Page 69 of Collateral Damage
The thump at the door isn’t the sound I expected. It’s distinct. The pattern Silas set.
Relief crashes over me so fast it leaves me lightheaded. I exhale, the sound almost a sob, and shift my weight toward the door.
“Ava, hurry, I’m hurt,” his voice comes from the porch, strained and thin through the wood.
My heart stutters. I drop the weapon onto the couch, desperate to reach him—to help, to be the doctor I was trained to be. I move as fast as my ruined ankle allows, hopping, stumbling, dragging myself to the latch.
I throw the door open, and a wall of sub-zero wind slams into the room, blinding me with sleet. Silas is hunched over, clutching his side, head bowed as if standing itself is a battle.
“What happened?” I reach for him, my hands already moving to assess the damage.
He doesn’t speak. He shuffles across the threshold, boots heavy on the floorboards, and pushes the door shut against the storm. He stands there a beat, his back to me, before slowly lifting his face.
The breath leaves me in a sharp hiss.
It isn’t Silas.
Silas
The world narrows to the wet, copper tang of blood and the splintered grain of the oak doorframe. I push up off the dirt floor, my arm a traitor; it nearly gives out, the bone beneath the muscle grinding against broken glass.
I clamp my hand over my upper arm, forcing the heat back into the shredded meat. I wait for the second volley. The rush of boots through the snow.
Nothing comes.
Just the wind scraping against the siding and the rhythmic tap of snow against the roof.
I tear the fabric of my sleeve with my teeth, shove it against the hole, and cinch it tight with my belt. I work in the gaps between the gusts of wind, straining for any sound. The silence is worse than the gunfire; it’s expectant.
I knot the wrap one-handed and hold still. My pulse is a hammer against my eardrums. If he’s moving, he’s moving toward her.
I check the signal on my cell. Nothing—not even a bar. I need that sat phone. Gritting my teeth, I shrug out of my jacket with my good hand, the movement sending a fresh wave of nausea washing over me.
I flex my fingers. Fire shoots up my arm, a white-hot spike that makes my vision swim. But my grip holds.
I crouch and move toward the door. I stay low, keeping my back to the wall, avoiding the center of the frame.
I reach out, my fingers brushing the wood, testing the tension. It’s solid—far more solid than it should be. It’s not just locked; it’s braced.
My breath hitches. I step back, sweat freezing on my forehead. Any attempt to force it will cost me blood I can’t afford to lose.
I map the room. Pegboard. Workbench. Hammer. Flathead. Pry bar.
The door might be solid, but the frame is pine. I step to the hinge side and drop to one knee, my breath coming in short, shallow hitches.
I wedge the flathead beneath the lip of the top hinge pin and tap it with the hammer. Metal rings sharp in the enclosed space. I freeze. Nothing. I hit it again, harder.
The pin shifts. Pain flares up my arm, a blinding, electric roar. The pin inches upward. Blood drips from my elbow, drumming onto the dirt. One more strike. The top hinge loosens with a dull pop.
I catch the door with my shoulder before it sags and move to the middle. The weight of the door shifts into my hands, and I feel it immediately—a shift my body recognizes before my brain catches up.
Tension.
A thin line runs from the inner brace, disappearing into the drift just beyond the threshold. Almost invisible. I follow the angle down and find it half-buried in the snow—rectangular, curved, deliberate.
Claymore mine. Directional and deadly.
My stomach turns over. My arm is screaming. The wound has soaked through the belt and the shirt, and my grip is failing. I need both hands for this, but I only trust one. I breathe through it. Slow. The way they taught me. Pain is just information. It doesn't get a vote.
