He felt Brewer tumbling into him, then down onto the floor, and he got his barrel over her falling body, just as a third gunshot rang out. Court sighted on the origin of the tactical light and the muzzle flash, and he returned fire, spraying an eight-round burst directly through the archway from where the shot came.
Even in the flash of his own weapon he was unable to see the shooter clearly, but he did register that the form fell back out of the doorway, crashed onto a heavy round table in the middle of the room there, rolled backwards over it, then fell off on the other side, out of his line of sight.
He dropped his slung rifle back to his chest and knelt down over Brewer; before he could even check her he heard movement out in the hall, and then a shout.
“Friendlies! Comin’ in!” It was Hightower’s voice.
“Brewer’s hit!” Court answered back.
“What’s her status?”
Court felt around for his Glock, because the light was so bad he was unable to scan her for more injuries. He gave up after a few seconds and lifted Brewer’s head. He felt blood on her neck and shoulder.
Court answered Zack back. “Assessing now.”
He spoke to her. “Brewer?”
“I’m . . . I’m shot,” she said weakly.
Court looked up in the dark quickly; he could see the glow of Hightower’s weapon light as he approached through the next room. He was nearing the table where the attacker fell. “Hey, Zack! Dead-check the shooter on the far side of that table.”
“Copy,” Zack said.
Dead checks weren’t exactly approved in the Geneva Conventions, but for an operator in a close-quarters battle situation, it made no sense to walk past an enemy who still might pose a threat.
Court felt around for the Glock again and found it, then he turned on the light, speaking to Brewer. “We’re gonna get you out of here. Just let me roll you to check for more wounds.” He shifted her onto her side; using the light now he could see that her Kevlar vest had taken two rounds on the right side of her rib cage, and a third round had slammed into her upper right shoulder, midway between the arm and the neck. It was a solid entry wound with no exit, meaning the bullet was still inside her body.
“Okay, you’re gonna be—”
“Shit!” It was Hightower shouting from the other room. Quickly Court lifted the pistol up, anticipating a threat, unsure what Zack’s problem was. With his light he could see Zack on the far side of the table, presumably standing over the body there.
“Shit!” Hightower said again, his voice plaintive now. Hanley appeared behind him.
“What is it?” Court shouted back; he lowered his gun and used both hands to apply pressure on the gushing wound on Brewer’s shoulder.
When Zack didn’t answer, Court shouted again. “What is it, Zack?”
Still, Zack didn’t answer. Court looked up now, away from Brewer lying on her back on the stone floor.
“Talk to me!” Court implored now.
“Six. Hold fast. Don’t come over here.”
Now Court let go of Brewer’s wound. Stood up slowly. “Why? What’s going on? Who did I shoot?”
Zack said nothing.
“Who did I shoot?” He screamed it now.
Matt Hanley answered. “It’s . . . It’s Anthem. She’s down.”
* * *
• • •
Court moved slowly across the dark room, his knees weakening. After a few steps he ran forward, made his way around the table into the light of Zack’s rifle, and dropped to Zoya’s side. Her black track top was riddled with holes across her stomach and chest, and he could see blood on the floor around her.
Zack said, “I’ll work on Brewer.”
Court muttered, “GSW, right shoulder.”
“Copy.” Hightower was up and running to Brewer an instant later.
Hanley pulled a flashlight and held it over Court.
Zoya’s eyes were unfixed, like Brewer’s, but she was breathing. Her chest heaved rapidly. He hadn’t taken a breath himself since he’d seen the holes in her clothes, and when he ripped open her jacket, he was terrified he’d find wounds to her heart and lungs.
Instead he saw a black Kevlar vest, identical to the one Court had put on in the armory on the second floor.
He breathed a sigh of relief but continued checking her.
He found a wound on her right hip at the pelvis, where she’d taken a single round. He felt around her hip towards her back and discovered the exit wound.
Hanley said, “How bad is it?”
“She needs a hospital, but I need to occlude the bleeding first.”
Court saw her eyes open and tears stream out. She tried to talk, but he told her to lie still and quiet. She persisted, and finally he leaned forward to listen to her.
“What’s that?”
“She . . . was going to . . . kill you,” Zoya’s weak voice croaked.
Court moved his hand from her wound, pulled off his dress shirt and then his undershirt, and jammed it hard against her hip to slow the exit wound’s bleeding. He put his hand back down on the front of her hip.
As he did this he said, “No. I gave her my pistol, she was just giving me light so I could dismantle the device.”
Zoya shook her head. “No,” she said. “It was trained on the side of your head.”
Court looked back towards Brewer, then again towards Zoya. He didn’t know what to think.
He said, “Look. You’re going to be okay. Those across the chest are going to hurt, and your hip is grazed, but you’ll be okay.”
This was a lie. Her hip wasn’t grazed. It was shot, pure and simple, but he was trying to put a good spin on things.
Especially because he had been the one who shot her.
Lights filled the room as a group of Royal Scots Dragoons came running in, their rifles out in front of them.
Hanley shouted for a medic, and a man with a backpack of first-aid supplies ran over and knelt next to Zoya.
“She was going to kill you, Court,” Zoya said again, and then she slipped into unconsciousness.
Court looked up to Hanley and saw the older man’s jaw fixed in anger.
* * *
• • •
The Scottish military forces rendered aid to the two wounded American women, and within twenty minutes of their arrival they were on litters being carried to the ground floor.