Page 75 of Covert Mission
The medic sputters and turns pale behind her oversized protective glasses. “Now?”
“No use waiting.” I motion for her to move around the side. “Hold his lower leg.” A second later, the metal is half the size. “Gonna be sore.”
Truck looks relieved. “I’ll be good as new in twenty-four.”
The medic is about to argue with him when a shout goes up in the air. “We have him!”
Murmurs race through the rescue teams. All around us, radios buzz and crackle to life. Everyone freezes in place to listen.
People are talking in several languages. I catch snips of Spanish, Italian, French, and what I think is Czech.
The medic at Truck’s side removes her glasses. Two very pretty blue eyes flick my way. Shit, Truck is a goner if she’s been batting those eyes at him.
With a big smile, she translates the radio chatter. “The American! The team has him now. They found him. He’s unconscious but breathing.”
“That’s great.” Truck winces as he moves. I wonder if it’s for effect, but I forget when he asks me, “Beast, is everyone on the team accounted for?”
“Yes. Now that I found your sorry ass laying down on the job.”
He chuckles. His relief that the team is safe is plainly visible in his smile. “Good thing you’re freakishly strong, you can help carry me out of here.”
I grunt. Cross my arms and give him a pissed-off look. “I should make you crawl. If you saw the rock I just lifted, you wouldn’t even ask.”
“Hey! Hey!” An out-of-nowhere slap hits my back. It’s the man that asked me for help. He’s grinning from ear to ear and his mouth is running a mile a minute. “This man is our hero. He is the reason the American is on his way to the surface.”
My body tenses. I don’t like praise. Never have.
I’m sure I’ll go to my grave the same way too. You don’t unlearn what you learn from getting beaten.
I deflect the man’s attention. “Just doing my part. Everyone here is responsible. Except him.” I point toward Truck with a look of disdain. “He’s just lazing around, flirting.”
The medic finds my remark funny. Truck… not so much.
Another lesson I learned about Truck a long time ago—don’t accuse him of flirting. He hates the word. Denies it like his life depends on it. Swears he’s sworn off women.
Right. He can lie to himself all he wants.
Ten minutes later, I’m really cursing him for stepping in that hole. It’s a pain in my ass and my back.
“Quit squirming!” I gripe.
He snickers. “I’m not, you guys are rocking back and forth.”
“No shit. You try walking on marbles while carrying a jackass down a debris field.”
The other guys chuckle.
Fuck. It takes forever. I’ve carried injured comrades out of battlefields many times—sometimes even under gunfire—and I’ve never found it this hard.
“At last!” one of the men remarks as we climb toward the top of the last mound of rubble. Beyond the knoll is the medical triage area.
Truck is laying back like a king. The female medic—from Norway—climbs down alongside us.
Truck is ramblin’ on about something with her the entire time.
Definitely fliiiirting.
This is new. I’ve seen him banter it out, but this is next level. What’s his endgame here?