Page 24 of Lyon

I checked his wound. We had stopped the bleeding. So why the hell was he still unconscious?

“We must have missed something,” I muttered. “Raven?”

Taylor, now sitting up, forced himself over to us. “Turn him over,” he suggested. “If there’s another bullet in him, that could be why he’s out.”

We moved Cyclone onto his stomach. I ran my hands over his back—nothing—no extra wounds.

Taylor reached for the back of his head, then froze.

“It’s here,” he said grimly. “A bullet’s lodged in his skull. We need to get it out now.”

I clenched my teeth. “Unhook me from the drip,” I ordered.

Raven hesitated. “Are you sure we should move it?”

“If it had gone deep enough to destroy his brain, he’d already be dead,” I said. “I have to do this.”

Raven pulled the needle from my arm. “You’re gonna be dizzy.”

“I’ll be fine,” I muttered, pulling out my field kit. “Cyclone’s always been hardheaded. Now I have proof.”

It took over an hour to extract the damn bullet. It was buried deeper than I expected—at least a fourth of an inch into the bone.

By the time I got it out, my hands were shaking. I exhaled, leaning back, my body screaming for rest.

Cyclone was pale as death. Too pale.

I cleaned the wound, pressed gauze over it, and wrapped his head carefully.

“Come on, man,” I whispered. “Wake up.”

Across the plane, Sean, Jason, and Taylor had managed to sit up.

“You guys good?” I asked.

Sean gave me a weak thumbs-up. “Yeah. Thanks for coming for us.”

I nodded. “You’d do the same for us.” Then I turned to Taylor. “You ever miss all that money you made as a singer?”

He smirked. “I still make money from it. But I wanted to be a Navy SEAL like my dad.”

I chuckled. “Guess that makes sense.”

Then I glanced back at Cyclone.

And I prayed like hell he’d wake up.

11

Niki

It had beena while since I’d seen Lyon, and I wondered where he was. Last I heard, he had gone to Iran on a mission to rescue some Navy SEALs. I shoved the thought aside and focused on the task at hand.

I wasn’t happy with my disguise. Playing a drug-addicted prostitute living on the streets wasn’t exactly my dream assignment. I glanced in the mirror, critiquing my reflection.

The dark circles under my eyes, the hollowed-out cheeks—I looked like a real addict. But my clothes still weren’t right.

The fishnet stockings had the right amount of rips, but the skirt barely covered my ass, and the top dipped so low it made me feel exposed. I yanked it off and pulled on a knotted tee instead. Better.

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