I—” He coughed on the blood filling his mouth. It left slick, dark droplets over his face. “Am I dying?” he garbled.
“You’ve got a shredded carotid artery,” Bran told him, having learned it was better to give a dead man the truth. Somehow it lessened the fear and sped up the journey to acceptance. “Is there anything you want me to tell anyone? Anything you want me to do?”
For a second, the brave Coastie searched his face as if hoping he misheard. Then he said, “T-tell my wife and kids—” More coughing. More blood. “I love them.”
“I will,” Bran vowed, feeling the man’s blood pumping hot and heavy against his hands. The Guardsman’s life was slipping through his fingers. “I’ll tell ’em you were a hero. And that your last thoughts were of them.”
“I d-don’t—” Now the man was struggling to breathe, struggling to hold on to that last, waning vestige of life. The fabric of Bran’s already tattered soul shredded just a little more. He could not believe he once again found himself ferrying a fine man to the other side. “I don’t want to…to die…”
With those awful words, the courageous Guardsman breathed his last. His eyes went opaque as the life left them, his skin gray and already cooling from lack of blood. Bran gently removed his hands from the man’s ruined neck and wiped the blood on his shorts. His jaw clenched so hard he was surprised he didn’t shatter his teeth.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Mason muttered, still standing over them, weapon raised, guard up.
“I thought we were finished watching good men die,” Bran said. “I’d hoped we were finished.” He took a second, a moment of silence for the fallen sailor, before asking, “So how many friendlies we got left?”
“At most two,” Mason said. “The captain and one more.”
“And we have no idea how many mercs are still out here.”
“I say we untie, start the engines, and get the fuck out of here.”
“Roger that,” Bran agreed, pushing to his feet just as movement at the back of the boat near the ramp where the Coasties launched their rescue dinghy caught his attention. “Behind you!” he yelled, grabbing for the M4 strapped to his back.
A sound around the corner of the bridge house told him he didn’t have time to get his weapon in the ready position. Mason bellied out and opened up on the two men sneaking aboard the back of the boat at the same time Bran spun and slapped the barrel of a SCAR-L away from his head just as it peeked around the corner and aimed. The metal was cold and wet against the side of his hand, and the rifle hit the deck with a clatter before skidding toward the railing.
Bran barely had time to brace himself before his would-be assassin let loose with a bloodcurdling scream and launched himself. The two of them slammed onto the deck in a tangle of arms and legs as the sound of two rounds zzzzzipped through the air beside them.
As Mason laid down a covering fire, keeping the assailants at the back of the boat pinned, Bran fought to gain the upper hand with all the rage and fury inside him. Still rolling across the deck, he yanked his knife from the sheath around his calf. With a grunt and twist, he was able to end up atop his attacker. He didn’t hesitate. He plunged the blade straight toward the merc’s heart, but the man grabbed his wrist at the last moment and stayed the deathblow.
“Who are you guys?” the mercenary gritted as they both struggled to control the direction of the blade.
It’s the dude with the Southern accent. Bran would recognize that voice anywhere.
“I’m the last guy you’ll ever see,” he snarled, putting his full weight against the hilt of the blade, ignoring the ache in his thigh. The local anesthetic the medic—the now dead medic—had given him was wearing off. “Brought to you courtesy of the United States Navy.”
“Please,” Southern Accent begged, his eyes wide and frightened inside the holes of the balaclava he still wore. “You wouldn’t kill a brother in arms, would you? I was Navy too.”
The tip of Bran’s knife pierced the merc’s flesh. Tears welled in the villain’s eyes. “You’re no brother of mine.” The monster was alive inside Bran. It yelled for blood. For death. For vengeance in the name of the brave Coast Guardsman who was dead on the deck not two feet away. “You sold your soul to