“I’ve never heard of that.”

“It’s rather new,” she muttered. She tossed the half-empty syringe to the side and started packing stacks of gauze over the wound. No new blood seeped into her gauze.

Yes!

Strong persuasion had been used to convince her doctor to write a prescription for the lifesaving device.

She applied pressure to the gauze and taped it in place. I need to do the same to his back. She dug in her duffel, pulled out a small box, and ripped it open, dumping out a green tube and a small bottle. Her hands shook as she poured the contents of the bottle into the tube and gently rotated it to distribute the contents. It seemed to take forever as Eddie writhed on the ground. She placed the narrow end in Eddie’s mouth and brought his hand up to hold it. “Inhale,” she ordered. “And keep inhaling.”

His terrified gaze held hers, tears still leaking from his eyes. Hang on, Eddie. Panting, she counted the seconds in her head until she spotted a measure of relief in his eyes. Again, time took forever. Agitation rushed through her veins. Hurry up. Hurry up.

“I’m going to roll you onto your side again.”

He nodded, still inhaling from the green tube.

The analgesic inhalant in his hand wasn’t approved for use in the US, but she’d wanted it in her medical kit, so she’d gotten it illegally from Australia.

She doubted Eddie cared she’d used an illegal drug on him. In fact he was beginning to look comfortably stoned. That won’t last.

She rolled him and picked up her original syringe. Swallowing hard, she pushed it into the exit wound as he shrieked, and she pressed the plunger.

More gauze. More tape.

Eddie wouldn’t bleed out on her watch.

A shuddering breath filled her lungs as she waited to see if blood would seep out. I pray I never have to do this on a friend again.

She looked up at Art, who had his back to her and Eddie. He had his feet firmly planted and his weapon ready in case the shooter came around the corner of the house. Mercy glanced behind her, hoping the shooter wouldn’t come from the other direction. She drew her weapon again, keeping one eye on Eddie and the other on the far side of the house.

“Get off my property!” came the male shout from the side that Art covered.

Mercy flinched. The voice sounded much closer than the outbuilding.

“We are federal agents,” Art called out. “Do not come closer.”

“I know who you are! Fucking FBI! Now get out!”

He spotted our jackets.

All three of them wore the thin windbreakers with FBI emblazoned across the back.

“We’ll leave as soon as we can move our injured man,” Art stated.

“You’ve got thirty seconds!”

Anger burned through Mercy. “He’s bleeding from your shot,” she yelled. “Have a little decency and let us keep him from dying!”

“You’re just stalling to bring in more agents!”

“Why did you shoot?” she shouted back as she checked Eddie’s gauze. Still no fresh blood.

“You’re not taking my land or my guns!”

She and Art exchanged another glance. “We’re not here to take either,” Art answered the man. “We had some questions for you.”

“Bullshit!”

“Are you Victor Diehl?” Art asked.

“You know I am!”

“No, actually we didn’t. We haven’t seen your face,” Art said in a calm tone. “For all we know you’re squatting on Victor’s land . . . maybe already killed him.”

“I am Victor Diehl!”

His hysteria disconcerted Mercy. He didn’t sound balanced. He shot at us. Of course he’s not balanced.

What will he do next?

“He’s fucking crazy,” whispered Eddie, screwing his eyes shut. Tear tracks raced down both sides of his head.

“Do you always shoot first and ask questions later, Mr. Diehl?” Mercy hoped her question wouldn’t push his buttons.

“I do when I know the feds are coming for me!”

Eddie’s eyes opened and met Mercy’s gaze in confusion. “Who told you we were coming?” she yelled. “We didn’t know we were coming until an hour ago.”

“That’s a load of crap! I was warned yesterday!”

“By who?”

“None of your Goddamned business! You’ll just take away his rights and liberty too!”

“Mr. Diehl, I think there’s been a mistake—”

“Shut up before I put a hole in another one of you!”

“We need to get out of here,” Art whispered. “His voice is getting closer.”

“Can you walk?” she softly asked Eddie.

He pulled the green tube from his mouth. “Yeah.”

I don’t believe him. She looked up at Art and shook her head. They’d have to carry him to her vehicle. The back hatch was still open. They could load him into the back and get out. But first they had to get Eddie over the thirty yards between him and her truck. And hope Victor Diehl didn’t choose that moment to come around the corner of the house.

“I can get him,” said Art.

At first Mercy thought he meant he could carry Eddie by himself to her Tahoe. But the intent expression in his eyes told her he meant he could shoot Diehl.

