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to their fear of failing their leader than any authority they might be willing to grant her. The others sat cross-legged nearby, silently observing every move the women made.
    She ended up amputating the three fingers she’d thought would have to go when she’d seen the wound, but managed to save the young insurgent’s thumb by pinning fragments of bone together with syringe needles, which with his index finger would allow some use of his hand.
    If he stayed alive long enough for it to heal.
    Which, given his occupation, wasn’t all that likely.
    Kirby swiped iodine over his hand, wrapped it in gauze, then put a heavier bandage over that, in some slim hope of keeping it clean; then followed up with penicillin and tetanus injections.
    “I’ve done all I can,” she informed them as she stripped off the bloody surgical gloves. “He should recover, but I’ll know better in the morning.”
    “We are taking him back to camp,” the leader said, over the thud of more mortars hitting somewhere in the distance.
    Kirby shook her head. “That’s too dangerous.” If infection didn’t kill him, the mortars and strafing runs well might. “He needs to stay here, so—”
    “What he needs is to be with his father.” His tone was clipped. Precise. “Where he will, Inshallah, survive to fight another day.”
    Inshallah. God willing.
    The three women exchanged a look. Kirby knew they were all thinking the same thing. That if matters had been left entirely to God, the boy wouldn’t have survived until morning.
    “May I at least suggest a compromise?” Kirby asked.
    The man lifted a dark brow.
    “Give him three hours post-op. That way, I’ll be able to make sure he doesn’t have any reaction to the anesthetic. Then you can take him to his father. It would be tragic if he survived the surgery, only to die because he wasn’t given proper aftercare.”
    He stroked the long, unkempt beard favored by jihadists. From his dark frown, she could see that he was imagining breaking that news to his terrorist leader.
    “Two hours,” he said finally. “After Dhur.” Which was, Kirby knew, the noon call to prayer.
    His steely tone assured her it was his final offer. He turned and left the medical tent, the men carrying her still-unconscious patient behind him.
    “Welcome to Wonderland,” Lita murmured.
    The description fit, since Kirby felt as if she’d fallen down a very dark hole.
    As a steady flow of men, women, and children began flowing down the mountainside toward them, she wondered again, briefly, if that hottie Night Stalker she’d spent so many nights tangling the sheets with in Baghdad was in the midst of the battle obviously being waged.
    And prayed that if Shane Garrett was up there in that tracer-lit sky, he’d stay safe.
     

 

     
     

    7
     
    There had been times when Shane had ragged the SEAL team medic about carrying everything but the hospital sink. Today, he was grateful that Lucas Chaffee believed in the old Spec-Ops axiom “Hope for the best; prepare for the worst.”
    Shane didn’t need a medical degree to know that the loss of red blood cells reduced the oxygen-carrying capacity of blood to the brain. Fortunately, Chaffee had dragged some oxygen tanks off the helo before it blew. Better yet, he’d also brought some whole blood along, and when that had run out, he’d hooked Shane up to a bag of Hespan, a plasma volume expander. Which unfortunately ran out, too.
    Shane had always prided himself on being at his best when things were the most fucked up. He’d go into what he secretly called his cone of chaos and kept his head cool while others around him might be losing theirs.
    Not that he’d ever seen that happen with SEALs, but still . . .
    Which was why he absofuckinglutely hated the fact that he was forced to lie useless on this damn SKED while the other guys were plowing through the deep snow, up the steep mountain grade, propelled solely by sheer willpower.
    Two FNG (fucking new guy) Rangers,