She applied pressure with one hand and slid the other underneath him to search for an exit wound. Her fingers were slippery with his blood as she ran them over his hot flesh, and then she breathed in relief. “It’s a through and through,” she told him. And the blood was bright red rather than dark, which told her his liver hadn’t been hit. If they could just get some help—and fast—he might be able to make it.

  No, not might. He would make it. She would make sure of it.

  “Where’s your radio?” she asked. “We need to call for help.”

  Jamie’s arm trembled as he tried to reach for his belt. His limb was like a floppy spaghetti noodle, hardly capable of lifting a feather, let alone a radio.

  But there was no radio to lift—Jen realized that before Jamie’s hand even found his belt.

  The radio was gone.

  “Dropped…it…” he groaned in pain, “…back there.”

  Her heartbeat stopped in its tracks before careening with panic.

  Shit.

  Fucking shit.

  And it suddenly occurred to her that the gunfire had ceased.

  No more gunshots. No more explosions. Except any relief she would’ve felt vanished in the smoke floating through the alley, because voices were still shouting—and she didn’t recognize a single one. Not Ortiz. Not Sanchez the gruff private, or the flirtatious Castillo, or any of the men in the local squad. No marines, either.

  If any of them had survived, if they’d taken out the gang members, they would be combing the streets looking for her and Jamie right now. Not chatting amongst themselves on the sidewalk.

  She was too terrified to peek out from their alcove, but she had a feeling there was no point in even looking. The good guys were dead, and the notion left her numb, cold.

  And Jamie’s blood was soaking through her shirt.

  “We need to call for help,” she said fiercely. “I won’t let you die here like this.”

  His eyelids fluttered. He was losing blood. Getting weaker.

  If she could just find the radio, though… He would’ve had to have dropped it right after he’d been shot, which meant it was somewhere near the entrance of the alley.

  But beyond the alley were thirty armed gang members who probably worked for a drug cartel. Who’d blown up a military Humvee and murdered a dozen people just to rob a supply van, and who wouldn’t think twice about kidnapping—or killing—an American photographer and an injured marine.

  Jen bit the inside of her cheek so hard that blood filled her mouth. Then she let out a shaky breath. “I’m going to get the radio.”

  Jamie’s eyes flew open. “No,” he croaked. “No. I’ll…do it.” When he tried to move, an anguished noise left his lips.

  “Don’t move,” she ordered. “You’ll aggravate the wound.” She wiped her sweaty forehead with the back of her hand, but that only made it worse. Blood stained her face, and the metallic scent grew stronger.

  She grabbed Jamie’s hands and brought them to his stomach, pressing them against the blood-soaked shirt. “Hold this tight, you hear me? And don’t you dare pass out. You’re not going to die today, Private. Got it?”

  He gave a faint smile, followed by a weak protest. “You can’t…go out there, Jen. Too…risky.”

  “I have no choice.” She arched a brow. “You’re not exactly in any position to do it.”

  She was trying to put on a brave front, but her legs shook uncontrollably as she stood up. They needed that radio, and she was the only one who could get it.

  As her heart drummed a frantic beat in her chest, she crept toward the edge of the stoop. She took a breath, then poked her head out a fraction of an inch, just far enough to peer into the alley. To her relief, it was dark and deserted.

  Had anyone seen her and Jamie run into the alley? She bit her bottom lip. One person must have for sure—the gang member who’d fired at them.

  She glanced at the wounded marine. “What happened to the guy who shot you?”

  “Dead.”

  “Are you sure?”

  A note of pride rippled through his wobbly voice. “Positive. Head…shot.”

  “Did anyone else see us?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  She thought it over. Chances were, nobody was looking for them. The maras were probably busy reveling in their spoils, plundering the truck and slapping each other’s backs to celebrate a killing spree well done.

  Her breath blew out in an unsteady rush. “I’m getting the radio, and then I’m coming right back. I promise.”

  She prayed it was a promise she’d be able to keep.

