What the freaky, unbelievable, hell?
Rawls leapt back when it suddenly flew at him, but he didn’t have time to evade the blow. As the appendage penetrated his chest, it delivered an electrical shock of such intensity it knocked him off his feet. Before he could scramble up, another static jolt hit him and then another, launching his incorporeal body into helpless, twitching spasms. A sharp prickle swept his body. As the current pooled in his head, a static buzz filled his ears.
And then suddenly he was moving. He dug his heels and hands into the earth, or tried to, but zap, another bolt of electricity lit him from within, and some immense, unseen force dragged him forward.
Zane loomed directly in front, and he braced for impact, except he cut through his LC’s legs like Casper through a wall. He was still adjusting to that when his boots pierced his lifeless torso, and he sank into his limp body like a stone into a well.
His head spun. A dense, crackling hum flooded his brain. Black pinpricks blinded him. A sharp sense of confinement struck, as though he’d stuffed himself into a suit several sizes too small. And then the pinpricks swelled, encircled him, drug him into a vortex of unforgiving black.
Rawls returned to consciousness in increments of scattered impressions and sluggish memories. The heavy thud of his heart deafened his ears . . . something hard and sharp, bordering on painful, dug into his spine . . . the thick sense of claustrophobia faded . . . the static charge consuming his chest shifted to a distinct burn.
Breath by breath the discomfort edged into pain, and from there it shot straight to agony. A groan broke from him, which spawned an explosion of voices.
Light-headed, he struggled to open eyelids that weighed a thousand pounds apiece. One blink, followed by several more, and two worried faces swam into focus—Cosky and Kait, their faces tomato soup–red and streaming with sweat.
“Welcome back,” Zane said, his voice rough with relief.
Rawls rolled his head, tracking his LC’s voice, only to freeze as dizziness hurled his stomach into his throat. He gagged, desperately forcing the bile back.
“Easy,” Zane said, his voice quiet and calm. “You took a couple rounds to the chest.”
An explanation Rawls had arrived at himself thanks to the straitjacket of misery cinched around his ribs, along with that weird dream they’d yanked him from. He eased back on the breathing, taking shallow breaths that wouldn’t expand his rib cage. Kait and Cosky must have healed him enough to keep him alive, although judging from the pain consuming his upper body, considerable damage remained.
He gingerly turned his head to the right, keeping his torso as still as possible, and searched out Kait’s sweaty, tired face.
“Thank you,” he mouthed.
The effort, small as it was, exhausted him. Relaxing, he allowed his eyes to drift shut and concentrated on his breathing. Slowly, the buzzing in his head subsided and the dizziness waned. The agonizing burn in his chest shuffled aside, lurking in the background. A steady drone of voices overhead lulled him into a stupor. He’d just rest here a moment. Recoup his strength. But it didn’t take long for that strange dream to play through his mind.
If Freud’s theory was correct, and dreams were nothing more than the subconscious mind’s expression of wish fulfillment, what the devil did that say about his desires? Uncomfortable with that line of questioning, he searched for something else to occupy his mind.
Opening his eyes, he took stock of his surroundings.
He was lying on the ground, which explained the chilly dampness spreading up his spine. Shifting his shoulders to escape a sharp object jabbing into his shoulder, he winced as agony instantly swooped down, clawing at his chest.
Still, he’d take the pain over that disturbing nightmare. Pain meant he was awake. Hell, it meant he was alive.
Time to get moving, though—the devil only knew when those bastards would regroup and descend on them again. They couldn’t afford to be caught in the open like this. With that in mind, he concentrated on his hand, willing it to move. It took far too long for the order to travel from his brain to his hand, and when it finally did register, the movement barely qualified as a flutter. At this rate, he’d celebrate his next birthday in this damn place.
“Give it time,” Zane said, as though he’d read Rawls’s mind.
Did they have the time?
“Sitrep?” The single question was all he had the energy or air for.
“Secure. We neutralized the last of the bastards.” Zane straightened and arched his back with a grunt of relief. “Wolf and Mac mopped up the chopper guards and are sitting on the bird.” He paused to shake his head, a grim shadow darkening his eyes.
Sitting on the bird . . .