The shooter is a threat.

Their backup and ambulance were probably another twenty minutes out unless a county deputy happened to be in this rural area.

She was torn.

Victor Diehl made the decision for her.

She heard Diehl before she saw him. Boot steps. Grunts. Heavy breathing. As if in slow motion, the barrel of his rifle appeared at the corner of the house, and Mercy rose to a stance but froze; Art stood between her and the corner. I can’t fire. Then Diehl’s hands and wrists showed. Arms of a grimy chambray shirt. Dusty brown boots. Tan canvas pants.

Then she saw Diehl’s eyes. Blue, squinting, and crazed. His mouth was open.

He will shoot.

The barrel swung their way and Art fired.

Diehl jerked and spun to one side, losing his weapon. He fell to the ground with a howl that made the hair rise on Mercy’s neck.

Art stepped closer, his weapon still trained on the shooter. Diehl was silent and motionless.

Mercy dashed past Art and knelt next to Diehl. His eyes were shut, and he still breathed, but the wound in the center of his chest rapidly bubbled with blood. “Hand me my bag,” she ordered Art as she unbuttoned Diehl’s shirt. Center mass. From six feet away. Art’s shot had been dead-on. This wound wasn’t like Eddie’s. Diehl’s wound was gaping and angry and spewed blood in a way that terrified her. She glanced over her shoulder. Art hadn’t moved to get her kit; his arms were at his sides, his weapon in his right hand and his gaze fixed on the dying man.

“Art!”

He didn’t look at her.

Mercy surged to her feet and pushed past him to grab her kit, taking a split second to assess Eddie. His eyes tracked her, the green tube clenched in a fist on his chest. “I’m okay,” he said as she paused.

Like hell you are. But he was in better shape than Diehl. She snatched her bag, spun in the direction of her newest GSW, and deliberately ran one shoulder into Art as she passed. “Get moving! Call 911 again. Tell them we’ve got two injured now.” She collapsed next to Diehl and dug for another clotting syringe. Ripping the box open, she noticed the bubbles in his chest wound had stopped.

His open mouth was full of blood. He wasn’t breathing.

Airway first.

How . . .

Dumping equipment out of her duffel, she grabbed a CPR mask. She placed it over his mouth and nose and blew through the one-way valve. Blood splattered the underside of the mask, and she jerked away. The blood can’t get through the mask. She sucked in a deep breath and blew again. New bubbles formed at the wound in his chest.

Oh no.

She sat back on her heels and picked up the clotting syringe again. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, and her stress level surged, urging her to do something.

There’s no point.

A voice came through the adrenaline-hazed cloud around her head. Art was talking to 911 again. She needed to tell him Diehl was dead, but she couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. All her energy had vanished as quickly as it’d come. All she could do was stare at the man who’d died beneath her hands.

The gray hair on Diehl’s chest was covered in blood. His face sagged, wrinkles forming near his ears and around his neck. The angry blue eyes that had locked on her as he came around the corner were shut but crystal clear in her memory.

Mercy briefly closed her eyes as memories of her brother Levi’s death swamped her. He also had died under her hands. Shot. Bleeding.

Nothing I could do.

Mercy forced herself to her feet. Turning, she met Art’s gaze. She held it for a long second, words escaping her. They’d both have their own demons to deal with tomorrow.

Eddie moaned, breaking the moment.

She went to him, taking his hand, and was pleased to see he still had good color in his fingertips and lips.

“Thank you, Mercy.” He inhaled from his tube again. “This green thing is awesome.” His eyes struggled to focus.

The effects would be gone by the time he got to the hospital. Hopefully the EMTs could do something else for him. “That’s what I’ve heard,” she answered, as an emotional wave nearly knocked her over. Eddie could have been the dead one.

She tightened her grip on his hand, dizzy from the crush of relief and fear.

But he’s not.

FIFTEEN

The EMTs were pleased with Eddie’s condition and approved of Mercy’s field dressing. “Usually when it takes us over a half hour to get to a gunshot wound, it’s too late,” one of them had told her. He’d glanced at the body of Victor Diehl. “Like that one,” he said quietly.

“If you’d been here immediately, there’d still be nothing you could have done,” Mercy told him.

“I see that.”

Both of the EMTs had heard of the clotting agent she’d pumped into Eddie’s chest and the illegal analgesic inhalant but had never seen them used. Mercy had given them the packaging for the surgeon who’d eventually have Eddie on the table. They’d want to know what was inside the patient.