Chapter 3 3

The General was dying.

Arleen could see it in the way his skin had turned the color of ash, in the shallow, rapid rise and fall of his chest. The bullet had missed the major organs, but it had nicked an artery. He was bleeding out internally and externally.

He wouldn't last five minutes. The helicopter was at least seven minutes out.

Arleen knelt beside him. The smell of copper was overwhelming.

"You..." Clemons gasped, his hand clutching the wound. "You're just a child."

"Shut up," Arleen said. It wasn't rude; it was tactical. "Save your oxygen."

She looked at the wound. It was a jagged mess. The pressure bandage he had applied was soaked through and useless.

She needed to cauterize it.

She patted down his pockets. A silver cigarette case. A heavy gold lighter.

"This is going to hurt," she said.

She didn't wait for permission. She flicked the lighter open. The flame danced in the darkness.

She picked up the tactical knife she had retrieved from the dead mercenary. She wiped the blade on her hoodie, then held it over the flame.

Clemons's eyes widened. "No... anesthesia..."

"Bite this." She shoved a piece of leather-his own wallet-between his teeth.

She didn't hesitate. Hesitation was infection. Hesitation was death.

She pressed the hot blade against the torn vessel.

The sound was a wet sizzle. The smell of burning flesh filled the small clearing, thick and greasy.

Clemons screamed through his teeth. His body arched off the ground, his back bowing in agony. His eyes rolled back in his head.

Arleen held him down with one hand, her knee pressing into his thigh to immobilize him. Her other hand was steady, surgical. She wasn't Arleen Brewer, the high school dropout. She was The Queen, who had once performed an appendectomy on herself in a safe house in Caracas.

She worked quickly, sealing the worst of the bleed.

"Stay with me," she commanded, slapping his cheek lightly.

Clemons groaned, his eyes fluttering open. He looked at her with a mix of terror and awe. He had seen combat medics work, but he had never seen a teenage girl carve into a man with the dispassionate efficiency of a butcher.

"The bullet..." he mumbled.

"It's lodged against the pelvic bone. I can't take it out here. But you won't bleed to death."

She wiped her hands on the grass.

The helicopter was close now. The wind from the rotors began to whip the treetops, sending a shower of pine needles down on them. A spotlight cut through the canopy, blindingly bright.

Arleen stood up. She couldn't be found here. Not with three dead bodies and a high-profile target. The questions would be endless. Her cover would be blown before she even started.

"Wait," Clemons rasped. He reached out, his bloody hand gripping her wrist. His grip was weak, desperate. "Name. Tell me your name."

Arleen looked down at him. The spotlight swept over them, illuminating her face for a split second.

She calculated the odds. If she ran, they would hunt her. If she gave a name, she became a person of interest, but also a savior. Clemons. That was the name on the helicopter tail she had glimpsed. The Clemons family owed debts.

"Brewer," she said, her voice barely audible over the roar of the engine. "Arleen Brewer."

She pulled her wrist free.

She moved fast. She used the chaotic wind from the landing chopper to mask her retreat. She scrambled up the ridge, diving into a thicket of rhododendrons just as the first rope dropped.

She watched from the shadows.

A man rappelled down. He didn't move like a soldier; he moved like a force of nature. Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing tactical gear that looked custom-made.

Hale Clemons.

She recognized him from the news feeds. The heir to the Clemons empire. Ruthless. Brilliant. Dangerous.

He hit the ground and unclipped in one fluid motion. He sprinted to the General.

"Grandfather!" His voice was a roar of raw panic.

A medic dropped down behind him, carrying a trauma kit.

Arleen watched as the medic examined the wound. She saw the medic pause, look closer, and then look up at Hale, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Someone worked on him," the medic shouted over the noise. "Field cauterization. It's... it's perfect. Saved his life."

Hale froze. He stood up slowly, turning a full three hundred and sixty degrees. His eyes scanned the darkness.

He looked right at the rhododendrons where Arleen was hiding.

She held her breath. Her heart rate slowed to a crawl. Don't move. Don't blink.

Hale took a step toward the woods. He crouched down. He touched the ground where she had been kneeling.

He picked up something.

It was a cheap plastic hair clip that had fallen when she was thrown against the tree. Pink. Broken.

He stared at it, his face unreadable in the harsh light.

"Get him out of here!" Hale barked, pocketing the clip. "And sweep the area. I want to know who did this."

Arleen didn't wait. She melted back into the deeper woods, moving silently away from the chaos.

She reached the trailer twenty minutes later. She climbed back through the window, collapsing onto the bed.

Her ribs throbbed. Her hands were shaking again.

System Notification: Mission Complete.

Reward: Combat Reflexes Level 1 Unlocked. Vitality Boost Applied.

She felt a warmth spread through her limbs, a tingling sensation as muscle fibers knit together and nerves sharpened. The pain in her ribs dulled to a manageable ache.

She looked at her hands. They were still thin, still calloused from scrubbing floors, but they felt different. Connected.

She closed her eyes. Tomorrow was Monday. School.

The battlefield was changing, but the war was just beginning.