It seemed he had used up quite a lot of his strength dragging his wounded leg behind him. He left a long trail of blood in the white snow. That trail of blood was an arrow, pointing out his position to the enemy. It didn’t matter that he wore specialized clothing to help him hide or that his enhancements would have kept him from being seen—the blood trail was a dead giveaway.
Although Rubin and the others kept the enemy pinned down, the machine gun was firing continuously so that bullets hit the ground mercilessly. He didn’t care. He knew, from the way he was bleeding, in spite of the Zenith, he was a dead man anyway. It wasn’t like he had a whole hell of a lot to lose. He had to give the helicopter a chance to land and take the wounded home.
Using the enormous strength in his arms, he dragged himself across the rugged, freezing ground until he was nearly on top of the enemy, right under their wall. He smelled them. Blood. Fear. Stink of the unwashed. He knew he smelled the same way. He lay there breathing, hoping no one poked a gun over the wall and finished him off before he got his task done.
He took the last of his grenades and tossed them over the wall, trying to hit the enemy squarely, just judging the distance by the sound of their moving around. The explosions rocked the wall so that debris fell on him, but there was no movement. He couldn’t get off his ass to go check to make certain he had actually gotten the last of their enemies.
Malichai listened for movement. For groans. For anything at all that would tell him even one person was still alive. When time passed and he heard nothing at all, he began the slow, arduous journey back across the ground toward the slope. He still had to make it back to where the helicopter was landing, and it seemed a million miles away. In the distance he could hear it coming in, and he was thankful, but he knew in the back of his mind that he wasn’t going to make it.
He should have told Ezekiel he loved him. Funny, he’d never said it to him. Not to him, not to Mordichai either. Then there were Rubin and Diego. They weren’t brothers by blood or birth, but they were brothers just the same. He hadn’t told them either.
“Shut up, Malichai,” Rubin said distinctly. “Conserve your strength. You’re not going to die. You do that and Ezekiel’s most likely gonna shoot my ass.”
That was true. Zeke could be like that. Malichai peered up at Rubin. He was there, rifle slung over his shoulder, his image wavering in and out as if he were more of a mirage. Malichai poked at him with a finger. “You real?”
“Real enough.”
“You getting me out of here?”
“Something like that. You weigh a ton, Malichai. I’m going to tell Nonny not to feed you so much.”
Rubin hoisted him on his back and rushed toward the helicopter already set down in the snow and rocks, stowing the wounded inside as fast as possible.