Part 2 (1/2)

And Jesus Christ, that was his blood exploding out through the front of his pants from the exit wound. And sure enough, his leg crumpled beneath his weight with the next stride he took. But they were close enough to the crater for him to push the woman the last few feet, down into Anderson's waiting arms.

But Dan was still six feet away, with a leg that not only didn't work but, holy s.h.i.+t, was really starting to hurt. He had to crawl, pulling himself forward, his hands raw on the rough debris in the street, because he was not not going to do this to Jennilyn. He was going to do this to Jennilyn. He was not not going to come home in a coffin. going to come home in a coffin.

But he saw all the blood, and he knew he was dead. There was no way he was going to survive, even if he made it to cover. The motherf.u.c.ker with the rifle had hit an artery. Dan was going to bleed out before that sniper was taken down, and there was nothing anyone could do to save him.

But he didn't quit because he didn't know how to quit. And then he didn't have to quit, because something hit him hard in the side, and he realized with a burst of pain that it was Izzy, singing at the top of his lungs, ”Oh, the weather outside is frightful...”

The freaking idiot had run all the way across that open patch of gravel and debris. He'd dived, as if sliding into home, right on top of Dan, and they'd tumbled together down into the blast crater.

But it was too late.

And wasn't this just the way it would happen? The last face Dan would see, the last person he would speak to before leaving this earth...

Was Izzy f.u.c.king Zanella.

The SEAL had stopped singing-thank you, G.o.d-and his face was grim as he rolled Dan onto his back; he ripped another of his stupid bungee cords from his vest pocket and used it as a tourniquet around Dan's upper thigh-as if that would help.

”What can I do?” Anderson asked as, in the background, the little boy continued to wail.

Izzy glanced at her. ”Apply pressure at his groin. Help me slow the bleeding.”

”Zanella...” Danny tried to get his attention, finally grabbing the front of his vest. ”Zanella-” ”Zanella-”

”Hang in there, buddy,” Izzy said, using his knife to tear Dan's pants to get a better look at his wound. ”You're going to be okay.” But Anderson blanched, in contrast to Izzy's rea.s.surances. ”We're going to get you to the hospital-”

”No, you're not,” Dan said. No one was going anywhere with that shooter out there. Dan could hear the report of his rifle, again and again. ”Zanella, you gotta tell Jenni for me-”

”No, no, no,” Izzy said, interrupting him. ”You're gonna tell her whatever you want to tell her yourself, bro. That sniper is toast. We've got the f.u.c.king United States Marines on our side. Am I right or am I right, Anderson?”

”Sir, yes, sir,” she said.

”They're gonna take him out-”

”Not soon enough,” Dan interrupted. He could feel himself getting cold. Ah, G.o.d, Jenni...He reached to grab Anderson's arm, because he had to make sure Jenni knew, and Izzy wasn't listening. ”She didn't believe me,” he told the woman. ”Jenn didn't. And I need her to know-”

”Gillman,” Izzy said sharply. ”Listen to me. You f.u.c.king stop bleeding, do you hear me? You can do this. Use your brain for something other than being an a.s.shole. Lower your heart rate and tell yourself to keep your blood away from this leg.”

”Zanella-”

”Do it, G.o.dd.a.m.n it.” Izzy turned to Anderson. ”Keep applying pressure, Private. I'll be right back.”

Izzy launched himself up and out of the blast crater, keeping his head down in a crouch as he ran back toward Lopez and the medical supplies.

He could hear the ping of the bullets, see the geysers of dust they kicked up as the sniper tried for him and missed.

And missed.

And missed again, suckwad motherf.u.c.ker! Hah!

He slid into the cover provided by the ornate wooden deck of what once had been a fancy hotel restaurant, where patrons could dine on two levels. There'd probably been a tent to protect the upper level from the sun as the good folks of this town had had their business lunches.

Back during the time when the people of Afghanistan had both businesses and lunches.

But right now the wooden deck made it possible for the wounded to be cared for without risking death or injury to their caregivers.

One of whom was Lopez, who helped him to his feet. ”Holy Jesus, Son of G.o.d,” he said in Spanish as he saw the blood on Izzy's uniform.

Lopez was covered with blood himself, from trying to save the marine officer's life. Trying and failing, which sucked royal a.s.s.

”It's bad,” Izzy confirmed, telling Lopez what he didn't want to hear, yet already knew. ”Dan needs surgery. Now. Bullet nicked his femoral artery.”

”f.u.c.k.” It was not a word that Lopez used often, in English or in Spanish, but it fit the situation.

”I need a clamp,” Izzy told him as he was already moving toward the medical supplies, ”and some morphine and some bags of blood-he's O-and IV tubing. A needle-you know, all that s.h.i.+t.”

Lopez was shaking his head, even as he rummaged through his equipment. ”We don't have blood yet,” he said as he gathered up everything else, scooping it into a bag for easy transport. ”Or even any plasma extender. But if I can-”

”You're not going out there,” Izzy told his friend.

”Yeah,” Lopez said. ”I am. I'll use the clamp-”

”Not good enough. I'll I'll use the clamp.” Izzy took the bag from him. ”Danny needs blood, Jay, and I'm O, you're not. Give me the tubing-and two needles.” use the clamp.” Izzy took the bag from him. ”Danny needs blood, Jay, and I'm O, you're not. Give me the tubing-and two needles.”

Lopez silently-but swiftly, bless him-added what Izzy needed to the bag.

And Izzy dashed back out into the sniper's kill zone.

Luckily for him, the d.i.c.kweed was a relatively c.r.a.ppy shot.

NEW Y YORK C CITY.

THURSDAY, APRIL 16, 2009.

”This isn't the way to do this, Jack.” Jenn stood her ground even as the big man took a step forward, on the verge of invading her personal s.p.a.ce with the crutches he'd needed to get around since 1968. She held his gaze, too, refusing to let it waver, not even to glance behind him at the small crowd of other intimidating-looking men who'd gathered grimly to support him. Some of them had pulled back their jackets when she'd first arrived, to let her know that they were armed. And wasn't that that just great? ”You know that the a.s.semblywoman-” just great? ”You know that the a.s.semblywoman-”

Jack Ventano interrupted her. ”Isn't getting this done.”

”It takes time,” Jenn told him. ”There are laws-”

”There should be laws,” he agreed, ”insisting that the men and women who serve our country get the care and the support that they need, instead of-”

”You know know we're on your side.” we're on your side.”

”That's not enough, and you you know that.” know that.”

Jenn was silent then, because he was right.

The big man pushed his gray hair back from his face, revealing the edge of the long, rough scar he bore on his forehead. He'd gotten that in 'Nam, at Khe San, he'd told her once, when she and Maria had taken a tour of the shelter, back when Maria was running for office. He'd lost most of his leg in the same battle. But worst of all, he'd lost his best friend, a man named Tom Terwilliger-which was why this shelter bore Terwilliger's name.

Lost. What a funny euphemism for it. As if Tom and Jack's leg had both been accidentally misplaced.