Page 117 of Zorro

All of it.

Labeled. Sorted. Accessible with one hand in the dark.

This was what he carried. Every day. Not for himself, but for them.

This was Zorro’s love language, quiet readiness, warrior medicine, the unflinching intention to keep people alive when everything else fell apart.

Her throat tightened as she grabbed the pressure dressing because he knew what the world could do, and he still chose to meet it with this.

She shouldered Joker out of the way, knocking him on his butt, assessing the wound. “Low left quadrant,” she muttered to herself. “No visible exit, no pulsatile flow. Still bleeding.”

Her hands were steady as she opened the hemostatic powder and packed it deep into the wound. Zorro hissed through his teeth, his hands fisting.

“Breathe,” she told him. “You’ve had worse.”

He grunted, his voice compressed. “Your bedside manner’s slipping.”

“You want sweet? Survive this, and we’ll talk about so many bedsides.”

He gave her a crooked grin, pale and blood-streaked but so fucking Zorro it nearly split her in half.

“You’re hot when you boss me around.”

She wanted to kiss him so badly as she pressed gauze into place and wrapped it tight, locking in the pressure. He cried out, and her heart spiked, working hard to remain detached. Her heart pounded, but she didn’t let it speed her hands. She’d learned long ago how to move when fear tried to claw up her throat.

He raised his brows, the pain still contorting his face. “Wait until you see the goodies I have in the second pocket, babe. I think I might get doctor points for it.”

She grabbed the kit again, unzipped the pocket, and almost cried. “Plasma.” She bent down and kissed him hard on the mouth.

“Only Zorro could get a hot kiss for packing plasma,” D-Day growled, huffing out a short laugh. The rest of the guys chuckled.

Of course he had fluid. Of course he had a pressure cuff. Of course he had enough hemostatic gauze to plug a gunshot wound in two men.

She moved fast now, flipping open the admin set, flushing the line, sliding the IV home like she’d done a thousand times before, but never with stakes like this. Never with him.

This wasn’t just gear. This wasn’t just prep. This was Mateo Martinez, laid open in nylon and MOLLE webbing. Everything he’d been trained to carry for others, and tonight, it was for him.

Her fingers tightened as she started the flow.

“Status,” she yelled.

“Bear is responding, I don’t like his BP. You sharing that plasma?” Jules looked over his shoulder as he worked.

She turned to Blitz. “Get this to Dr. Marchand, stat.” Blitz took the bag and the needle kit and sprinted away.

“The dog is all right. Took a blow to the head. He needs an MRI. Patched up a wound in his thigh. He’s a tough guy,” the EMT, with the dimple in his chin, said. She breathed a sigh of relief as Flint got shakily to his paws and shuffled over to Bear with a soft whine.

“Javi is packed and ready to go. BP is good. Pulse is steady. Let’s move!” the BOPE medic said as several of his guys ran toward them with a stretcher.

“Bear, too. Get him out of here and to the hospital.” He turned to look at Everly. “You need anything else?”

She nodded, gratitude shining out of her eyes. “Yes, could you go to the hospital with Bear and operate on him. I trust you, and I need someone I can trust,” she whispered. “He’s…important.”

“I can do that.”

“I owe you.” She gave him a grateful smile.

“You don’t owe me a thing, young woman. I’ve used your procedures and innovations so many times and saved so many lives. We all owe you. I’ll go ahead and smooth things out with the hospital. Good luck with your man.” He hurried away.