I do not claim to know local customs or dress or language of whatever country I landed the Team in. So, yes, I made it up.

And, I am no medical expert…not even an amateur. I like to write, not research thoroughly. I try to stay as realistic as possible, but if medical inconsistencies bother you, read no further.

Enjoy!


"So, Bevy? What were you doing?" Blackburn asked with a weary sigh. Just what he needed; another clueless dick trying to pick a fight with Jason Hayes and when Jason wouldn't engage, found a way to make him come gunning. "Dog break skin?"

"No sir."

"You?" he asked the fist-fighter. "Any loose teeth?"

"No sir."

"So? Bevy? What gives? You think stranding Spencer is sticking it to Hayes?"

"I have no issues with Spencer or Bravo Team."

"But you do with Hayes?"

"Didn't say that."

"I can't have this Bevy. I don't coddle Bravo Team. They are damn good at their jobs and I see no reason to curb Hayes' somewhat unconventional ways of getting the job done." Eric rested his elbows on his desk, interlaced his fingers and pressed the pads of his thumbs against his closed eyelids. "I can't condone leaving any man stranded out there in this desert, on those dunes. Not during a simple recon mission. I'm giving you warning, if anything has happened to Spencer, I won't protect you from Hayes."

"The kid is fine." Bevy scoffed. "What could happen to him? At most, a sunburn?"

"Hayes will come after you with everything he has." Eric raised his head. "And I'll let him. Dismissed."

***000***

The table set for mid-day meal, Mahira served her husband first. When he waved her off, she served her three sons, oldest to youngest, then her daughters, and when her husband nodded his approval, took her seat and the family of seven bowed their heads for prayer.

She had just said the equivalent of America's amen when the door to their modest abode was kicked off its hinges. Literally. It smacked the wall, bounced partially back and fell at an awkward angle against the frame. Before she could do more than jump, a number of very large, very fast men invaded her home. She began screaming, her worst nightmare was coming true.

They were yelling in a language she recognized but did not speak – English. She saw the American flag on the chest of one man who was armed, but not pointing a gun at anyone in her family. The rifle was slung over his shoulder, not even in his hands. The way they rushed in and took command of the room – her home – moving with practiced ease caught her up in a wave of motion and she was on her feet, gathering her two youngest and hiding them within her skirts. Her husband's chair was pulled back from the table, he was dumped to the floor and it was flung aside. Two more children came to huddle against her as she cowered in the corner. Her oldest son tried to help his father to his feet and both were swept into the space between stove and cupboard by the frantic motion in the small room.

They were effectively out of the way and it had all taken mere seconds.

She didn't move, staring in open-mouth dismay over the brutal invasion into her home. What did these people want? Hope to gain? Their home was small, one story. They had nothing to steal, little to give and no room to house these men. The youngest children were crying in fear, the other two screamed in terror. Her eldest son spoke rapidly, asking to be left alone, to take whatever was wanted, to please go away. They were ignored.

With the swipe of an arm, every dish, plate, bowl, pot, utensil on their table crashed to the floor, was kicked from underfoot. Chairs where grabbed and tossed out of the way. She cried out at the loss and destruction. Dishes were not easily obtained and to have them destroyed without thought or care made her heart break. Why? Why would they do such a horrible thing? OH! Oh, ohohohoh, the table where she fed her family was now completely cleared and whatever was carried by two of the intruders was dropped and forcefully held down upon its surface.

Orders were given, questions were asked, answers shouted back, hands offered help, bags and backpacks were opened, pawed through, items withdrawn, tossed, thrown, demands were obeyed, voices cursed. The air of urgency, panic, their haste and actions, were felt by even the youngest children and they peeked around her skirts to stare, wide-eyed, at the frantic activity in their kitchen. She was too stunned and shocked to notice, as the four men, and there were four, she could count them now, continued to wreak devastation to her home.

She shrieked as she recognized what they had put on her table.

A man.

He was injured. He was not happy. And he did not want to lie on her table. Good, because she didn't want him there either. Every time he moved, his motion was countered by one of the men around him. His hand was caught, his arm blocked, his head held, his feet pinned. He squirmed, he was held down. He wiggled, he was stilled. He slid down the table, he was hauled back up it, his head back to the top.

