Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 87078 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87078 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
He huffs. I think it’s a laugh. Maybe it’s a cough.
“Who are you, Superman? You’re made of steel.”
“B-b-bullet … proof.”
“Even near death, you’re making a joke? You’re my kind of guy.”
Atlas reappears. “There’s no access to the roof in here. We need to move him.”
“Fuck,” I hiss. “We need to get out of here. If there’s any more of them lurking, they’ll probably come check on their dead friends soon.”
Atlas taps his camera. “A little help? Where’s the nearest rooftop access?”
“On it,” Ghost says in our ears.
A moan comes from our guy, and he’s barely hanging on.
I lean over him. “You stay with us, okay? I don’t want this to be a completely wasted trip, so you need to live.”
I wish I could see his eyes, but removing his tactical gear is too risky when I can’t assess his condition. He’s alive, and he seems able to move his feet, but that doesn’t mean if we jostle him the wrong way, bend his neck, or do anything too fast, that his spinal cord won’t snap.
I keep murmuring to him. “Hold on. We’re going to get you out of here. I promise.”
Even when he passes back out and I fear he’s gone, I don’t give up hope.
And when the sound of those whooshing helo blades hits my ears, I’m filled with that same familiar feeling of adrenaline and relief rolled into one.
“We’ve got you,” I reassure him.
Chapter Two
Saint
I drift in and out of consciousness, and the only thing anchoring me to this life is the strong hand clutching mine.
The fact that hand belongs to Isaac Griffin is incomprehensible, but at least trying to make sense of it distracts me from the pain.
He doesn’t recognize me, but that’s probably a good thing. In all the sandboxes in all the world, he had to walk into mine. No, come barreling through like the cowboy he’s always been, more like it.
We go way back, him and me. All the way to basic training where he was a smart-ass and always getting into trouble.
Now here he is, saving my life. There’s an Alanis Morissette song somewhere in the irony of that.
I can’t see his features because of helmets and tactical goggles, but I can picture those dark eyes of his over a cocky smirk, and it feels like it was yesterday that we were training together. He’s your typical pretty guy. Black hair, deep brown eyes, flawless skin … and his smile? I used to have dreams about it.
I still can’t believe he’s here. Iris.
During the first week of basic, I made a joke in front of everyone about Iris’s antics and him needing constant supervision. I didn’t know Iris was an actual name given to people like him—it was something my father would always say when my brothers or I did something stupid. The commanding officers cracked up, and for the next ten weeks, he was known as Iris.
His voice is soothing and constant, and for the briefest of moments, I believe the words he’s saying. They’ll get me out of here.
The pain begins to dim. Or maybe I’m so close to death my soul has already started leaving my body.
I can’t be sure how long I was lying there in a pool of my own blood, teetering on the edge of living and dying, and I don’t know why I held on for so long when I had no faith that someone was coming for us.
I should be a dead man, but for some reason, I’m still here, with someone I haven’t seen in years—someone who I used to think was a joke. He might have been the class clown, but he was admirable as fuck. He was braver than I ever could’ve been back then. He was never scared to let the others know exactly who he was. He had to have seen the way I looked at him sometimes … I was sure he knew my secret.
“You’re going to be fine,” Iris soothes. “You’re a stubborn motherfucker, that’s for sure. Oh, these old scars? They’re bullet holes from when I was badass.”
I want to laugh, I really do, but it doesn’t come either.
“You’ll have an awesome story to tell your kids and your grandkids. Because you’re going to grow old, do you hear me?”
Yes.
“I didn’t shlep all this way to go home empty-handed. I know that puts a lot of pressure on you to survive this, but, well, if you knew me at all, you’d know I’m that selfish. So, if you’re in there thinking about giving up, just remember you’re not holding on for yourself. You’re holding on for me. And I did kind of save your life, so you owe me one.”
His presence stays with me as I continually drift in and out of consciousness. The pain ebbs and flows, subsides, and then comes back with a vengeance, but at least when I’m in pain, I know I’m not dead.