Page 31 of Ghost of Talon Mountain
I drop back to Sierra. "We're moving. Low crawl through that brush to our right. Keep the boulder between you and the ridge."
She nods, face pale but focused.
We move. Snow and dirt grind into my jacket as I pull myself forward on elbows and knees. Sierra follows, breathing hard. Another shot cracks overhead, too high.
Amateur. Professional sniper would've had us by now.
But amateur doesn't mean not dangerous.
The brush is thick enough to provide concealment. We low-crawl for thirty yards before I risk rising to a crouch. Sierra's right behind me, moving well despite the fear I can see in her eyes.
"There's an outcropping ahead," I whisper. "Defensive position. We get there, we're safe."
She nods.
We sprint the last twenty yards.
The shot takes Sierra in the shoulder.
She goes down hard, cry of pain cut short as she hits the snow. Blood spreads across the tan fabric of her jacket—dark, wet, too much.
Something breaks open inside my chest. Not thought. Pure instinct. The kind that got me through Kandahar when my team was pinned down and bleeding out in the sand.
I grab Sierra under the arms, haul her behind the rock outcropping. She's deadweight for three seconds before her legs start working again, trying to help. I shove her flat against the stone, cover her body with mine while I bring the rifle up.
Return fire. Three-round bursts toward the ridge. Force the bastard to keep his head down.
The magazine runs dry. I drop behind cover, fumble for a fresh one. My fingers feel thick, clumsy. Wrong.
"I'm okay," Sierra gasps beside me. Her voice is thin, stretched tight. "I'm okay, it's just?—"
"Quiet." The word comes out harsher than I mean. I slam the fresh magazine home, chamber a round. Scan the ridge through my scope. No movement. Either he's repositioning or he's gone.
Doesn't matter. We're not safe here.
I turn to Sierra, finally let myself look at the wound. Blood soaks through her jacket, drips onto the snow beneath her. Too much. Way too much.
"Let me see." My hands reach for her jacket, and that's when I notice they're shaking.
No. Not shaking. Can't be shaking. Steady hands are what keep people alive.
But these hands shake as I rip open Sierra's jacket.
She hisses in pain when I peel back the thermal layer. The wound stretches across her shoulder—an angry furrow carved through skin and muscle. Shallow. Could've been so much worse. Could've hit the subclavian artery. Could've punched through her chest cavity.
Could've killed her.
"How bad?" she asks. She's looking at my face, not the wound. Reading me instead of her own injury.
"You'll live." I pull the first aid kit from my pack, hands still trembling as I tear open the packaging. Combat gauze. The expensive stuff that clots fast and holds under pressure. I packed it thinking I might need it for myself.
Didn't think I'd be using it on her.
The water from my canteen runs pink as I flush the wound. Sierra's jaw locks tight, but she doesn't make a sound. Just watches me work with those dark eyes that see too much.
I pack the gauze against the wound, apply pressure. Her blood is warm against my palm, pulsing with her heartbeat. Alive. Still alive.
"That was too close," she whispers.