She watched in horror as a wicked knife cut away straps and belts and buckles from the man who writhed and squirmed on her table. No one was gentle. He was pushed one way, rolled another, pulled back. She didn't know if he was struggling to get away or if begging for them to stop. His cries – screams – of pain were ignored. He didn't lay still, knees coming up and his boots were on the table, heels digging against the surface to gain leverage with his legs only to have his ankles grabbed and his legs yanked flat. He resisted, wanting his knees up. He slid down the table and again, without care, he was pulled back up, his hands grabbed when he tried to sit up.

"Stay down!"

Conversation rose in pitch, an argument broke out and Clay was pushed down onto the table for a third time. Sonny slammed Clay's shoulders roughly, rather hard, eliciting a gut-deep groan, in an attempt to stun him.

"Sonofabitch is stronger than he looks." Sonny panted, dragging Clay back up the table. "Yo, Brock, dude, little help here."

"Yeah, yeah, got him."

The helmet came off as the chin strap was sliced through. It hit the floor. The knife severed the laces on one boot. It hit the floor. Seconds later, it was joined by its mate. The floor welcomed the socks next. He was lifted off his back, the Kevlar vest was no match for the knife. It hit the floor. No knife was needed for the t-shirt. Someone used their teeth to start a rend at the hem, and ripped in two, the scraps hit the floor. The weapons belt around his waist quickly gave way under the see-saw motion of the sharp blade. It hit the floor. The straps securing a gun holster around his thigh gave way, hit the floor. Two knee pads hit the floor. Scissors cut a pant leg from ankle to crotch, repeated the action on the other pant leg, cutting around a section and leaving it. His legs were lifted and the cut up pants hit the floor.

She screamed. He screamed. The children screamed.

Within mere seconds, he was unclothed and she had never in her life seen a man in his underwear! And on her kitchen table! She closed her eyes, blindly groping to put her hands over the eyes of the two children still clinging to her skirts but getting bolder.

And he was bleeding all over her table.

Her dishes were stepped on, kicked aside by feet mindless of spilled food. If a dish, pot or bowl had managed to survive the crash to the floor, there was no hope for it now. She heard cupboards being opened, ransacked, rummaged through, and she opened her eyes to beg; the words foreign to her unwelcome visitors: Please stop. It is all we have. What do you want?

"Hold his legs."

Brock stood above him, pinning his shoulders to the table, Sonny was between his legs, hands on either knee, pinning his thighs. Clay didn't like that. Not at all. Nor was he content to allow the hold. He protested by kicking his heels against the table legs. Someone ordered him to stop it, but no one made him.

Effectively pinned down, Clay was quiet, breathing hard, rapidly panting, chest heaving, sweating. He didn't respond to his name, repeated calls or threats. Just groaned, stomach muscles tensing and rolling when fingers roughly kneaded and palpated along his belly, searching for symptoms of; swelling, bruising, tenderness, pain, rigidity - all signs of internal injury or bleeding.

"Clay! Deep breaths!"

They sat him up, laid him down, gave him a shake, held his head. He was rolled left, then right, his back palpated. And each time he was yelled at to breathe deep.

"Cough….no…cough…..Spencer…..hey, dammit! Come on! Sonny?"

And Sonny snapped his fingers next to the material still covering part of Clay's right thigh. He didn't cough, he choked, coming off the table all on his own with a scream of pain.

"Okay, ok, okay kid, sorry." Trent pushed him down. "Keep him down."

"Easy Spence, take it easy kid." Sonny gave his uninjured leg a jostle. "Trent will give you something for the pain in a minute." He looked at Trent. "Tell me you got something in that bag to give him some relief."

Trent nodded. He looked at Jason for permission who gave it with a nod.

Again Mahira covered the eyes of her children, she didn't want them seeing either the syringe or its entry into human skin. She turned her attention from the men around her table to the drama at her sink. Jason was yelling at her husband. Asking something, demanding answers to questions he didn't understand.

The men were frustrated, anxious, scared. Well, so was she. So was her family.

"Anyone here speak any English?" Jason demanded. He did not see a stove in the kitchen. How did these people cook? He needed hot water and if he had to point a gun at someone's head to get it, he would.

Her oldest son looked at his father and after receiving a nod of permission, stepped forward. "I speak American,"

A woman emerged from the circle around her table. Mahira hadn't noticed her before.

"Hi." She greeted, smiling gently. "I'm Lisa."

"Lease-sah." He repeated. "Me, Pashtan."

"Nice to meet you Pashtan." She extended her hand and after a moment, he shook it. "Would you please tell your family we mean you no harm? We have an injured team member and require assistance…." And she knew she'd lost him. So she started over and repeated slowly. "We mean you no harm."

Pashtan translated for his father.