  You can do this.

  She peeked out again, twisting her head toward the alley’s entrance. Her eyes roamed the pavement in a desperate search—and then she saw it. A black rectangle, the silver trim of the screen winking on the pavement.

  Twenty feet. It was only twenty feet away.

  “I see it,” she whispered. “It’s not that far.”

  “Jen…no…”

  His shaky objection went unanswered. She was too busy weighing her options. She could creep out, maybe crawl or shimmy on her stomach. It was the quieter choice, but it would take a while to reach the radio, leaving her exposed for longer than she was comfortable with. The alternative was to run. Run like hell and risk making a noise, but at least she’d get there faster.

  After a beat of hesitation, option number two won out.

  Wiping her damp palms on her cargo pants, she took a step forward. Then another. When nobody came hurtling around the corner, she broke out in a run.

  Her heart jammed in her throat as she flew toward the radio. She felt like she was back in high school doing track and field again.

  She’d sucked at track and field.

  Oh God. The gang was going to catch her and shoot her the way they’d shot everyone el—

  When her fingers collided with sturdy plastic, relief and triumph exploded inside her like fireworks. She grabbed the radio and spun around, sprinting back to the stoop like her life depended on it.

  Because it did.

  Brown eyes snapped up at her when she came barreling back, and she could see Jamie’s entire body sag with relief.

  “See,” she mumbled. “I told you I’d be back.”

  “Good work…” Despite his ashen cheeks, humor creased his face. “Soldier.”

  She used one hand to resume applying pressure on his gut, and handed him the radio with the other. “I don’t know how to use this. You’ll have to show me.”

  “Need to…contact…base…”

  Even the act of speaking was beginning to take its toll on him, and worry pricked at Jen’s chest when she noticed that his skin was looking kind of gray. But she put on an encouraging face as she said, “Just get us on the right channel and I’ll do the rest.”

  Jamie’s fingers quivered as he twisted a knob—the volume, she realized. He was turning it nearly all the way down. Then he adjusted some settings, bloody fingertips trying to press a button, weakly missing it every time. She almost stepped in and pressed the damn thing for him, but finally he managed to do it, and she held her breath as he spoke into the radio.

  “Charlie to base,” he mumbled. “Charlie to base. Come in, base.”

  Soft static hissed in the air.

  A few seconds later, the sweetest words Jen had ever heard poured out of the speaker.

  “Charlie, we hear you. What’s your status?”

  Jamie’s lips barely moved as he tried to convey their predicament. “Private First Class Jamie Holbrook requesting immediate evac. Heavy fire and…” He was wheezing now. “Request…”

  And then he passed out.

  Horror swept through her. “No.” Jen urgently touched his cheek, slapping it lightly when he didn’t stir. “Jamie, wake up. Wake up, goddamn it.”

  A rough noise escaped his mouth, bringing a flood of relief. He was alive. But he wasn’t opening his eyes, and the voice coming through the radio grew concerned.

  “Charlie, you copy?”

  She stared at Jamie’s closed eyelids, then grabbed the radio from his hand and pressed the talk button. “Charlie to base,” she said feebly, repeating what Jamie had relayed before.

  The line crackled with static again.

  And then: “Identify yourself.”

  She swallowed rapidly, trying to bring moisture to her dry mouth. “Jen.” She stumbled on the words. “I mean, Jennifer. My name is Jennifer Scott. I’m a photographer and I was on the supply run when…when we were attacked. Private Holbrook is badly injured. He was shot in the stomach, and…” She gulped hard. “And if you don’t get us some help soon, he’s going to die.”

  7

  Classroom work sucked. It sucked big time, and it was something Cash hadn’t expected when he’d signed up for SEAL training. BUD/S had been intense, Hell Week was brutal, and all the training that followed had been equally strenuous, but once he’d gotten his trident, he’d thought his days in the classroom were officially over.

