Page 87 of Dozer

Maybe that's one of the reasons I fell for her. The realization lands with terrible timing. Of course it does. Apparently getting shot is what it takes for me to finally stop pretending I don't know what this is.

I love her.

Simple as that. No tactical analysis required. I love the woman behind me who talks to computers, dead bodies, cats, herself, and me with approximately equal enthusiasm. I love the woman who notices everything and looked at all the parts of me I'd spent years making invisible.

And if I get out of this room, I'm going to tell her.

Not if.

When.

There's an after. I promised her one.

Behind me, Kenzi says, "Upload starting."

I plant myself between her and the door. Blood runs warm beneath my gear. My vision narrows again. I stay standing.

"Go," I manage through the pain. "I've got this. Go."

She goes. Of course she does. Because she trusts me to hold the line. And I trust her to make holding it matter.

That's what we've become. Not protector and protected. Not operator and consultant. Two people covering the part the other can't.

The upload ticks forward behind me. Somewhere beyond the lab, boots pound against the corridor floor. More are coming.

I adjust my grip. Breathe through the pain. Stay upright.

Because I made Kenzi a promise before we walked into this building.

There is an after.

And I'm going to fight like hell to get us there.

CHAPTER 29

Kenzi

I hear Dozer's fight continue behind me as I reach the storage unit, every impact and scrape of boots against tile landing somewhere directly behind my sternum.

Every instinct in my body screams to turn around. To check the wound I'd already seen bleeding on his side. To make sure he's still standing. To make sure the promise he made me in the van isn't turning into the kind of promise people make because neither person wants to acknowledge how badly things can end.

I don't turn around. I keep moving. Because he told me to go. Because this is the part only I can do. And because trust isn't worth anything if it only works when it's convenient.

The realization is almost enough to make me laugh, except there's currently a man holding an incendiary device ten feet in front of me, so personal growth is going to have to wait.

Two new men rush the storage unit, I know Dozer must be incredibly busy or wounded to let them get to me. I won’t think about the second option. One is holding what I can now confirm is a compact incendiary device, he turns first, surprise registering for exactly half a second before training takes over and his weapon starts coming up.

I throw myself sideways. The nearest evidence rack is heavy steel, bolted to the floor, and I hit it hard enough that my shoulder objects immediately and with considerable enthusiasm. A shot cracks through the lab. Something hot passes close enough to my shoulder that I feel the displacement of air.

"Ruby, I'm in. Storage unit's compromised, they're trying to torch it⁠—"

"Copy, pushing you a live feed now. Get me visual confirmation the second you have hands on anything salvageable."

Anything salvageable. God, I hate that phrase. I've spent my entire career salvaging what people leave behind. The inconvenient pieces nobody thought would survive long enough to contradict the story. I'm getting very tired of it.

I come up from behind the shelving with the small tactical baton I've started carrying since the motel attack, because apparently this week has expanded my professional skill set in directions no continuing-education seminar ever covered.

I am not Dozer.