+18 - eps 22-27 - A case takes Russell and Brock to the brink of death. It'll be up to Gillian and the team to rescue them before they're killed by a white supremacist militia. And in the aftermath of the Paris attacks, the threat of a bio attack fo...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Aldana, Ron and Hank reached the first shed. It was open and quiet, but they searched it to make sure it was empty. A small fireplace, two bunks, half a dozen rifles hanging from the wall, a table with a couple of chairs, beers and cards dropped on it. Everything suggested a watch post abruptly abandoned.
It was the same at the next shed, save that there were no firearms left behind.
They approached the third shed and stopped sharp when, through the wall boards, they saw a shadow moving inside.
"Speak, nigger scum!" yelled an angry man. "Where is he!"
Aldana squirmed at the thud following those words. She and Hank flanked the door and Ron stood before it, rifle ready. He nodded and Hank yanked it open for them to storm in.
They found a man holding a shotgun, about to hit Russell's head with its butt. Before he could even see what hit him, Ron and Hank jumped on him. Aldana dodged the mess of legs and fists rolling on the floor to run to Russell.
"Oh, my, babe!" she cried, kneeling by him.
He was barely conscious, curling up on the floor, his swollen lips moving without a sound as thick trails of blood dripped from his mouth and his broken nose, making a horrible gurgling hiss at every breath.
While Ron knocked the man down, and Hank had to stop him from beating him harder, Aldana dropped her backpack on the cold dirt floor as she talked on the radio.
"Reg! Russ is really bad! We can't move him! We need transportation for him right now!"
Gillian crouched to hide behind some bushes, her back against a tree, to listen to her. She knew Aldana was pretty shaken, but not enough to make such a request without a damn good reason.
"Okay, give me a minute," she said.
The Tac leader wasn't glad at her changing his schedule. They needed at least twenty minutes, for the agents to spread along the west and north sides of the fence in order to move and close in on the buildings from behind.
"Agent Coleman doesn't have twenty minutes." Gillian's voice was a furious hiss. "So keep your men in place and push the subjects away. I'm calling the chopper now, so you better give it somewhere to land in ten minutes, you hear me? And whatever you do, keep the fight away from the hill."
"Yes, ma'am," the man grunted.
Gillian changed to the team's channel. "T, call the chopper and keep us up."
"Right away."
"Al, d'you think you can take Russ to our post?"
Aldana had already secured a neck brace on Russell, swallowing tears and commanding her hands to stop shaking. "I don't think so, Reg. Something's wrong with his lungs, and he's bleeding internally. Don't think moving him all the way on a board is good for him."
"Got it. T, warn the chopper we're gonna need an extraction basket. You guys hold on tight, and do all you can for him."
"Tell'em to hurry, T!" Aldana said in a trembling thread of voice.
Ron cuffed and dragged the unconscious man to a corner. Aldana cut open Russell's sleeve while Hank readied a morphine shot. Ron brought a long board he'd found at the next shed, and they made Russell roll to lay on it on his back. Aldana opened a thermal blanket from her backpack to cover him, as Hank pricked his forearm to plug an IV.
None of them said a word, and they even avoided eye contact, sharing the same hideous mix of shock, fear and rage at what those men had done to Russell in just a few hours. They didn't want to voice how much they doubted he could make it. And if he ever survived, how long it'd take him to recover from this dreadful night.
Ron went back out, with the excuse of keeping an eye on the surroundings. He just couldn't take it, not only the state his friend was in, but watching the way Aldana tried to clean the blood and the dirt from Russell's face, as silent tears rolled down her pale cheeks. Hank took care of Russell's smashed fingers. He pulled carefully every phalange back in place and then taped each finger around the knuckles to keep them straight.
Ron scanned around, wishing one of those bastards would show up, giving him a chance to shoot down the son of a bitch and vent out the angry impotence burning his chest. Then he heard Fred on the radio: "Heads up, Reg!"
