Page 90 of Beyond Redemption

A vehicle barreled through, barely intact, one headlamp gone, hood crushed, front tire shredding itself apart. Men poured off it before it stopped, and one of our defenders rose too high and took a round across the throat. He dropped without sound, the man beside him hesitating just long enough to follow.

I grabbed the back of Thomas’s vest and yanked him lower as rounds clipped the top of the wall, spraying us with fragments.

“They’re trying to roll us toward the bunker,” I said over the noise.

“I know,” Thomas said, his expression severe.

“They know that’s where we’d be. I don’t know how, but they know,” I said.

“Sit tight, kids,” Kansas said, hunkering down next to us. “It’s all part of the show.”

“This isn’t a show!” I growled. “Our kids are down there and we’re out of time. If the Carlisis compress east and north, everything inside collapses with it. There’re too many converging lines!”

She studied the field for a moment, then keyed her radio and fed my assessment through. When she finished, she repositioned her rifle and waited for orders.

“Shit, we’ve gotta move,” Thomas said. “Go! Go!”

We lunged before the wall behind us gave way, then searched for hard cover that wasn’t crowded.

“That reinforced water tank base!” Thomas yelled.

He and I went first, Kansas covering until we found a new position. A round struck near my legs, kicking up dirt hard enough to sting through fabric.

Thomas grabbed a fistful of my pants with his free hand and jerked, furiously checking for injury. “You good?” he asked.

I heaved out a sigh. “Golden. Cover Kansas.”

“Naomi’s crossing too.” Thomas rose to draw hostile attention off the lane, placing just enough rounds to give them a window before ducking again.

Kansas and Naomi reached us seconds later, dropping in tight and out of breath. Naomi was down to her olive-green T-shirt, tactical pants, and boots, the right side of her shirt dark and wet, fabric clinging where blood had worked through it. It had spread past the seam, down into her waistband, leaving no clear source, only saturation.

Her lieutenant kneeled just behind her, catching her by the shoulder, attempting to pull her back.

“You’re gonna bleed out, Commander! Fall back and get patched up!”

Naomi tore free without turning, kept her sightline, and delivered two kill shots. Her breathing hitched once, then her leg buckled, just enough to drop her to one knee. She braced on it, jaw set, corrected her aim, and kept firing.

I stared at her over my shoulder for a moment, weighing whether to call for a medic. She was pale, but balanced and holding her aim, tracking targets, so I let her decide whether to stay in the fight, the same way Thomas had done for me.

“If you pass out, I’m calling it,” Kansas said.

“Lieutenant Jacobs, if she says one more word about me disengaging, shoot her,” Naomi said.

“Copy that,” Jacobs said, not at all serious but pretending to be.

A man in solid black fatigues rose behind the nearest cargo container, his weapon trained on Naomi. I caught the movement the same instant Thomas did, but he was already firing. His round punched through the man’s chest, snapping him back out of sight. I looked back over my shoulder, past Lieutenant Jacobs to Marcel behind him, catching the approval in his expression.

“Hit the deck!” a militiaman yelled.

We braced, and in the next moment, a concussive blast flattened the smoke before it lifted again, debris flying in all directions.

I checked my magazine, swapped it clean, then looked at my husband. Dirt streaked his face; blood traced along his cheek and blotted his hairline. Not enough to worry, but enough to know we’d be hitting a med kit later.

“They’re about to push center,” Naomi said, her voice weaker than just a few minutes before.

“Let me call for a medic,” I said.

“No.”