Alcohol pads. Large-bore IV needles. Lactated Ringer’s.
Thank God!
She searched for a vein, wiped his skin with an alcohol pad, then did her best to get the IV in place—not easy with bullets whizzing overhead. It took two sticks for her to get it right. “Sorry!”
He was all but unconscious now.
“Stay with me, Malik.” She loosened the plastic tubing around the bag of fluids, hung the bag from the vehicle’s antenna, then connected the tubing to his IV, and opened the fluids wide. But it wouldn’t keep him alive for long. He needed to get to a hospital. He needed surgery—stat.
Rat-at-at-at! Rat-at-at-at! Rat-at-at-at!
Ortiz groaned and sank to the ground. “Fuck! I caught a ricochet in my goddamned thigh!”
Jenna started toward him, but he stopped her, tearing a small med kit out of his pack and treating himself. “I’ve got this! Stay with Malik!”
“Jenna, get back inside and lock the door!” Derek shouted. “Changing!”
Rat-at-at-at! Rat-at-at-at! Rat-at-at-at!
She picked up the trauma kit and ran toward the vehicle, then heard Derek grunt, his rifle falling to the ground.
Rat-at-at-at!
Another bullet strike. A dull thud.
Derek was thrown back and lay still.
“Derek!”
God, no!
She crawled over to Derek, saw blood seeping from the torn fabric of his shirt near his shoulder. “Derek!”
Please let him be alive!
She checked for a pulse and found one. He was breathing, his airway clear.
Thank God!
She tore open his shirt.
There was an entry wound on his left shoulder, but no exit wound.
Damn it!
That meant the bullet could have ricocheted inside him. It could be anywhere—in bone, in his chest, in his abdomen. He could be hemorrhaging internally.
Get yourself together!
No blood in his mouth or coming from his ears.
That was a good sign.
She found a flattened lead ball embedded in the center of his body armor. It hadn’t penetrated, but it had hit him hard.
But the gunfire had stopped, the silence sending chills down her spine.
Men shouted in a language she didn’t understand.