The little bit of sunlight coming through the dense canopy up above seemed like a divine aura, pulling his senses from the desperate situation he'd found himself in to a calmer and peaceful state.
The wind had picked up some more, causing the trees to sway back and forth, the strong sinewy trunks creaking every once in a while, disrupted only by the occasional dropping of pinecones and small twigs as a busy squirrel up above was gathering food.
Mike could tell by the angle of the light that he hadn't been unconscious for too long, the sun still nearly in the same spot from a little while ago when a wave of agony had finally sent him over the threshold of oblivion.
Much of the pain was still there, the strong waves of agony and dullness reduced to a throbbing pressure in his side, his body warning him that blood loss and infection were setting in fast.
Licking his lips, Mike inhaled deeply, wincing when the sharp pain punished him instantly.
As if nature was trying to make up for his discomfort, a slight breeze passed him by, the gentle wind feeling cool on his sweat-soaked face and neck.
Relishing the reprieve for a moment, Mike closed his eyes again, cueing his hearing to the surrounding area, hoping and praying that backup would slowly catch up with them.
The longer he laid there, the more he realized that there was a low humming of an engine approaching his position, his weary mind incapable of rationalizing that anything motorized could be found on these slopes and thus tuning out the noise altogether.
It made no sense, it was downright impossible.
There was no standard issue vehicle in the police force of San Francisco that could make that sort of noise, a combination of a strained lawn mower and a tractor with a bad muffler.
Perhaps Davis' gang had a hidden arsenal of off-road vehicles stashed in the forest, allowing for a quick escape when it became necessary, thus the unusual route taken to go after Milan.
It was a thought that made him clench the grip of the .38 tighter as he waited.
And waited.
And the longer he listened to the strange noise, the more obvious it became that somebody was approaching his position, even more so once he felt the soil below his back vibrating from the commotion.
To make matters worse, he heard rapid footsteps.
As his foggy mind pulled him back to his days in the Pacific, Mike felt a rush of adrenalin flood his body, allowing his muscles to grow tense, ready to fight the enemy with his last breath if needed.
When nobody called out his name, he grew even more suspicious, keeping his eyes closed to pretend unconsciousness, his body preparing for a battle he knew would likely be fatal. Then again, if it would help save his partner's life and that of their prime witness, the sacrifice would be well worth it.
As the sound of the engine turned into that of machine guns attacking their position and the pine needles below his body became the volcanic landscape of Iwo Jima; Mike remembered the few palm trees left shading his position for many days, making him wonder how many lives had already been lost conquering such barren land for the sake of strategic warfare, the necessity to station planes to further their military advances.
And he had been deemed to spearhead the mission along with a rare assortment of other specialists, ending up either as war heroes or collateral damage, understandable casualties that would pave the road to a greater good for the Free World.
Mike survived that mission with no scars except those terrifying images engrained into his mind, haunting him at night when his walls dropped too low, allowing the horrors to creep up and disturb his peace. Little did he know that thirty years after the fact, his number would come up again, in a remote forest, fighting guys who wore the same uniform he did.
And just like last time, his confused mind ordered him to go all out when duty called…or don't come back at all.