Cold fingers gripped his jaw, forcing his face upward. "He's not dead. Not yet."

Not yet. The words dug into his mind, freezing his panic. He rolled off the man, regaining a sliver of rationality and resisting the urge to run straight to Nash. Now that the deafening noise in his head had lessened, he could hear his friend's faint groans. Weak, but unmistakable.

He got to his feet, keeping his eyes fixed on the rebel.

His brother. Alec.

Alec looked wild—his long black hair tied back haphazardly, his beard poorly kept. He appeared five years older than he actually was.

Their gazes locked, Alec's wary, cautious... but also confused. The people around him seemed equally uncertain about what to do.

"You were taken from me and Mom when you were a child," Foss said, his voice rough and fragile. "We tried to get you back."

There. It was out. He hoped it was enough to keep Alec from shooting him after all. Without waiting for a response, he rushed to Nash and dropped to his knees beside him. Sack was already working to stem the bleeding.

"The bullet's in his spine, I think."

That... could be worse, right? If the bullet had torn through Nash's organs, he wouldn't stand a chance.

A lump rose in Foss's throat. You're in the middle of the jungle, man. He's not going to survive this. He clenched his fists, forcing himself to focus. Fuck—what was he supposed to do now? He turned to the group of rebels, who still seemed as lost as he was.

"Do something!" he snapped at Alec. "This is your fault!"

Alec's lips pressed into a thin line. He glanced over his shoulder at the camp. Foss could follow his train of thought—helping so-called deserters... But Foss didn't believe anyone could keep fighting for someone who had lied to them so much. And Alec didn't look like someone easily manipulated.

"I'll get a stretcher," Alec said finally. He barked orders to his companions in Spanish, his tone commanding. Foss didn't doubt he'd been leading this small group. They must've rushed back to the camp after hearing the explosions.

The group hurried off.

Foss turned back to Nash, placing a trembling hand on his shoulder. He gripped tightly, clinging to the faintest hope as desperately as Nash was clinging to life.

A sharp stench hit Foss's nose—acrid, filthy. The smell of shit. His stomach churned. God, please don't let it be coming from him.

He grabbed the flashlight from the top of the bag, angling it to illuminate Nash's lower back, then lower still. His pants were soaked. Blood—but probably more than that.

Was it fear? Or damage to his nervous system? Foss leaned sideways, studying Nash's pale, sweat-slick face. His breathing was ragged, weak whimpers escaping his lips.

Foss felt utterly helpless. He ran his fingers through Nash's dark hair, searching for a way to distract him from the pain. But how? He couldn't exactly tell him everything would be okay.

Summoning what little calm he had left, Foss forced it into his voice. "Well, you'd better not put this in your story. Your readers would hate it."

For a split second, he thought he heard a faint, pain-laced chuckle. Nash fought to stay conscious, clinging to whatever scraps of reality he could find. "Real heroes die."

Foss blinked hard, tears spilling down his cheeks. "You're not dying, okay? Guess that means you're no hero."

Nash's mouth twitched into the faintest of smiles before his face tensed, the last flickers of light in his eyes extinguished. Pure terror replaced them.

"My legs," he whispered, lips trembling. "I can't feel my legs."

Foss tightened his grip on Nash's shoulder. He glanced at Sack, who was still pressing down on the wound. Slowly, Sack shook his head.

Foss couldn't tell what he meant. Was he saying he didn't know what was happening? Or that this was the end? Foss didn't want to think about it.

"Alec's getting a stretcher," Foss said, though the words felt hollow. His stomach clenched as the fear in Nash's eyes began to fade. His gaze turned blank, his eyelids drooping shut.

Foss moved his hand to Nash's neck, pressing against his pulse point. It was there, though he couldn't tell if it was too weak.

"He'll be back soon," Foss continued, his voice breaking. "And then..." The lump in his throat grew until it choked off the rest of his sentence. And then what? Even if Nash died, Foss had no idea how to get his body back to civilization. He had no clue which direction to go. The Sons are nearby. They have a GPS receiver.

Unless they'd been shot down. Just like Nash.

Would he stumble over the corpses of his parents next?

Foss shook his head, trying to banish the spiraling thoughts, but the darkness inside him only grew heavier. Despite the jungle heat, he shivered.

He glanced over his shoulder, searching for any sign of Alec. Maybe he'd abandoned them, or been caught trying to return. Or worse—maybe he was betraying them.

Just as Foss was about to stand and go after him, the faint moonlight filtering through the branches revealed a slender figure carrying something long.

The stretcher.

Relief surged through Foss, but it evaporated as he looked at his unmoving friend. Was it already too late?

Without a word, Alec knelt beside them, checking Nash's pulse. Whatever he found, it was enough to make him act. He gestured to the stretcher. "Get him on it. We'll take him to the nearest village. There's a doctor there."

Foss said nothing. His thoughts couldn't keep up with what was happening. In a matter of minutes, he'd found his brother, watched him shoot his best friend, and now that same brother was offering to help—as though he hadn't just put a bullet in Nash's back.

But voicing any of it wouldn't change a thing. They needed Alec's guidance to reach civilization, even if Foss doubted he'd ever be able to look his brother in the eye again if Nash didn't survive.

Alec seemed to know what he was doing. He instructed them on how to lift Nash with as little movement as possible, carefully placing him on the stretcher. Then, the two brothers carried him deeper into the jungle, navigating the uneven ground.

Exhaustion clawed at Foss, but he gritted his teeth and pressed on. He'd keep going until he couldn't stand anymore.