Wild Hearts (Novella) by Tina Wainscott Page B

sent him backward; he hit hard and let out a pained grunt. His gun went off, spraying the ceiling and raining dust and plaster down on them.
    Risk grabbed his own weapon and swung it before the guy had a chance to aim. Two
whump
s later, the guy sagged. Risk patted his chest where the bullet had hit him. Thank God for body armor. Still, it hurt like hell.
    “Moving,” Saxby said as he entered the main living area, so Risk would know that his comrade was in the room. Sax took out another man who’d stepped out from the hallway entrance. Risk was terrified that the little girl was still frozen in the line of fire. Damn, he hated when kids got hurt because of what their family was up to. Or as a political statement. Or by abusive adults who couldn’t channel their anger properly.
    Any reason.
    He spotted her hunched down in the corner, her bear a shield in front of her face. Alive, then.
    Knox announced his entrance as he darted toward them.
    “Gutterson’s been hit,” Risk said in a soft voice. “Condition unknown.” No timeto check for pulses, and it didn’t matter anyway. Dead or alive, they would take him out of there. No man left behind, the military credo. His gut told him the guy was gone, but all he could focus on was hoisting Gutterson again. To survive, they had to compartmentalize everything. For the moment, it wasn’t a comrade on his shoulders but simply weight that he had to transport. Any emotions or physical discomfort had to be shoved into boxes to be dealt with later.
    Knox and Risk ran for the door. Saxby covered, sending a volley of shots somewhere behind them.
    Rath ran in from the shadows and covered from the other side, sweeping his weapon back and forth and moving along with them. “Wolf not located,” he said in a low voice. “Room was empty,” he added to their unspoken question. They were supposed to put eyes on Wolf in a designated room, give him a few seconds to get into a safe position, and then shoot up the bed so he would look like a target as well.
    Julian moved ahead and out the door, Rath right behind him. Rath really looked like Los Negros, with his dark beard and scruffy hair. He definitely didn’t look like a redneck from Tennessee.
    SEALs didn’t have to follow strict military standards for grooming, which gave them a lot of leeway for blending in. They weren’t wearing standard uniforms but a mishmash of various camos. Still, they obviously weren’t blending in very well tonight. They waited for the all-clear. The guards who’d been outside had probably run into the building at the first sign of trouble and joined the firefight. But it was dumb to assume they were all inside—and dead.
    “Clear,” Julian called.
    “Moving,” Risk said, getting the answering confirmation from Knox before stepping out to the courtyard.
    The tiniest click shot his attention to the catwalk that led along the inside of the wall where the guards patrolled. One man crouched low, aiming his semi-automatic. He let out an
oof
and fell backward as Rath’s bullets hit him before he could pull the trigger.
    They ran across the open courtyard, the most vulnerable part of their escape. Julian shot out the lock at the gates and pushed them open, and Rath slipped out. “Clear,” he called.
    They passed through the gate and into the darkness toward the extraction point. Screams and shouting punctured the night, and footsteps pounded across the courtyard. They took the designated path through scrub that would camouflage them. Headlights flashed from the compound, then stopped. They could be driving right into an ambush, depending on whatever was left of El Martillo’s soldiers. Time would tell.
    The team ran in single file to be less of a visual target. Risk’s shoulders were aching, his knees giving under the strain. This was what they trained for. His body would not fail him.
    Knox came up beside him. “Pass him over.”
    “No time. I’ve got—”
    “Just do it,” Knox said, nudging in