Wolfe skidded to a stop and ducked low, reaching his friend. “How bad?” His voice was muffled through the mask.

“Bad.” Jethro clutched his bleeding right thigh.

Shit. Wolfe grabbed Jethro by the shoulders and yanked him around a tree, propping him up. Then he dropped his pack, grasping the knife from his sheath and slicing up Jet’s pants leg, cutting the material away.

He peered down to look via moonlight, not wanting to give away their position.

The scent of blood and dirt filled his nostrils.

Jethro looked down at his leg, his mask safely in place. “Bugger.”

“Looks like ankle, calf, above knee, and thigh,” Wolfe said, calculating the blood loss. It was a burst of bullets. There was nothing like an AK-47 to mess up a body—old school.

He dug in his pack and drew out QuikClot to wrap around each of the wounds. Jethro bit his lip but didn’t make a sound, his body tense with pain.

A man came around the nearest tree, caught sight of them, and quickly lifted his weapon.

Wolfe partially turned and threw the knife, penetrating the guy’s neck. The man dropped his gun, grabbed the knife handle, and fell forward to land on his face, his legs kicking out.

Jethro grunted, his face looking pale, even in the darkness.

Wolfe padded each wound and tied them tight, wrapping material from his first aid pack around each one.

Jethro shook his head. “I can’t run, mate.”

“I’m aware.” Wolfe stood and replaced his pack. Shouting came from the hill to the right, and three armed men scaled the top, running toward them.

Wolfe leaped to the nearest tree, ducking and dodging for a better angle. “Go flat.”

Jethro instantly complied, sliding down, his gun out and ready.

Wolfe levered himself up, aimed, and squeezed the trigger three times. The men fell fast, one of them getting off a shot that spit up dust next to Wolfe.

Gunfire erupted from the opposite direction, throwing twigs and rocks all around him.

Shit. Jethro was exposed, even flat on the ground.

Wolfe ducked his head and launched into motion, weaving to avoid the rain of bullets. He reached Jethro, clamped his hands around Jet’s good ankle, dropped his shoulder to the ground, rolled and twisted, hitting his knees and coming up to his feet with Jethro over his shoulder, one arm manacled around Jet’s calf and the other on his forearm.

The man’s muscled weight bore down on Wolfe and he grunted, running for the distant trees and the one hill that didn’t hold anybody shooting at them.

Yet.

A soldier ran toward them from the side, shooting erratically. Jethro lifted himself up from his position on Wolfe’s shoulders, and fired rapidly, dropping the guy.

Wolfe grunted and held on, his grip sliding to Jethro’s thigh as the Brit twisted and fired three more shots in the same direction.