peered tentatively out the door. The ridge rose up behind us, and the ground fell away in front, the top of the canyon walls in the distance. It sounded like the engine noise was coming from the lower ground, from the canyon, which would mean it was Nick in the Wrangler.
Gunfire echoed, distorted, cracked, chattered, rattled. Duke was returning fire, Puck was shooting, Thresh was shooting. The Humvee was rattling and banging from multiple impact points, making me feel like a mouse under a metal bell, with someone hammering on the bell. I moved back away from the door, covering my ears, fighting the urge to scream. I couldn’t think, felt only panic stuffing my brain, freezing me. This wasn’t like Brazil, not at all. I didn’t know who was shooting at me, or why, or where from. I didn’t know where Nick was.
I wanted nothing more than to hide in the furthest corner I could find until this all blew over.
But I couldn’t.
I’d asked for this.
“FUCK!” I heard Thresh shout, sounding pained.
That shook me back to reality. “Thresh! You okay?” I hauled myself to the doorway again.
Thresh was on the ground just around the corner of the Humvee, leaning against the side of the vehicle. I couldn’t quite see him without leaving the vehicle, and I’d been told not to do that under any circumstances. But Thresh was hurt. I couldn’t just sit here. I inched further out the door. Craned my head around the corner.
Thresh was a bloody mess, cradling his left arm against his body, grimacing, heels digging in the dirt. I wasn’t sure where else he was hit besides his arm, but just that looked bad enough. I saw bits of white bone, gristle, gore. His M-4 was on the ground beside him.
“Thresh? Can you climb in here with me?”
He swiveled his head to glare at me. “I’ll be fine. Just—gimme a second.”
I hopped out of the truck and crouched behind the door. “You’re hurt. You need to get in there. Let me help you.”
More impacts thudded into the dirt, into the side of the Humvee. The engine roaring was louder now, closer, about to crest the verge. I scrambled out of cover and threw myself to the dirt beside Thresh, behind the Humvee.
“You’re not supposed to leave the Humvee,” Thresh said through clenched teeth.
I ignored him, because he was right. Tossed his M-4 by the strap over my shoulder, grabbed his uninjured shoulder under the armpit. “Come on. Get in there, you big idiot. Move.”
“I need to cover Nick. That’s his Wrangler coming up the hill. He needs cover.” Thresh lumbered to his feet, released his hurt arm, reached for the rifle on my shoulder with his bloody good hand. “And you need to get back in the damn truck.”
Fuck, that wound was nasty. It looked like the bullet had broken his forearm and then that same round or another one had torn through his bicep.
“I’ll get in if you do,” I said. “You can’t shoot with that wound.”
He yanked the rifle from me, shouldered the strap, grabbed me around the middle, and tossed me bodily into the back of the Humvee. He was handling the M-4 with just his right hand. And then, with a grimace, uncurled his left arm from against his chest, and tried to grab the front grip of the assault rifle. But he couldn’t do it.
Yet, despite this, he popped off a round. The rifle bucked up, almost out of his grip, eliciting a curse from him.
“Fucking goddammit, Thresh!” I shouted.
But then the Wrangler dove over the ridge, front tires going airborne and then burying in the sand, hauling the rest of the vehicle over the hill. The Wrangler, once black, was now brown with dirt and sand, and bullet holes punctured it in dozens of places. It had huge wheels and a lift kit, no doors, no roof. Meant for off-roading. The windshield was spider webbed, shattered in places. I couldn’t quite see Nick through the shattered glass.
Even as the Wrangler heaved up over the crest, I heard
Gunfire echoed, distorted, cracked, chattered, rattled. Duke was returning fire, Puck was shooting, Thresh was shooting. The Humvee was rattling and banging from multiple impact points, making me feel like a mouse under a metal bell, with someone hammering on the bell. I moved back away from the door, covering my ears, fighting the urge to scream. I couldn’t think, felt only panic stuffing my brain, freezing me. This wasn’t like Brazil, not at all. I didn’t know who was shooting at me, or why, or where from. I didn’t know where Nick was.
I wanted nothing more than to hide in the furthest corner I could find until this all blew over.
But I couldn’t.
I’d asked for this.
“FUCK!” I heard Thresh shout, sounding pained.
That shook me back to reality. “Thresh! You okay?” I hauled myself to the doorway again.
Thresh was on the ground just around the corner of the Humvee, leaning against the side of the vehicle. I couldn’t quite see him without leaving the vehicle, and I’d been told not to do that under any circumstances. But Thresh was hurt. I couldn’t just sit here. I inched further out the door. Craned my head around the corner.
Thresh was a bloody mess, cradling his left arm against his body, grimacing, heels digging in the dirt. I wasn’t sure where else he was hit besides his arm, but just that looked bad enough. I saw bits of white bone, gristle, gore. His M-4 was on the ground beside him.
“Thresh? Can you climb in here with me?”
He swiveled his head to glare at me. “I’ll be fine. Just—gimme a second.”
I hopped out of the truck and crouched behind the door. “You’re hurt. You need to get in there. Let me help you.”
More impacts thudded into the dirt, into the side of the Humvee. The engine roaring was louder now, closer, about to crest the verge. I scrambled out of cover and threw myself to the dirt beside Thresh, behind the Humvee.
“You’re not supposed to leave the Humvee,” Thresh said through clenched teeth.
I ignored him, because he was right. Tossed his M-4 by the strap over my shoulder, grabbed his uninjured shoulder under the armpit. “Come on. Get in there, you big idiot. Move.”
“I need to cover Nick. That’s his Wrangler coming up the hill. He needs cover.” Thresh lumbered to his feet, released his hurt arm, reached for the rifle on my shoulder with his bloody good hand. “And you need to get back in the damn truck.”
Fuck, that wound was nasty. It looked like the bullet had broken his forearm and then that same round or another one had torn through his bicep.
“I’ll get in if you do,” I said. “You can’t shoot with that wound.”
He yanked the rifle from me, shouldered the strap, grabbed me around the middle, and tossed me bodily into the back of the Humvee. He was handling the M-4 with just his right hand. And then, with a grimace, uncurled his left arm from against his chest, and tried to grab the front grip of the assault rifle. But he couldn’t do it.
Yet, despite this, he popped off a round. The rifle bucked up, almost out of his grip, eliciting a curse from him.
“Fucking goddammit, Thresh!” I shouted.
But then the Wrangler dove over the ridge, front tires going airborne and then burying in the sand, hauling the rest of the vehicle over the hill. The Wrangler, once black, was now brown with dirt and sand, and bullet holes punctured it in dozens of places. It had huge wheels and a lift kit, no doors, no roof. Meant for off-roading. The windshield was spider webbed, shattered in places. I couldn’t quite see Nick through the shattered glass.
Even as the Wrangler heaved up over the crest, I heard
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