By the time we hauled ourselves to the riverbank, my lungs were fire. We regrouped on a slick rock in the forest, bodies hunched and shivering. One of my men pressed a canteen into my hand, another ran to find more fresh water.
I stripped off my torn white shirt without thinking—no room for ceremony—and tore a length to bind Cameron's thigh where the wound bled hot and fast. The cloth soaked through too quickly. He tried to sit up, then sagged. Finn, pale and efficient, knelt and pressed where I had tied, tightening knots with his hands.
One of the runners returned, breathless. "Boss—our vehicle… left two. We can move when the sky is darker. Two hours. No eyes on us right now."
Two hours. Two hours to stage, to rest, to not let panic make decisions. Two hours to hunt.
"Boss," Gray's voice cut through, sharp. He crouched in front of me, eyes narrowing. "You're bleeding. Head and hand."
