Page 22 of Deadly Strain

“As long as we can. How’s Rasker?”

She went back to check on his vitals. Sharp followed, his gaze alternating between watching her and the landscape.

“Not good. His breathing is shallow. If we can’t get him some advanced medical assistance very soon...” She didn’t finish. She didn’t need to.

“Understood.” His voice vibrated with restrained violence. “I’m going to walk the perimeter. Gather supplies as you can.”

Men often dealt with grief by getting mad at it. It was probably the healthiest response for the situation, but she was going to have to watch him close. Make sure he didn’t do something stupid. Or brave. Or both.

Just like he was watching her.

Grace checked her patient again—no change—then began collecting water, food, and assembling a comprehensive first-aid kit that wouldn’t slow them down if they needed to run. She found and grabbed three additional magazines for her gun, then added them to the pile.

“How’s it going, Doc?”

“Bare necessities are ready, but time is running out for Rasker.”

“We’ve got movement,” he said, sliding behind a large piece of metal. “Take cover.”

Grace moved to try to cover the injured man with anything that might protect him from gunfire.

She was dragging a wrecked jump seat over when Sharp yelled at her, “Get down, Doc.”

A bullet pinged off something metal above her head. She dove for the ground, and discovered the Beretta in her hand. She stared at it like it was a live grenade for about half a second before turning and firing it out at the desert and the men coming toward them.

“Sharp?”

“I’ve got incoming on my side, too!”

“I’ve only got one extra magazine on me!”

“Look in your back pocket.”

She slapped a hand on her back pockets and discovered one additional magazine. “How the hell did you put that in there without me knowing?”

“I did it when you were having your hysterics.”

The cad. “So you figured that was a good time to cop a feel?”

“I’m a guy. It’s always a good time for that.”

They’d survived a helicopter crash that killed most of their team, armed extremists were trying to kill them, and he was thinking about getting his hands in her pants? “Asshole,” she yelled.

“What? I can’t hear you over the hail of bullets trying to kill us.”

“You’re lucky there are worse assholes for me to shoot at.”

“Promises, promises, Doc.”

“Just don’t get shot. If anyone gets to shoot you today, it should be me.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She focused on the men approaching her side of the wreck. She hadn’t hit anyone yet and she was down to five bullets. Taking time to reload was dangerous. Dare she change her tactics? Would hesitating now, letting them rush forward to give her bigger targets, make the situation worse or better? She’d hesitated before while under fire and had regretted it ever since.

She chose to wait, her stomach twisting, hands shaking, and breathing coming in pants. She waited, allowing them to get closer. Closer.Closer.

She took aim and fired.

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