Smoke from the smoldering towels rose toward the ceiling. The smoke alarm above the first bathroom door wailed. Blocking the ear closest to the alarm, Hardy heard what sounded like suppressed weapon’s fire. A few moments later, his phone vibrated and the speaker crackled. He retrieved the cell. “This is Shepherd. Say again—over.”
“Shepherd, this is Bigfoot. All targets have been neutralized. Your path is clear. I repeat—all targets neutralized. The structure is clear—over.”
“Copy that.” Hardy hurried to get Charity. The two of them were greeted by the sights, sound and smells of heavy, but dissipating smoke and a blaring alarm. Escorting Charity toward the stairs, he saw Special Agent Cruz. She had slid down the chimney and was sitting on the floor, covering her stomach. He knelt. “What’s wrong?”
She raised her head and peeled back her hand; it was covered in blood. There was a circular stain on her light blue shirt, growing larger. “I thought it was a sharp stone.” Her head dropped and she examined her wound.
Hardy screamed into his phone. “Man down, man down, I need immediate medical attention on the second floor.” He ran back to the bathroom and returned with two bath towels. He pushed aside her hand and pressed a towel against the wound.
Cruz screamed and arched her back. She grabbed Hardy’s forearm, her fingernails digging into his arm. He felt the pain, but never moved. Her body convulsed and her head rocked backwards, bouncing off the chimney. Hardy cradled her head with his free hand. Her breathing was labored and every breath of air sent new waves of agony up her right side. “Damn it. Where’s that medic?” he bellowed. Seconds later, Tom Henderson and Eva Draper appeared.
Draper, the team’s medical specialist, skirted by Henderson and dropped to both knees on Cruz’s left. Draper was short, standing five-feet, three inches tall and weighing a little over one hundred pounds. Her black hair was cut short, stopping at the neck. The bangs of her hair covered her forehead, ending at the top of her eyebrows. She was twenty-seven-years-old, but her facial features made her look as if she was in her late teens. She had grown up and spent her entire life in Michigan, Hardy’s home state. The two of them had connected from their first conversation, talking about all things related to Michigan. Like Hardy, she was a die-hard fan of the Detroit Lions and they had had numerous conversations about the team and its prospects at a winning season this year. Right now, however, the only thing on Draper’s mind was Cruz. “Where is she hit?” Draper bobbed her head back and forth, searching for wounds.
“Stomach, right side,” Hardy replied. “I’ve had pressure on it. There’s a lot of blood.”
Draper shuffled to the left and straddled Cruz’s leg. She reached for the towel Hardy was holding, “Move,” and pushed.
Hardy did not budge.
The medical specialist faced him. He was staring at Cruz. Draper leaned forward and got his attention. Knowing this was difficult, she employed her best soothing voice. “Let go, Hardy. I’ve got it from here.”
Henderson put a hand on Hardy’s shoulder. “Come on, let Drape do her job.” He reached under Hardy’s armpit and pulled him to his feet. Hardy could not have resisted Henderson’s strength even if he had tried.
Tom Henderson stood six-feet, three inches tall and weighed two hundred and thirty-five pounds of solid muscle. He was thirty-six-years-old and had spent half of his life in the service of his country. The hair under his helmet was dark; patches of gray peeked out. His facial features matched his wide frame. His eyes were set far apart and his nose was broad; a full, handlebar mustache lay beneath it. He was proud of the mustache and could be seen stroking it with his fingers at every opportunity.
Draper examined Cruz. “She’s lost a lot of blood. I see an exit wound on her back, so I think the bullet went straight though. I can’t tell if any major organs have been hit. We need to stop the bleeding and get her to a hospital ASAP.”
Henderson brought a radio to his mouth. “This is Bigfoot. We need that bird back here, now! We have an injured soldier that needs immediate medevac. Do you copy—over?”
A voice from the radio: “Copy that. We are coming in now on the south side of the structure—over.”
Hardy faced Charity and pointed. “Go with him.” He spun his head toward Henderson. “Where’s Ty?” Hardy was referring to the last member of AR-1, Tyler Pendleton.
“He’s outside, watching our backs.”
“Good. Get everyone ready to go. I want to lift off,” he gestured toward Cruz, “as soon as she’s on board.”
Henderson grabbed Charity’s hand and led her toward the stairs. “Copy that.” Over his shoulder: “The stairs are clear. You have no obstructions to the chopper.”
Hardy knelt next to Cruz. She plopped her hand onto his thigh and he slipped his hand under it, squeezing gently. She lifted her head. Her eyes were barely open, her eyelids fluttering up and down. She mumbled something. He leaned closer and put his ear to her mouth.
“Who…who are…these people? Jameson, why did he…call…you?” Her chest rose and fell. The spent oxygen barely made it to Hardy’s cheek. “I swear…I don’t think…I know you…at…all.”
Hardy closed the distance between them—their cheeks touching—and slammed shut his eyes. A six-inch knife had been thrust into his heart. At that moment, he wanted to tell her everything, everything about himself—his job, his family, his likes and dislikes, his favorite color, his favorite food. He wanted to tell her those things every other couple shared when they were getting to know each other. Putting his lips to her ear, he opened his mouth to speak. Bound by an oath to the President, he shut his mouth. The oath kept him from sharing what he did for a living. The oath was tearing him up inside, threatening to destroy his relationship with possibly the only woman who could understand him.
Cruz’s head slumped forward and Hardy held her face in his hands. “Cruz, talk to me…Cruz.”
Draper put her fingers under the woman’s chin. “It’s okay, Hardy. I have a pulse, but we need to move, now!” She collected her medical supplies and stood. “Hardy, let’s move.”
He snapped to attention, sliding his right arm under Cruz’s knees and his left arm under her back. Lifting her from the floor, he hurried toward the stairs. Her head hung down. He brought his left elbow up and her head came forward, coming to rest on his shoulder. With Draper in the lead, making sure there were no obstacles in his path and providing support in case he lost his footing, Hardy carried Cruz down the stairs.
Once outside, Henderson and Draper took Cruz and put her into the aircraft, while Tyler scanned the area for threats. Hardy climbed inside and got on the floor next to her. When Draper, Henderson and Tyler were aboard, the Bell 412EP helicopter lifted off. Banking right, the aircraft headed for the hospital.
Hardy cradled Cruz in his arms, whispering in her ear. Even though the noise from the aircraft’s rotors and engine drowned out his words, everyone suspected what he was saying. Draper leaned forward and placed a hand on his shoulder.