  He’d thought wrong. SEALs never stopped training, and they never stopped learning. They ran mock missions, mastered new weapons, perfected alternative methods of combat. He loved the hands-on stuff, but sitting behind a desk as Lieutenant Commander Thomas Becker explained the mechanics of a new landmine they were experimenting with? He’d much rather be out in the field seeing the explosives in action.

  In the chair next to him, Seth raised his hand to address their CO. “How is this any different from the Claymore? Because it seems the same to me. What kind of range are we looking at here?”

  Before Becker could respond, there was a knock on the door, and then it swung open and a young aide appeared in the doorway. “Sorry to interrupt,” he told Becker. “Commander Stevens has a message for you.”

  Becker frowned, glancing at his men. “Excuse me.”

  “Wonder what that’s about,” Dylan said.

  In the seat ahead of Cash’s, Jackson twisted around with a sigh. “Think we’re going wheels-up?”

  Christ, he hoped not. The last thing he needed was to get called out on an op when Jen was still away.

  Becker strode into the room less than a minute later, his sharp address squashing any notions of the team being called to action. “McCoy.”

  Cash glanced up in surprise. “Sir?”

  “Report to Commander Stevens.” Becker shifted his gaze. “You, too, LT.”

  Cash exchanged a puzzled look with Carson, who shook his head in bewilderment. Both men jumped when Becker clapped his hands.

  “Now,” he snapped.

  Without delay, they headed for the door. Cash paused to shoot a questioning look at Becker, but the CO’s expression conveyed nothing. Still, Cash had known Beck a long time, and the man’s tense body language revealed that something was definitely wrong.

  Cash followed Carson out the door. The commander’s aide walked ahead of them, refusing to comment on what was happening, even when Carson grabbed his arm.

  “What the hell is going on?” Carson demanded.

  The aide shifted awkwardly. “I’m not at liberty to say. You’ll have to speak to Commander Stevens.” He took off walking again, as Cash and Carson trailed after him in dismay.

  “Maybe we are going wheels-up,” Cash muttered.

  “Just the two of us? No way, man. This is something else.”

  They moved at a brisk pace toward the elevator bank at the end of the corridor. A knot of panic twisted Cash’s gut as his brain worked overtime. If this pressing issue wasn’t related to the team, that meant it had to be personal, and it involved him and Carson…

  There was only one common denominator between him and Carson.

  “Jen,” he said weakly.

  Carson must have put two and two together at the same time, because his face creased with alarm and he nearly broke out in a run. Their boots thudded against the floor as they practically dove into the elevator. The fucking aide refused to open his fucking mouth, standing in silence as he shoved a key in the elevator panel and hit the button for the communications floor of the base.

  Why the hell were they going to communications?

  Cash couldn’t control his worry as he watched the numbers on the elevator wall light up with each passing floor. When the doors finally dinged open, he shot forward, staying hot on the aide’s heels, his arm jostling Carson’s as they hurried down yet another long hallway.

  Please, please, let her be okay.

  He didn’t know why he was so certain this was about Jen. But it was. He felt it, in the form of cold, paralyzing fear that shivered in his bones.

  A minute later, they entered a cavernous room that housed dozens of monitors and a vast array of electronics. A stocky gray-haired man appeared in front of him—Commander Stevens. Cash didn’t know the man well, but the decorated officer lacked the poker face Becker had perfected. The grave look in his dark eyes made it clear he hadn’t called them in here to deliver good news.

  “What happened?” Carson asked quietly.

  Stevens sighed. “I won’t beat around the bush. We just received a transmission from the Honduran army base in La Ceiba. There’s been an incident involving your sister, Lieutenant.” His gaze flicked to Cash. “And I believe you’re romantically involved with Ms. Scott?”

  A shaky breath shuddered out. “She’s my fiancée.”

  Carson’s eyebrows shot up, but Cash ignored the surprised look. He also didn’t care that he’d just lied to a superior officer—he wasn’t about to be kicked out or excluded just because he didn’t have blood or legal ties to Jen.

