Page 81 of Deathless
"How bad?" I kept my voice flat.
"Been worse." His face had gone the color of the concrete behind him. "Remember Gdan..." The word trailed off, and he sucked air through his teeth. He closed his eyes. When he opened them, the joke was gone. "Okay. It's bad. Go. I'll be here."
The round had gone clean through, but the exit wound had torn the muscle ragged. He needed pressure. He needed a hospital. He needed me to kill every person who'd been part of putting that bullet in him.
"Stay down," I said.
I was already moving.
The stairs lay open. A myrmidon on the second-floor catwalk shouldered his rifle. I took the steps three at a time, the cracked rib grinding with every stride, and got inside his reach before he could squeeze the trigger. The katana punched through his vest at the seam, and I shoved him off the blade with my boot. Below me, Diego pressed his back against the pillar with one hand on his shoulder and the other on his pistol. He was still covering the ground floor. He was still in the fight.
The next one came around a corner, and I took his legs out from under him, then finished it on the ground. My ribs sent a white spike through my torso every time I twisted left,so I stopped twisting left. Pain was just information,, and the information said compensate.
Three more Myrmidons were on the third-floor catwalk, rifles trained down on Diego's position. Every one of them had a sightline to the pillar where he bled. I came at them from behind. The first one went down before he knew I was there. The second spun, and I caught his rifle barrel, yanked him off balance, and ran the blade through the gap in his armor at the shoulder.
The third backed up and fired. The first round went wide. The second punched into my side just below the cracked rib and the floor came up fast. I went down on one knee. Blood soaked through my shirt.
The katana slipped from my grip. The steel rang against the grating and skittered. I reached for it, and my whole left side seized, ribs locking down like something had clenched a fist around my lung. My fingers brushed the wrapping, and the blade slid further away.
The Myrmidon advanced, rifle trained on my head. "Stay down."
I looked up at him. Diego was one floor below me with a hole in his shoulder, and Eight was one floor above.
The dead Myrmidon beside me still had a sidearm in his thigh holster. I pulled it. The grip was wrong, too light, shaped for a smaller hand. The trigger pull was foreign, the balance off, everything about it an insult to the way I'd trained my whole life. But it put bullets where I pointed it.
I put two in his chest and he sat down against the railing.
The atrium went quiet.
I crawled to the katana and picked it up. My left side had locked into a cramp that turned every breath into a negotiation. The blade had survived the fall. I wiped it on the dead Myrmidon's jacket. The kid's face had gone slack under his helmet, younger than Eight would be in a few years.
I sheathed the blade and went back down the stairs one at a time because my body had stopped taking orders at speed.
Diego had pressure on his shoulder, but blood still seeped between his fingers. His face was too pale. Sweat beaded on his forehead.
"You're shot," he said, looking me over.
"So are you."
I knelt beside him and pulled the medical kit from my pack. My hands shook when I reached for the gauze. Diego's body torquing sideways, the red starburst, his knees buckling. The images shoved between my hands and the gauze.
"Hold still."
I peeled his shirt away from the wound, and he hissed through his teeth. The entry wound was clean, but the exit had torn through muscle. I packed gauze against it, and Diego grabbed my wrist. He held on, grounding himself against the pressure.
I wrapped the bandage tight, my fingers brushing against his bare skin. He was warm despite the blood loss.
I tied off the bandage and leaned forward until my forehead pressed against his good shoulder. His shirt was damp with sweat and the cold air. Underneath it his skin ran hot, his pulse close to the surface. He smelled like gun oil, snow, blood, and underneath all of it something warm that was just him. I'd memorized it in a farmhouse bed without meaning to.
He put his hand in my hair and held me there while I shook.
Then he pulled my shirt up without asking, packed gauze against my side, and taped it down. His touch was steady even though his own bandage was already soaking through.
"Matching scars," he said quietly. "You owe me a matching tattoo when this is over."
"Vihaan," I said into the comm. "We're both hit. What's our status?"
The comm gave me nothing back.
