance because of the fuel tanks, but we can’t move without exposing ourselves.”

Sabrina crept around the corner of the depot, staying in the shadows until she spotted Santiago’s compact frame hunched protectively over Jenkins’s larger one.She moved quickly to join them, dropping to her knees beside Jenkins’s prone form.

“Took you long enough, Doc,” Jenkins managed through gritted teeth, his normally jovial expression tight with pain.His tactical shirt had been cut away to expose the wound, the black fabric soaked with blood that appeared almost purple in the dim light.

“Traffic was terrible,” Sabrina replied, already assessing the injury.Santiago had applied a pressure bandage, but blood continued to seep through, confirming his assessment that an artery had been damaged.“I’m going to need to clamp that bleeder.”

She opened her medical pack, extracting a field surgery kit that contained tools more advanced than standard first aid equipment.This would be far from ideal—performing vascular surgery by moonlight behind a fuel depot, with hostiles nearby—but Jenkins’s ashen complexion and rapid, thready pulse indicated he didn’t have the luxury of waiting for proper medical facilities.

“Santiago, I need you to maintain pressure here,” she instructed, guiding his hands to the precise spot.“And I need more light.”

He extracted a small tactical flashlight with his free hand, positioning it to illuminate the wound without creating a beacon for the hostiles still searching for them.

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