The first thing Harvath heard when the ringing in his ears subsided was Paul Morgan cursing at the top of his lungs. As Bullet Bob had done to Cates earlier, Scot was about to admonish the man for spewing obscenities in a church, until he saw the reason why-Morgan had been hit.
The team ran to where he lay, blood oozing from several wounds to his chest. Along with Cates, he had advanced up the south wall of the sanctuary, but unlike his partner, he had failed to drop fast enough when the huge Chechen pitched his grenade into the center of the church.
In a flash, Harvath had undone Morgan’s vest, drawn the Benchmade knife from his pocket, and sliced through the marine’s bloody shirt. As Harvath looked at the wounds, he asked, “Can you breathe?”
Coughing, Morgan replied, “It feels like somebody whacked me in the chest with a bat.”
“But can you breathe?” repeated Harvath.
Morgan coughed again and said, “Yeah, I can breathe, but it hurts like hell.”
“Why didn’t you duck, dumb-ass?” demanded Cates.
“I had that fucker in my sights. There was no way I was going to let him go.”
“So much for discretion being the better part of valor.”
“Discretion is for pussies. When you go back there, you’re going to find that clown on the ground.”
“Fifty bucks says you missed him,” responded Cates.
Morgan coughed out a laugh as he tried to stand up. “You’re on. Let’s go.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said Harvath as the marine winced and fell back down. “You need medical attention. These wounds are pretty bad.”
“You want the coppers to get all the credit for collaring these guys?”
Harvath ignored him and quickly fished through the pockets of his vest for some gauze and a QuickClot pouch. Tearing it open, he pressed the rapid coagulation sponges against the worst of the wounds and then had Herrington lean him forward so that they could wrap his chest with gauze. The pain from the piece of Lexan that had been lodged in Harvath’s shoulder grew so intense as he did this that he had to back off.
“Are you okay?” asked Bob.
“Fine,” replied Harvath as he sucked it up and went back to rapidly dressing Morgan’s injury.
Once the gauze had been wrapped tight, Harvath leaned him up against the wall and crossed his arms, encouraging him to continue applying pressure.
“That’s it?” asked Hastings. “That’s all you’re going to do for him?”
“It’s all we can do,” Harvath responded as he radioed McGahan, told him they had a man down, and gave him Morgan’s position.
The marine looked up at him and forcing a smile, coughed, “Let’s hope this is the worst thing that happens.”
Standing up, Harvath turned to the others and said, “Let’s go.”
With Harvath at the lead, the team raced toward the nave while McGahan’s ESU officers from the north and south ends of the transept were already well ahead of them.
When they exited the sacristy and charged into the service corridor they saw the two cops standing in a pile of glass on either side of a broken window.
Using hand signals, one of the officers indicated for Harvath and his team to hold up, because the terrorists they were chasing had gone out the window.
Harvath didn’t like it. It was too dangerous. As they went through that window, the terrorists could pick them off one by one. They needed a better plan.
Harvath hugged the wall and began creeping forward. He wanted to tell the ESU guys to back off, when he heard something pop beneath his boot and Bob Herrington grabbed his arm.
Raising his leg, Harvath looked down at what he’d stepped on-a tiny piece of glass. Herrington didn’t need to say a word. Harvath knew what it meant. Whoever had broken that window had come back down the hallway in their direction. Maybe his urban tracking skills weren’t as bad as he thought.
And maybe they had just caught a significant break.