Joaquin stepped over Quintana’s body, proof of Hunter’s skill with a sniper rifle. He found a throw on the couch that wasn’t bloodstained, carried it over to Natalie, and draped it over her shoulders, certain she must be cold.
She glanced up. “Thank you.” Then her gaze returned to McBride.
Out of the corner of his eye, Joaquin saw movement near the door. He tensed, looked up—and his jaw dropped.
Hunter pivoted, pistol out. “Darcangelo?”
Covered in blood, his face pale, Darcangelo slumped against the doorjamb. “It takes a while to climb . . . twenty-four flights of stairs . . . with a round in your shoulder . . . and no thumb. Anyone seen it . . . lying around?”
In an instant, Hunter was at Darcangelo’s side, helping him to the floor. “Easy does it, buddy.”
“Make yourself useful, Ramirez.” Gabe stuffed a plastic carton of gauze, a folded emergency blanket, and a package of nitrile gloves into Joaquin’s hands. “Take these to Hunter, then see if there’s anything in the fridge or freezer you can use as an ice pack on his hand. Hunter, get him out of his shirt and body armor. Apply direct pressure, and keep him warm. I’ll come start an IV as soon as I can.”
Joaquin did as he was told, carrying the supplies to Hunter, who already had Darcangelo out of his shirt and was stripping off the bloody and pitted armor. There, on the right side of the vest was a blackened and bloodstained hole.
One of the rounds had penetrated.
Darcangelo looked up at Hunter, his face and lips unnaturally pale. “Wulfe was surprised to see me. Drew on me. I recognized him. Fired. Killed the son of a bitch.”
“Wulfe is dead?” Hunter and Rossiter asked at once.
Having no idea who this Wulfe was, Joaquin hurried into kitchen and opened the fridge and freezer, looking for something that could serve as an ice bag. There on the shelf was . . . His stomach did a flip. “I think I found your thumb.”
“Leave it there,” Rossiter called to him.
Joaquin grabbed a bag of frozen peas from the freezer and carried it over to Hunter, who now sat behind Darcangelo, supporting him and pressing a handful of gauze squares over the bullet wound in his shoulder, the emergency blanket covering them both. “Here you go, man.”
Hunter took the frozen peas and laid the bag over the already bloodstained gauze that covered Darcangelo’s maimed hand.
Darcangelo winced, gritted his teeth. “Want to tell me why . . . you’re sitting here cuddling me, Hunter?”
“Rossiter says I have to keep you warm. He thinks you’re in shock or some shit.” Despite his words and the tone of his voice, there was real worry on Hunter’s face.
“Great. Thanks.” Darcangelo’s head fell back to rest against Hunter’s vest, the big guy’s strength clearly spent.
A muscle clenched in Hunter’s jaw. “Hey, don’t mention it—ever.”
And that, Joaquin decided, swallowing the lump in his throat, was true friendship. Somehow his camera found its way back into his blistered hands, and he started shooting.
ZACH SAT ON the rim of the canyon, Mike, Chris, Brian, and Jimmy beside him. Like him, they were wearing civilian clothes, and for a moment Zach wondered why they were all out of uniform.
“Why are you still here, bro?” Jimmy asked. “Do you like this place?”
“No,” Zach answered. “I’m here because of you guys.”
Wasn’t that obvious?
Brian laughed. “We left a long time ago.”
Mike gave him a jab in the side with his elbow. “If you’re waiting here for us, you’re wasting your time. We only came back to check on you.”
There was something Zach needed to say to them, words that wouldn’t quite come to him that he needed to get out. “I’m . . . sorry.”
It was the only thing he could articulate.
Chris clapped him on the shoulder. “There’s no reason to be sorry, McBride. It wasn’t your fault. It was never your fault. We knew it then. We know it now.”
Relief, sweet and pure, flowed through him. It was as if an unbearable weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He felt so . . .light.