Chaos ensued as his teammates yelled at the man to drop the weapon. Their voices and Garrett’s vision faded in and out as he fought to remain conscious.
The shock to his system stalled his breathing. His lungs failed to follow the command his brain was sending.
Breathe, damnit. You need to fucking breathe!
Pain ratcheted throughout his entire torso, grabbing hold of his heart and clamping down. Garrett’s lungs burned with their need for oxygen, so he opened his mouth in search of the air his body needed to survive.
It didn’t work.
Jesus.He’d been hurt
before, but not like this. Never like this.
The pain was indescribable. He could actuallyfeelhis organs beginning to shut down. Or at least he thought that’s what he was feeling.
As he lay there, Garrett’s faltering brain screamed to understand what was happening. One quick glance at the man who’d shot him, and he knew.
You’re dying.
The pain in his chest remained. His lungs still refusing to open. A dark cloud framed his blurred vision, and little by little, it began closing in around him.
Garrett felt himself fading away.
“Falcon!”
Someone yelled his Tac-Ops nickname, but he couldn’t respond. Rough hands pulled at his vest and shirt.
“Come on, man. Stay with me!”
More discussion erupted between his team and the hostages. Garrett could hear his men assuring the captives that they were safe. Someone—Bones maybe?—announced that they were American operatives sent to rescue them.
Some hostages cried with relief. Others cheered. The man standing beside him kept repeating how sorry he was for having shot him.
Though he tried again, Garrett couldn’t formulate a response. He wanted to tell the distraught hostage to stop. That he understood why the guy had done it.
The man was scared. Desperate to find a way out of this hell hole. And Garrett and the others hadn’t been able to identify themselves before the shitstorm had broken loose.
For all the poor bastard knew, Garrett and his team were just another set of bad guys coming to take them to a secondary location. Or worse.
But he couldn’t tell the remorseful man that or anything else. All he could do was lay there. Praying for air that refused to come and wondering if his luck had finally run out.
Cold from the concrete penetrated the back of Garrett’s vest and sweat-drenched shirt. Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was just his injured body knocking on death’s door.
As he began to lose consciousness, Garrett thought about his dad. His brother, Colt. The mom they’d lost years before.
Garrett missed her like crazy, but at thirty-five, he wasn’t quite ready to see her again. There was still too damn much he wanted to do with his life.
Not ready to fucking die.
“Quit being so dramatic.” Apollo’s deep voice traveled through the fog. “You’re not fucking dying, so stop with that shit.”
What the…
Had he said those words out loud? Garrett somehow managed to peel his eyes open and stare up at his olive-skinned teammate.
“Welcome back.” Apollo gave him a wink.
Well shit. Maybe he wasn’t dying after all.