hunting Apaches. Dan saw the bleed. It, like Ben’s, was spurting out like a geyser. There was no pain. Cursing, he dropped his M-4 beside him and yanked the tourniquet around his leg. They’d all been taught how to apply a tourniquet to a bleeding limb, tightening the strap enough to stop the flow.
Dan called Morales, the other combat medic, letting him know he was hit and had a tourniquet in place. He didn’t know if Morales was alive or not. Every Special Forces A team had two 18-Delta combat medics. Ben was dead. He called hoarsely for Franklin, giving him his location, the type of wound he had and his present condition.
Dan jerked the tourniquet tight. His teeth clenched as the pain ripped up into his thigh and raced raggedly into his torso. The bleed was lessening. He tightened the tourniquet more, the strap in his dirty, grimy gloved fists, slick with Ben’s blood and his own. Tighter! Tighter! Or he’d bleed out just like Ben.
And then who would take care of Cait? For a moment dizziness assailed Dan. He blinked through the sweat that leaked into his eyes, his breath raspy, black dots dancing before his eyes. No! He couldn’t faint! Not now!
The spurting had stopped.
Dan felt momentary relief. He slumped against the mud wall with Ben nearby. Keeping his gaze roving around him, he saw no more enemy in the area. The Apaches were hovering above their diamond pattern, invisible watchdogs in the black sky above them, loud, the thumping vibration continued to rhythmically beat against his body. They’d stopped firing. The powerful vibration jammed like fists through him, and was all Dan could hear and feel.
He called hoarsely for Morales once again.
No answer.
How many of his team were left alive? Were they all wounded? How many had died?
The pain drifting up his leg became nearly overwhelming. Dan closed his eyes for a second. He saw Cait’s face, her shoulder-length red hair, that riot of freckles across her nose and cheeks.
He had met her when he was eighteen years old—he’d come to Hawaii for training. She and her brother, Ben, had seen him on the beach where he was learning to surf. They’d struck up a conversation and, for Dan, it was like meeting old friends once more. He couldn’t admit it to Ben, who was six feet tall like himself, but he was drawn to Cait’s clean, natural beauty, her wide green eyes, the color of the Pacific off the coast of Oahu. She was so full of life.
He cursed softly as his gloved hand slipped on the tourniquet. Opening his eyes, he could tell there was no more bleed. It slowly dawned on him that something white was sticking up and out of the torn cammie fabric across his thigh. What the hell was that? And then, in the next minute, Dan’s slowing mind recognized it as his thigh bone, the femur. It was broken and jagged-looking, sticking up out of his flesh.
The shock settled in. He was in serious condition. He called for Morales, giving him more info about his condition.
No answer.
Finally, Franklin came back.
“Dan, only five of us ambulatory. We’ll get to you in a second. Two medevacs just landed. We’re coming for you and Ben...hang on...”
Dan tipped back his head, feeling tiredness seeping through him like a slow, black, moving river. He closed his eyes and acknowledged Franklin’s transmission, telling him that he’d lost a lot of blood. And that Ben was dead.
“Not sure I’ll be conscious...” he muttered, his last transmission. The rhythmic whumping of the Apache’s blades comforted him as he closed his eyes. They were on guard above them. They’d protect them, and the medevac Black Hawks were now on the ground and would save the wounded.
As he thought of Ben, he felt as if his heart had been torn out of his chest. They were both twenty-nine years old. They’d been together for five years on this Special Forces team. They were tighter than fleas on a dog. They were supposed to rotate home in another week. Back to Honolulu, Hawaii, for a well-deserved thirty-day leave. They’d see Cait, go surfing together and have beach picnics, laughter, good times and fun.
Tears leaked out of his tightly shut eyes. He felt weaker, knowing that the bleed was staunched but not stopped. He could still slowly bleed to death. Where was Morales? He needed a medic. Dan had to stay alive to tell Cait and her family what happened to Ben.
Ben’s family was so tight. A good family, unlike his own. Ben’s mother was an ER doctor at a civilian hospital in Honolulu. His father was a retired Marine Force Recon colonel. Cait was a physical therapist working over at US Army Tripler Medical Center, helping soldiers who had been wounded get their limbs working again.
All of those memories flowed through Dan’s short-circuiting mind. He wasn’t worried about his mother, Joyce, who lived in Honolulu. She was an embittered woman, angry at the world. His father, an alcoholic, was dead. Tears leaked down his bearded cheeks. Dan felt suddenly cold, felt the iciness moving up from his feet and into his lower legs. Was this how Ben had felt as he was bleeding out? It must have been. Oh, God, was he dying?
Cait! Behind his eyelids, Dan saw her oval face, that stubborn chin of hers and that wide, smiling mouth. How many times had he entertained kissing that lush mouth of hers? How many times had he ached to make love to her? But he never had. He never would. She was Ben’s little sister and Ben had asked Dan to guard her, make sure she stayed away from military guys who wanted her for only one thing.
Dan never told Ben that he coveted Cait for himself. She was so fresh, innocent and happy. He always felt better around her. Whether she knew it or not, she lifted Dan, made him feel good about himself. She was the optimist. He was the brutal realist. He’d harbored dreams of telling her he loved her. But Ben would have lost it and their friendship would have been destroyed. So Dan said nothing. And now, as he lay slowly bleeding out, Dan felt grief because he would never be able to tell Cait that he’d fallen in love with her at eighteen and held a torch for her in his heart until his dying day.
That was the last thing Dan remembered thinking before he lost consciousness.
* * *
Everything was hazy. Pain drifted up Dan’s leg and into his lower body, making him groan. Weak, he struggled to open his eyes. His nostrils flared, catching hospital smells like anesthetic and bleach. Why couldn’t he open his eyes?
“Dan? It’s Cait. Don’t fight so hard. You’re coming out of surgery. It’s all right. You’re alive. You’re safe...”
Cait’s voice was low and soft, so close to his ear. The sensory experience, combined with her warm hand touching his cheek, oriented Dan. His heart pulsed strongly when he heard her smoky tone. He swore he could even smell her scent, so sweet, reminding him of spicy cinnamon. Her voice was barely above a whisper. So close to his ear. He hungrily absorbed the warmth of her long fingers gently stroking his cheek, as if to soothe the tension he held within him.
He was alive? Was he? His mind was in pieces and Dan couldn’t put anything together. The pain was like a deep, agonizing toothache drifting up his leg. He felt heavy and he was thirsty. Moving his lips, he became aware his throat smarted with pain and it was dry. God, he was so thirsty! Compressing his lips, he tried to speak, but nothing but a croak came out.
“Dan? You’re in recovery. Stop fighting, okay? You’re safe. You’re home here with me. It’s Cait.”
The moment she cupped his cheek with her palm, he stopped struggling. And as she lifted her hand away, moving her fingers gently through his
