“Emily!” my father shrieked, dropping to his knees.
“Back off, Richard!” Voss barked, aiming at my father.
I gritted my teeth, tasting copper. My left arm hung useless, screaming with pain. I pressed my right hand against the entry wound, feeling the jagged edge of torn muscle. It was a through-and-through. Mercer had deliberately missed the bone and arteries, but it was still a bullet wound.
Mercer stood above me, his face pale, his eyes begging for forgiveness he knew I couldn’t give.
“Very good, Senior Chief,” Voss said over the ringing in my ears. “Now, Captain. The watch. Or the next one goes in your brother’s knee.”
I looked at Ryan. His eyes were wide with horror, his rifle still trained on Mercer, but his hands were shaking. He was out of his depth. This wasn’t a training exercise; this was a slaughterhouse.
I looked at Lucas. He was shaking his head frantically. Don’t do it.
