1
Somewhere in the deep Jungle
Maximilian “Mad Max” Keegan had woken up in some crazy, dangerous places, and not all of them had to do with combat. He’d find that funny if his head wasn’t about to roll off his neck, his side wasn’t on fire, and his ankle wasn’t telling him with very loud protests that he wasn’t walking, let alone running, anywhere anytime soon.
His ankle had no idea that his body wasn’t the one in charge. It was Max’s mind that ruled him, not physical pain. Thinking in a way that pushes you beyond your usual limits? It was all about limitless thinking, going beyond whatever it was you thought you could do, to a place you had previously thought might be impossible. Expanding the mind, expanded the possibilities.
He tried to move, but his coordination was jerky, and it had nothing to do with his head—his helmet provided most of the shock absorption from the fall. It was the blood loss from the bullet lodged in his side.
Fuck, he hated being shot.
Then you’re in the wrong fucking profession. He laughed softly. “Yeah, no shit.”
He was aware that he and Jugs were going to be pursued by the unknowns who had shot at the chopper and the terrorist group Al’Irada who wanted to retrieve their leader. He would be the perfect hostage to use as a bargaining chip. But he knew without a single doubt, their team would be back for them. All he had to do was survive.
After the lucky shot that had severed the rope that held them to the chopper and the second one that had lodged a bullet in his side, he’d fallen like a rock with Jugs in a harrowing few seconds that sent them plummeting to the ground, crashing into some trees on their way down. Luckily the helo hadn’t gotten high enough that the fall would have killed them, but it was bad enough. At least the team got away with the HVT. Max prayed his guys had suffered no other injuries.
As soon as he’d regained consciousness from the fall last night, he’d done a patch job on himself before assessing Jugs to help slow the bleeding and to protect against infection. Max had run his hand through the dog’s fur and over his flanks. He felt the wetness of blood before he found a wide, deep gash. The battle harness had protected Jugs’s chest and upper body during the fall, along with Max’s curling around the animal to cushion him. Max didn’t think he had any other injuries, but he hadn’t been able to go over him as thoroughly as he wanted. Max used Jugs’s own first aid kit situated on the dog’s tactical vest to doctor him up the best he could, but the Malinois needed stitches.
By mid-day Max had bled through the bandage and had to replace it. He’d bleed out before he could die from infection. The pressure bandage was all that stood between him and bleeding to death.
There was also the serious problem of dehydration. He had water and oral rehydration packs, but the water was in the pack that was just a few feet from him. Part of the severed strap flapped in the wind, courtesy of another one of those lucky shots.
He looked at his watch. It was now late afternoon, approximately fifteen hours since he fell. He needed Jugs, but he wasn’t here. Max had been unconscious and didn’t know where he’d gone. There was no way the Malinois had abandoned him. Jugs would die before he’d leave his teammate. He was either doing reconnaissance or hunting.
He pushed up on his elbow, and blazing hot pain flashed across his right side, deep inside where the bullet had plowed a channel of destruction and bounced off one of his ribs. Waves of agony crashed over him as the edges of his consciousness started to go black, like his brain was folding in on itself.
He gritted his teeth, fighting the encroaching darkness, the anguished moan trapped in his throat. His breathing ragged, he grabbed for the remnants of the first aid kit he’d ripped open last night from his tack vest and snatched the rolled gauze. At the last second, he grabbed a couple of the QuikClot bandages. Hopefully they would slow down the bleeding. It took all his energy and every ounce of his willpower to sit up.
Taking a fortifying breath, he removed his vest. He had to pause to let the pain run its course when a hot poker of agony radiated from the site of the bullet wound outward in a wave. Yeah, thanks so much, pain sensors. I got it. Moving right now wasn’t the best idea. But he had no choice. He couldn’t stay here. With more grunting and discomfort, he pulled off his shirt and cotton undershirt, both soaked with his blood, holding on as his mind went gray again.
Blood still oozed from the wound, dripping into the ground that was still wet. At least it had slowed down. He used his combat breathing to remain centered, then, his hands shaking, he cut off a swath of Kerlix gauze and folded it several times. As he started to press it to the wound, he glanced at the clotting bandages. He could hear Saint in his head saying, Don’t use this unless you think you’re bleeding to death. Okay, this qualified. His breathing heavy, pain making him pant and release soft cries, he opened them and braced for the next round of misery as he pressed on the wound. He gritted his teeth, almost losing consciousness at the agony, and fought to roll the elastic bandage around his waist, wrapping it as best he could and securing it with the built-in Velcro.
He collapsed to the ground, breathing heavily around the surges of torment sapping his energy and making him want to curl into a fetal position and not move.
His hip ached like a bitch as he moved onto it, then pushed up again, fighting to keep himself upright. Reaching for an elastic bandage, he tried to bend to get to his ankle, but with a sharp cry of agony, he sank to the ground, losing his battle to remain aware.
He floated in and out. The sound of metal and a thump near his head made him start to full awareness again. He turned to his right to find a beat-up backpack beside his head. Not his.
He ignored it for now, even though he could smell cooked fish and his mouth watered, his stomach rolling with hunger.
He tried to focus and reached into his Individual First Aid Kit, or IFAK, for more military-issued combat pills. With some effort and a lot of pain, he managed to get the package open.
Working his body to the side again, he grabbed the plastic water bottle that was almost empty and drained the contents, swallowing the pills that included a painkiller, anti-inflammatory, and antibiotic.
Jugs materialized and licked his face, then nudged the unfamiliar pack toward him. He rubbed the dog’s fur.
“What did you do? Steal someone’s kit? That was impolite, Jugs. Thanks, buddy.” Max managed to look around, but he was still concealed, and there was no movement in the area. He pulled open the straps of the bag, and the aroma of the cooked fish grew stronger. He dug inside, pushing aside the metal piece, and snagged the plastic-wrapped fish. He ripped it open and devoured half of the tender meat, then pushed the rest toward Jugs. “Eat, buddy.”
As soon as Jugs had devoured the remaining fish and licked the plastic clean, Max said firmly, “Jugs, bring me that pack.” He pointed, and the attentive animal’s ears pricked forward, and he hobbled over to Max’s battle pack. “That’s it, Jugs.” Then he switched to the German word for fetch, elongating the i. “Bring.”
The Malinois clamped his teeth to the pack and wrestled it over to Max. “Good, boy,” he said as he opened the rucksack and pulled out a full bottle of water. He dumped in a packet of the rehydration powder, shook it, and drank the whole bottle, then called for Jugs.