  “Where is she?” he asked Stevens. “Is she okay?”

  “At the moment, we don’t know the answer to either of those questions.”

  The frank reply knocked Cash’s entire world off its axis. He had to grip the side of a nearby desk to steady his equilibrium. Next to him, Carson wasn’t looking so good either.

  Stevens cleared his throat, glancing from one man to the other. “As of right now, we know this: Ms. Scott was in a small town west of La Ceiba—San Cortés—traveling in a military convoy consisting of ten military personnel, including five United States Marines, and four civilians from the Global Aid Foundation. Two dozen armed men ambushed the convoy.”

  Cash stopped breathing. Literally. His lungs seized, black dots flashing in his eyes as the report sunk in.

  “The casualty count is unknown at the moment, but from what Ms. Scott was able to tell us, we believe the entire military unit along with the civilians were KIA.”

  Cash’s gaze flew to the commander. “What she was able to tell you? What do you mean? You talked to her?”

  “Ms. Scott and her escort—Private Jamie Holbrook—were away from the main group when the attack occurred. Holbrook suffered a gunshot wound to the abdomen.”

  “And my sister?” Carson demanded. “Was she hurt?”

  “Unharmed, as far as we know. She’s communicating with the La Ceiba base as we speak. We have a copy of the initial transmission, when she first made contact with the corps captain at the base.”

  “I want to hear it,” Carson said instantly.

  “I anticipated that.” Stevens glanced at one of the nearby techs and barked a brusque command. “Bring up the transmission.”

  Cash clutched the desk. His breathing had gone shallow, and he was having trouble keeping his eyes in focus. Everything looked blurry. Everything sounded like it was coming from far, far away.

  Until a voice echoed from the speakers, and suddenly he could hear with perfect clarity.

  His heart pounded as he listened to a weak male voice request an evac. The soldier in him went on alert, mentally asking for details, prompting the man on the radio to give his position, but in a heartbeat, that male voice faded out and was replaced with a female one.

  Jen.

  Cash’s head swiveled toward Carson, whose face went completely devoid of color as they listened to Jen identify herself.

  “Jen. I mean, Jennifer. My name is Jennifer Scott. I’m a photographer and I was on the supply run when…when we were attacked. Private Holbrook is badly injured. He was shot in the stomach, and… And if you don’t get us some help soon, he’s going to die.”

  Oh Jesus. He was going to throw up. He was seriously going to hurl, right on Commander Stevens’ perfectly shined shoes.

  He’d told her not to go. He’d told her. And now she was…she was…

  Cash choked on the bile sticking to his throat. “Where’s the rest?” he demanded.

  “That’s all we got.” Stevens turned to Carson. “Once her identity was confirmed, the officer in charge ran a check on her and discovered she was your sister, Lieutenant. He contacted us as a courtesy.”

  “A courtesy?” Carson looked angry now, his blue eyes zeroing in on the technician at the desk. “Get us a live feed. Now. I want to hear everything that’s going on there.”

  “We’re working on it,” Stevens said tightly.

  Letting out a breath, Cash turned to the commander and spoke in a voice that was much calmer than he’d anticipated. “Sir, I’d like to put in a request for leave.”

  “So do I,” Carson chimed in. “As well as a request for transport to La Ceiba.”

  “Request denied.”

  Cash had never hit a superior officer, and it took every ounce of willpower not to slam his fist in this one’s jaw. Request denied? How could he possibly deny them? They needed to get to Jen. Right now.

  “Lieutenant Scott. Petty Officer McCoy.” Stevens’ features softened as he addressed them both. “I know you’re worried about your sister—and fiancée—but there is nothing either of you can do to help her. It will take you more than five hours to reach the base. By the time you arrive, the situation will already be resolved.”

  “Resolved?” Cash echoed in disbelief. “She might be dead by then, goddamn it!”

  “McCoy,” Stevens said sharply. “Don’t make me regret bringing you in here. I assure you, we’re monitoring the situation closely.”