Grunts and cries of pain echoed back.

Wolfe’s ribs cracked together and projected pain throughout his body. He sucked it in, let pain take him, and shoved sensation away, ignoring the agony. He kept a tight hold on Jethro, running up another hill, along a ravine and then over yet another hill, through a series of trees, and over rocks that kept dropping beneath his feet to another ravine below.

Jethro held tight, not making a sound.

Impressive.

Wolfe kept running, his boots barely finding purchase. He glanced at his compass and switched directions a couple of times because of the terrain. Blood slid over his arm, and he glanced down to see what he thought was Jethro’s good arm bleeding. “You shot in the arm, too?” Wolfe growled.

“No. Just a scratch,” Jethro whispered back, his voice low with pain.

Pain was good. It meant that Jet still had feeling in the limb, which boded well. If they got out of here. The moon shone down, lighting Wolfe’s way; the stars were brilliant above them. He took an angled approach to descending the next hill, running along a gully and frightening a couple of iguanas into the rocks.

An explosion sounded behind them, and Wolfe ducked, riding out the waves. Fire billowed, along with smoke, into the sky, lighting the entire area.

Screams and more gunfire started pattering in every direction but not directly at them. What was everyone shooting at? Particles started falling, and he pressed his mask closer to protect his lungs from what might be pure heroin.

He saw an opening and took a barely there trail between two rocks up yet another hill, digging his feet in to keep moving. This one was more of a mountain, but he kept climbing, finally reaching the top with his breath panting out painfully. He looked down at a small field where a camouflage-painted helicopter waited quietly.

Movement sounded behind him.

Not good. He started to run again, this time letting gravity take control as bullets pinged the rocks around them.

* * *

The entire crew showed up too early for work the next morning. Angus Force tapped his fingers against his desk, his concentration splintered. The Jack Daniels in his bottom drawer beckoned to him. A soft knock on the door had him looking gratefully up. “Come in.” He lost his eagerness when Nari clip-clopped her way inside and shut the door. Today the shrink had dressed in a black pencil skirt with a soft purple blouse that made her skin almost translucent. Her black hair hung naturally around her slim shoulders, and concern glowed in her midnight dark eyes. “I don’t want to talk, Nari.”

She lifted a perfectly painted pink nail. “I’m not here to talk you into therapy.”