Page 24 of A Ballad of Blackbirds and Betrayal (Dynamis Security #4)
Chapter Thirteen
Sabrina forced herself not to look back.
The sporadic crack of gunfire from the direction of the Gulfstream echoed across the airfield, each shot sending a jolt through her system.
August in Texas meant the air simmered at nearly hundred degrees, the air thick enough to chew.
Sweat trickled down her spine beneath the tactical gear, and the taste of dust and aviation fuel coated her tongue.
Her boots made almost no sound as she moved from shadow to shadow, keeping low and using the maintenance buildings for cover. Heat radiated from the tarmac beneath her feet, the concrete having baked all day under the merciless Texas sun.
Every instinct screamed at her to turn around, to run back toward the sound of fighting where Atticus was confronting Mitchell’s security team alone.
But the memory of Jenkins bleeding out behind the fuel depot drove her forward.
Combat medicine had taught her to compartmentalize—to focus on the patient at hand rather than the battle raging around her.
“Santiago,” she whispered into her comm as she approached the fuel depot. A cicada’s rhythmic chirping nearly drowned out her voice. “I’m on approach from the east. Confirm position.”
“Copy that,” he replied, voice tight. “We’re behind the main fuel tank, northwest corner. Two hostiles approximately fifty yards southwest of our position. They’re keeping their distance because of the fuel tanks, but we can’t move without exposing ourselves.”
Sabrina crept around the corner of the depot, staying in the shadows until she spotted Santiago’s compact frame hunched protectively over Jenkins’s larger one. She moved quickly to join them, dropping to her knees beside Jenkins’s prone form.
“Took you long enough, Doc,” Jenkins managed through gritted teeth, his normally jovial expression tight with pain. His tactical shirt had been cut away to expose the wound, the black fabric soaked with blood that appeared almost purple in the dim light.
“Traffic was terrible,” Sabrina replied, already assessing the injury. Santiago had applied a pressure bandage, but blood continued to seep through, confirming his assessment that an artery had been damaged. “I’m going to need to clamp that bleeder.”
She opened her medical pack, extracting a field surgery kit that contained tools more advanced than standard first aid equipment.
This would be far from ideal—performing vascular surgery by moonlight behind a fuel depot, with hostiles nearby—but Jenkins’s ashen complexion and rapid, thready pulse indicated he didn’t have the luxury of waiting for proper medical facilities.
“Santiago, I need you to maintain pressure here,” she instructed, guiding his hands to the precise spot. “And I need more light.”
He extracted a small tactical flashlight with his free hand, positioning it to illuminate the wound without creating a beacon for the hostiles still searching for them.
“This is going to hurt,” Sabrina warned Jenkins, administering a local anesthetic from her kit. “But I need you to stay as still as possible.”
“Not my first bullet hole, Doc,” Jenkins replied, his voice weaker than before. “Just make it quick.”
Sabrina worked with the focus that had made her one of the Navy’s top trauma surgeons, her hands steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her system.
The wound was messy, the bullet having torn through muscle and nicked the brachial artery, but thankfully missing bone.
She cleaned the area as best she could, then isolated the damaged artery, carefully placing a clamp to stop the hemorrhaging.
“How’s Reaper?” Jenkins asked through clenched teeth, clearly trying to distract himself from the procedure.
“Being Reaper,” Sabrina replied, her hands never pausing in their work. “Charging headfirst into danger while ordering everyone else to stay safe.”
A weak smile touched Jenkins’s lips. “That sounds about right.”
“Incoming movement, east approach,” Santiago warned, his body tensing as he scanned the darkness beyond their position.
Santiago raised his weapon slightly, speaking into his comm. “Control, we have movement from the east. Possible friendlies approaching our position.”
“That’s Warlock and Nightshade,” Cal’s voice confirmed through comms. “They’re heading to your location.”
“Echo Team, this is Santiago,” he reported. “Confirm your approach.”
“Confirmed, we’re coming to you.” Eden’s voice came through immediately. “Two friendlies moving to your position.”
Santiago lowered his weapon as Nate and Eden emerged from the shadows, moving with quick, purposeful strides toward their position.
“Jenkins?” Eden asked, concern evident in her voice as she crouched beside her wounded teammate.
“I’ll live,” he replied weakly. “Thanks to our new doctor.”
