Damn Wright (The Wrights 2)

“Turn off your headlights and go the other way,” Dylan told Amir. “They won’t target an area that’s already been leveled.” He pulled the handle and pushed the door open. “I’ll come find you when I’m done. I’ve got my radio.”

“Dude.” Usually when Amir used that Americanism, it made Dylan laugh. Tonight, his friend was dead serious. “If you get killed out here, there will be no living with Marisha. Please. For me. Be careful.”

Marisha was Amir’s young wife. They were more family to Dylan than his blood relatives in the States. But that was his own fault for not staying in better touch.

“You know I’m terrified of Marisha. Go. Get safe.” Dylan dropped out of the truck and strapped on his helmet. Amir made a U-turn, shut off his lights, a

nd bumped his way along the rocky path toward the shadows of the decimated streets.

Dylan pulled on a set of night vision goggles he’d plucked from the dead body of a Syrian soldier years ago. He set off at a jog, scanning the night for fighter jets while the sound of his own raspy breathing filled his ears. Jet engines continued to scrape the sky, more distant than the last. But the way sound bounced and ricocheted among the concrete, it was next to impossible to tell where they were coming from.

He wanted to get into what he’d been told was a temporary safe house for local White Helmets, a compound they’d moved to when word of the attack had come out. If he could get an interview or two, some footage of the men, he’d be golden, and the world would be enlightened.

Another jet roared overhead. It sounded close enough to take off Dylan’s head. He dropped to the ground and looked up, catching a glimpse of the plane, just a split-second shadow against the sky. A burst of light from the jet’s belly signaled the release of artillery.

Dylan instantly knew from the trajectory and timing this missile would overshoot the compound.

Terror stuck like a knife at the center of his chest. Time cranked into slow motion. He spun on his heel and screamed Amir’s name.

The blast lifted Dylan off his feet and flung him backward like a leaf in a storm. All his equipment scattered like a starburst, spraying in different directions—the camera, the night vision goggles, his backpack.

Dylan hit the ground spine first. The impact jarred the air from his lungs and locked his throat. Flashes of light blinded him. Pain paralyzed his body. For several long moments, he couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see.

But his brain still churned, and one thought cut through all the rest. Amir.

The moment Dylan tried to move, pain sliced through his torso. He gritted his teeth, rolled to his stomach, and pushed to his knees. “Amir. Fuck. Amir.”

He could barely hear his own voice through the relentless ringing in his ears. Razor-sharp claws of fear dug into his chest. He forced himself to his feet and staggered in the direction Amir had gone. Time seemed to slow and expand. Every step shot pain through his legs and back.

Dylan finally caught the shadowed outline of the truck against cement dust still clouding the air from the bombing, and it was twisted like the gnarled roots of a century-old oak.

“No.” The word came out in a rough whisper. His stomach dropped like a rock. “No.”

He pushed through the pain and moved toward the truck, his mind veering toward the darkest possible place. “Amir!”

When Dylan reached the vehicle, chunks of concrete were still falling and ricocheting against the rubble. He braced himself on the open driver’s door and peered inside, but the cab was empty.

Dylan turned, searching the shadows. “Amir!”

A choking sound came from somewhere in the dark. He swiveled and stumbled toward it, cutting his hands and legs on shards of concrete. Dylan finally found Amir thirty feet from the vehicle, his body tangled much like the truck.

His friend was alive, but sounded as if he was drowning in his own blood.

Dylan dropped into a crouch and jerked the radio from his vest. “Musaeda!” he yelled into the radio. “Saeid alan!”

Dylan managed to get a rough approximation of their location out before begging for emergency aid again.

“Your Arabic…” Amir scraped out, his voice garbled and wet. “Still sucks…after all this time.”

“You taught me everything I know. Where are you hurt?”

A laugh rippled out of Amir’s throat. “Every…where.”

“Okay, hold on, buddy. Those White Helmets should be here soon.”

Dylan dropped the radio and searched Amir’s body for broken bones and major injuries. His heart was already in his throat when his hands reached Amir’s legs. Legs that both ended abruptly mid-thigh.

Dylan’s mind fractured, and chunks fell away just like the rubble surrounding them. His thoughts darted in and out like fireflies, a spark that disappeared in a split second.