Damn Wright (The Wrights 2)

This isn’t happening.

This isn’t fucking happening.

This was just another one of those night terrors. He’d wake up soon, screaming, sweating, but safe. Both of them, safe.

“Dyl… Take care of…”

“No!” Dylan forced his mind into gear. “Don’t you dare give up.”

The tourniquet was in the backpack Dylan had lost in the blast. He dragged the belt from his pants and worked it around one of Amir’s thighs. His friend’s screams felt like a Ka-Bar twisting in his gut. Dylan unlaced his boot, and tears choked him as he used the cord to block Amir’s other femoral artery.

Dylan yelled into the radio again, repeating the call for help and their location.

“Make sure…Marisha,” Amir said, his words deliberate and etched with agony, “…has what she needs.”

“Stop talking, you idiot.” Dylan was trying to get his mind around the next step.

“Then…go home. Get out of…this hellhole.”

“Shut the fuck up. Why don’t you ever listen?”

“Kiss my babies…”

Dylan’s heart shattered. “I swear to God, if you don’t knock it off, I’m going to kill you myself.”

Dylan got back on the radio and sent distress messages on every channel. But with no response, his hope dimmed, and his mind fragmented a little more.

“If they’re not coming to us, we’re going to them.” Dylan crouched and worked his hands under Amir’s arms. “Hang tough, buddy.”

Dylan managed to lift Amir from the rubble, prepared to throw him over his shoulder. “On three. One—”

The familiar roar of a jet engine split the sky. Followed by the spit of a missile. In the distance, the White Helmets’ safe house blew apart at the seams and erupted in fire.

The force knocked Dylan on his ass, and he dropped Amir. More rubble shook loose from what was left of the surrounding buildings. Dylan scrambled to throw himself over Amir, holding his breath as concrete hammered his back.

Once the earth settled again, Dylan sat back on his heels. Whatever refuge they might have found with the volunteers had been incinerated. Dylan had no vehicle. No refuge. No aid.

“Dyl…”

“Yeah, buddy.” Dylan scooched closer to Amir, cradled his friend’s head in his hand, and put his fingers against the pulse in his neck. It was way too erratic. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Assad’s intended target had been incinerated and the night went eerily silent. No more military jets. No more explosions.

Dylan fumbled with the radio, his hands shaking. “Musaeda! Saeid alan!”

“Only…idiots out now.” Amir’s weak, broken voice brushed the void. “Are the…IFR.”

Dylan’s mind snapped into gear. Right. Members of the International First Responders would be their only hope now. He got back on the radio, changed the channel, and pleaded for help again.

“That woman…you told me about,” Amir said. “You go home. Find her.” He pulled in a rattling breath. “If this doesn’t teach you…how short life is, nothing will.”

His mind flashed to Emma, but he forced the image away. “Shut up so I can figure out how to get us out of here.”

“You deserve…a wife. Kids…of your own.”

“I deserve shit. And we’re over. She’s moved on.”

“Then why do you carry…that letter?”