“He needs evacuation,” Sabrina said, packing her medical supplies with efficient movements. “The bleeding’s controlled for now, but he needs blood products and proper surgical facilities to repair that artery permanently.”
“Evac team is five minutes out,” Nate reported, scanning the area. “We passed them on the highway.”
The gunfire from the direction of the Gulfstream had ceased, replaced by an ominous silence that made Sabrina’s stomach clench with dread. The aircraft’s engines were still running, their low rumble carrying across the airfield.
“Go,” Santiago urged from his position beside Jenkins. “We’ve got this.”
Sabrina hesitated only a moment before making her decision. “I’m coming with you,” she told Nate and Eden. “If they’ve breached the bioweapon’s containment, you’ll need me.”
“Reaper won’t like it,” Eden warned, though there was a glimmer of respect in her eyes.
“Reaper rarely likes sensible decisions that contradict his own,” Sabrina replied, checking the Glock at her hip. “He’ll have to learn to live with disappointment.”
A faint smile touched Eden’s lips. “I think I’m starting to like you, Doc.”
The three of them moved across the airfield, using the scattered maintenance equipment and fuel trucks for cover as they approached the Gulfstream. Eden coordinated their movements through comms, ensuring each team member’s position was known to all others as they advanced.
The aircraft sat on the tarmac, its engines idling, the boarding stairs still extended. Two bodies lay sprawled on the concrete nearby—Mitchell’s security personnel, Sabrina assumed, taken down by Atticus before they could complete the loading process.
“Alpha One, this is Echo Team on approach,” Nate reported through his comm. “Visual on Gulfstream. No movement. Confirm status.”
When no response came, Eden signaled for them to hold position while she tried again.
“Alpha One, Echo Team on approach. Atticus, do you copy?”
The continued silence was concerning. Nate raised his tactical scope, scanning the area methodically.
“No visual on Alpha One,” he reported, his voice tight with professional concern. “No visible movement inside the aircraft either.”
“Cypher,” Eden spoke into her comm. “Any satellite imagery on the Gulfstream?”
“Thermal shows four heat signatures inside,” Cal replied. “One in the cockpit, three in the main cabin. Can’t distinguish friend from foe at this resolution.”
“We need to approach,” Nate decided, formulating a plan. He turned to Eden and said, “Circle to the rear access point. I’ll take the boarding stairs. Doc, maintain position here behind cover until we clear the aircraft. Maintain comms discipline and report any movement.”
Sabrina nodded, understanding this wasn’t the time to argue about positioning. Atticus was in there—possibly injured, possibly fighting for his life—and the bioweapon remained unsecured. The mission took priority over her pride.
“Copy that,” she replied, settling into her position with the focus she’d developed during her Navy service. “Be careful with the bioweapon container. If it’s compromised?—”
“We know,” Eden assured her. “Masks on before entry, no wild shots, secure the weapon first.”
Eden and Nate separated, each acknowledging their positions through comms as they moved toward their designated approach points. Sabrina maintained visual contact, her heart hammering against her ribs as she watched them close in on the aircraft.
The night air hung heavy with tension, the silence broken only by the steady hum of the aircraft’s engines and the distant wail of sirens that signaled the approach of the medical evacuation team.
Then chaos erupted once more.
A figure burst from the aircraft’s doorway, colliding with Nate halfway up the boarding stairs.
The two men grappled briefly before tumbling down the steps together, landing hard on the tarmac.
Nate recovered first, rolling to his feet with the agility of a trained fighter, but his opponent was equally skilled, already countering with a vicious strike that would have incapacitated a lesser opponent.
Gunfire erupted from inside the aircraft—sharp, staccato bursts that told Sabrina the fight had expanded beyond the tarmac. Eden or Atticus engaging the remaining hostiles, she couldn’t tell which.
Her medical instincts warred with tactical training as she remained in position. Every fiber of her being demanded she move closer, ready to provide assistance if needed, but she understood that becoming a liability now would only endanger the others.
The cockpit door of the Gulfstream flew open, and another figure emerged—a pilot, judging by the uniform, though the pistol in his hand suggested his duties extended beyond flying the aircraft.
He took aim at the struggling figures on the tarmac, and without conscious thought, Sabrina raised her own weapon.
The shot echoed across the airfield, startling her despite having pulled the trigger herself. The pilot staggered, his weapon clattering to the ground as he clutched his shoulder. A flesh wound, her medical eye assessed automatically, sufficient to disable but not lethal.