Page 75 of Code Name: Grit

We were almost there when a shot rang out from the trees to our right.

Atticus dropped, clutching his leg. Tank immediately took up a defensive position, scanning for the shooter.

“Go!” he ordered. “Get to the chopper. I’ve got him.”

Grit pulled me forward as we sprinted the final distance. The helicopter was touching down, rotors whipping the air into a frenzy. The side door slid open, revealing my brother inside, gesturing urgently for us to hurry.

As we raced across the clearing, a final volley of gunfire erupted from the forest edge. I saw Grit stumble, a round finding the gap between his tactical vest and shoulder armor. He staggered but kept moving, pushing me ahead of him toward safety.

“Grit!”I cried, seeing the blood beginning to soak through his gear.

“Keep moving,” he grunted, face contorted with pain.

Dante reached out from the helicopter, grabbed my arm, and pulled me aboard. Grit climbed in behind me, his movements stiff and labored. He collapsed onto the floor of the aircraft, his breathing ragged.

“Tank! Atticus!” I called, looking back toward the forest.

“Coming in hot!” Tank’s voice called through the comms as he emerged from the tree line, supporting Atticus’ weight.

Dante provided covering fire as they made their final approach, then helped haul them into the helicopter.

“Go, go, go!” my brother shouted to the pilot.

The helicopter lifted off, banking sharply eastward. Through the window, I could see smoke billowing into the morning sky, the hunting lodge now just a smoldering ruin.

I turned my attention to Grit, who lay grimacing on the floor.

“Let me see,” I said, carefully helping him remove the outer layer of his gear.

The wound was messy—the bullet had torn through muscle at an angle, leaving a jagged path. Not life-threatening, but serious enough to need immediate attention.

“Here. Use this,” Tank said, handing me a dressing pack from the helicopter’s emergency supplies.

I worked quickly, applying pressure to slow the bleeding while Tank checked Atticus’ leg wound.

“How bad?” Grit asked through clenched teeth.

“You’ll live,” I replied, trying to keep my voice steady. “As long as we get you proper medical attention soon.”

His eyes found mine, pain evident in their depths, but something else there too—relief, concern, and something much deeper that mirrored everything I was feeling.

“You’re safe,” he said, his voice barely audible over the rotor noise. “That’s what matters.”

I shook my head, fighting back unexpected tears. “Not if it costs you your life.”

The pilot’s voice came through the intercom. “ETA to medical facility is fifteen minutes.”

Fifteen minutes. I could keep him stable for fifteen minutes.

“Giovanni?” Grit asked Tank.

“Unknown,” Tank replied. “The explosion scattered everyone. Ranger has teams sweeping the area, but it’s chaos down there.”

“And Keller?” I asked.

“Last seen with Cassio’s people before the explosion. No confirmation on his status.”

I processed this information, trying to make sense of what we’d witnessed. Keller moving freely between hostile factions. Cassio and Rafael seemingly coordinating despite their supposed enmity. Giovanni acting against his uncle’s wishes.

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