Page 120 of Deadly Strain

March tried to get up, but Grace put her hand on his chest and held him down. Normally she wouldn’t have had the strength or leverage to do it, but right now, as disoriented as he was, she didn’t have to work too hard.

“Sharp is partially buried under rock, and Smoke is digging him out. You just rest until Sharp is free.”

“Okay, Doc. I feel kind of sick anyway.”

“Sick, like vomiting?”

“Yeah.” He closed his eyes and almost immediately dropped into unconsciousness.

“Sharp,” she said, letting all of her concern for March filter into her voice. “I think we need to get March out of here and back to the base as fast as possible.”

“What’s wrong?”

“He’s displaying the signs of a severe concussion. Swelling of the brain. If it gets really bad, it could be enough to kill him.”

“Can you do anything for him now?”

“No. He’s going to need a CT scan and probably surgery.”

“You’re almost out,” Smoke said.

“Be ready to haul ass,” Sharp ordered, sounding like he was gritting his teeth.

“Sharp, are you injured?”

“I don’t know, but my left arm and leg have fallen asleep. It feels like someone is digging a million needles into me.”

“That’s normal after having your circulation cut off for a while. I’d be more worried if you felt nothing.”

He snorted. “No worries here, then.”

As she checked March’s pulse again, Smoke got the last big rock off Sharp, and he pulled himself out from under the rest.

He sat for a second or two, then climbed slowly to his feet, with Smoke lending a hand under Sharp’s arm.

“Broken bones?” she asked him.

He bounced a little on his feet and twisted his wrists around. “Don’t think so. Everything seems to be working properly. More or less.” He bent over and dug through the rock around where he’d been lying.

“What are you looking for?”

“My rifle.” He searched for a moment more, before he yanked it out from the debris. He checked it over. “Doesn’t look too bad.” He turned to Smoke. “Let’s get the hell out of here. Lead the way.”

Smoke picked up his weapon and nudged March with one foot. “Wake up.”

March blinked at him blankly for a moment, then put one hand to his head. “Jesus Christ, who ran me over?”

“A terrorist.” Smoke bent down and helped March to his feet.

He swayed. “Can I kill him?” March asked.

“I wish I could let you,” Sharp said, limping over to look into March’s face. “But General Stone wants to interrogate him.”

“How about I shoot him, just a little?”

“How do you shoot someone a little?” Grace asked, not bothering to hide her irritation with the cavalier attitude these men seemed to have toward killing someone.

“In the foot or arm or somewhere not immediately fatal,” March explained. His voice was slurring like he was drunk.