Page 43 of Trigger Discipline
Blake muscled past him, lifting the soldier’s head to look in his eyes.
“PFC Scott,” he mumbled dazedly, blinking up at Blake.
“I need to get him inside.” Blake slung his other arm over his shoulder, and they half-carried Scott into the station. Tommy had already cleared off the table and had another stranger on it; her leg extended over his lap. The leg was grossly purple, hastily wrapped in bandages that had once been white but were now a ghastly grayish brown color.
With Scott seated, the two medics got to work sliding offplate carriers and gear. Blake asked him questions to ascertain his mental status.
Gabriel directed his attention to the second person. She was tall and slender, her blonde hair pulled back tight into a sagging bun. Her face was filthy, caked in dried blood and dirt, but the biggest injury was her leg. It was clearly broken.
She was wearing a dark green flight suit with Navy insignia.
“Lieutenant?”
Nodding, she extended a hand. “Lieutenant Victoria Hollis.”
Gabriel took the hand, introducing himself as he shook it gently so as not to jostle Tommy’s work. He took in the woman’s battered uniform and the handgun attached at her hip.
“You were the pilot that shot up the ship?”
The room went silent, everyone turning to face Lieutenant Hollis. Her lips pressed together, and she looked down at her lap, nodding tersely. “I was.”
“Damn, Danger Tits.” Judd went to clap her on the back, but Gabriel grabbed his wrist, pulling it away. “That was some grade A flying.”
Judging by her face, Lieutenant Hollis didn’t think so.
Changing the subject, he gestured toward Scott. “How did you two meet up?”
“Scott’s squadron was defending a block close to Capitol Hill. I saw them on my approach and aided where I could. After I ejected, they came for me. Helped get me to cover.”
“You broke your leg on ejection?”
She nodded. “Scott literally pulled me from the fire.”
“Where’s his squad?” Judd asked, arms crossed as he leaned against the counter.
“Dead,” Scott snapped, smacking Blake’s hands away from the cut on his head. “We had the little shits on the ropes and they…the ship blew up the entire fucking block.”
His face collapsed, and he looked like he was biting his tongue to keep from getting emotional. Blake forcibly turned his head away from the group, ostensibly to look at the cut on his head, but Gabriel knew it was to give him some privacy.
“We only survived because we got blown off the main road,” Lt. Hollis explained, taking over for Scott. She was older than the PFC—maybe mid-thirties, while the National Guardsman hardly looked old enough to shave.
Phin walked into the room, his gun slung over his shoulder. “Pretty sure they’re dead,”
“Pretty sure?” Gabriel repeated.
“I cut one of the FUD’s head off, but it uh…turned to goo.”
Blake looked up, raising an eyebrow. “Itturned to goo?Could you be more specific?”
Phin shrugged. “Smelled like death. The second I got the armor stuff off…it just melted.”
Tommy shared a quick look with Blake. “Sounds like it started decomposing the moment it was exposed to our atmosphere.”
“It makes sense,” Hollis said with a wince, sliding her leg off Tommy’s lap after he finished wrapping it. “Their outer exoskeleton works as armor and as a protective suit. Our atmosphere is probably poisonous to them.”
“Or it’s a safety measure,” Gabriel said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “They could self-destruct if their armor is tampered with.”
Did it matter? Either way, they were dead. And that meant he could turn his attention back to the issue at hand—the two injured people in the kitchen.