Page 59 of Savage Warrior

“I don’t know…”

He loops my arm over his shoulder. “Let’s find out, then. We need to get out of here.”

“No. Arina’s out there somewhere. She’s hurt. I’m not going anywhere without her.”

“Jack?” Ethan looks to his second-in-command.

“I’ll check, boss.” He sprints off into the trees.

Tony stations himself on my other side. Between them, my boss and my friend half carry, half drag me through the undergrowth. I think I probably lose consciousness en route, because suddenly the chopper is right ahead. They bundle me through the door into the passenger compartment where I lie in a crumpled, bloodstained heap on the floor.

Ethan and Jack hop in behind me.

“Hit the gas, Magda.”

At Ethan’s barked command, the helicopter rises from the ground.

“No,” I groan. “Where’s Arina? We need to find her. We can’t leave her behind.”

Ethan is on his phone. “Jack? How are you doing?”

“We have her, boss.” The call is on loudspeaker. “She’s unconscious.”

“How… how bad?” I croak.

“Took a shot to the stomach. There’s a lot of blood, but she’s breathing.”

Christ! “Is she…? Is she going to live?” Suddenly, I can’t start to imagine a world without Arina in it. I don’t want to deal with such a world.

“Megan’s working on her,” is the terse reply. “I’ll report when I know more.”

I let my body relax. There’s nothing more I can do now, apart from let Megan do her thing. Megan is our resident medic, ex-US army and well used to battlefield injuries. Arina is in good hands.

“You could do with some attention yourself.” Ethan is slicing my jeans open with a pair of scissors from the on-board first-aid kit. He lets out a sharp hiss when he sees my bullet wound. “I need swabs,” he snaps. “And a tourniquet.”

“I’m fine,” I begin.

“Shut up and keep still,” he commands.

I know better than to argue so I do exactly as I’m told, only groaning when the pain becomes too intense. Our training includes some fairly advanced first aid, and even as the boss, Ethan is no exception. Our skills include the delivery of pain relief as required. Ethan fills a syringe and injects me in the arse.

“There. That should keep you quiet.” He gives me what’s clearly intended to be a comforting pat on my left buttock. “Get some sleep.”

I don’t expect to sleep at all, but somehow, I do manage to doze off. I’m wakened by the crackle of the radio. I catch the word ‘Rothwell’ in among the static.

“What? What’s happening?” I mutter through the morphine-induced fog.

“Megan’s diverted the other chopper to the Rothwell,” Ethan informs me.

The Rothwell is a private clinic close to Inverness. It’s a discreet establishment where they don’t concern themselves unduly with awkward details, such as how their patients came by bullet or stab wounds. For an exorbitant fee, they deal with such matters quietly and efficiently. Several of our soldiers owe their lives to their skills, including Ethan’s own brother.

“Right,” Ethan continues, addressing his words to Magda, our pilot. “Do the same. Rome needs medical attention, and if Megan is at the clinic, best he is, too.”

The chopper lurches in the sky as Magda alters course.

“How long before we get there?” Ethan asks.

“Twelve minutes,” is the reply from the cockpit.

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