"Water Davis, make friends later." Jason commanded. God damn, his head was spinning. "We don't have time for this shit."

"We need hot water." She pointed to the sink and waited. Pashtan nodded. "Yes, water. Something to carry it in. Heat it. That's it."

The boy translated this time to his mother, who looking less fearful, nodded and waved a daughter into another room. Where had this woman come from? She was dressed much like the men, for she wore pants and a t-shirt in the same colors and material as they did, but she smiled and spoke quietly, slowly and Mahira felt slightly better with the other woman's presence in her home.

"They don't cook in the kitchen." Brock spoke up. "Too much heat. There'll be a shed out back with a stove."

Jason knew that, he did, but he couldn't concentrate, or focus or think and the dim, airless room reeked of heavy spices from the ruined meal. He had all he could do to keep his stomach from revolting.

"Lisa, get him outside." Trent ordered. "Nowhere near the fire either. Clay, fuck me, I'm going to beat your ass, you don't lie still. Get him to drink." He told Lisa. "Throw some ice on him."

"Come on boss."

"Water." Jason insisted.

"Pump's outside." Brock mumbled around the flashlight he held with his teeth because Trent cursed the lack of decent light.

The girl the mother had motioned from the room returned with the only two pots the family owned and with Pashtan leading the way, Lisa and Jason followed him out the door in search of water and a stove.

Reassured by the woman that her family was not in danger, Mahira ushered the children into their bedroom and returned to the kitchen, joined her husband and stood and observed.

American service men. Here. In her home.

The man everyone called 'Jason' – for she'd heard the word enough to recognize it was his name – was the leader. She knew that by the way he moved, the way he barked orders, the way everyone talked to him, not at him. He spoke, they moved. Her eyes narrowed. He was not dressed as the others. His helmet was not strapped on, he didn't not wear a vest or belt, carried no weapon. His boots were not tied, his pants were not fastened, and he wore a black t-shirt - deadly in this heat. It was almost as if perhaps he'd gotten dressed in a car.

"Ssssh." Trent was saying, holding a bottle in one hand, Clay's chin in the other. "Hey, heyheyhey….enough of that. Stop, okay, come on? Just me here, your ole buddy Trent. 'K? You with me?" he spoke patiently. "Why you fighting me? It's eye flush Clay. Hey, stop, I said….Spencer, come on already, cut me a break."

Clay's head rolled, kicking against Sonny who moved slightly to avoid a kick in the crotch. Trent dodged a fist, releasing Clay's chin to slap his hand to the table.

"Good Christ, kid has like eight hands and three heads." Trent muttered. He smacked Clay. "Now, stop."

"Need his head still?" Brock asked.

"I want all of him still."

Brock adjusted his hold, hooking his elbows under Clay's arm pits, crossed one arm over his chest and brought the other up to intertwine his fingers in the kids mop of hair. It had quickly dried from its sweat-soaking and Brock made a face at the gritty sand.

"Good….okay…..yeah….that's it." Trent took the penlight from Brock's mouth, pried open one eye, flashed the light about, then did the same with the other.

"Fuck." Sonny said. "Why they all red and dry like that?"

"Sand is all." Trent held Clay's eyelid up and generously squirted solution from the bottle. "No goggles when the sand kicked up. Eye wash and he's good." He did the other eye. "Bet that feels better, huh Spencer?" he squeezed a cream from a tube and dabbed it on Clay's nose and cheeks as well as his lips. His forehead had been spared the brunt of the sun by his helmet but Trent wasn't stingy with the aloe cream.

()

Jason stumbled after Lisa and Pashtan, listening to, but not understanding their conversation. Christ almighty, he felt like shit. He could barely put two words together that made sense and it wasn't the sand blowing around that made him disoriented.

He watched the boy pump the water into the pot, watched Lisa set the pot on the stove that was fueled by either wood or coal or peat or whatever was used as fuel in these parts. He didn't know, didn't care, because it didn't matter. All that mattered was it would heat the water.

"Hey boss." Lisa gave him a bottle from their cooler. "Drink up."

"It's purple."

"Doc said you need electrolytes."

"Gatorade?"

"Yeah," she grinned, "Sure."

"Davis, what is this?"

"Grape. You need hydration Jason. Don't argue, just drink it. Gosh, men are babies."

Jason retreated with the bottle to the shade provided by the house, avoiding the additional warmth from the stove fire. He was never going to pooh-pooh and blow off the doc's diagnosis again. When he'd left on this trip, he'd expected to find Spencer trudging along the road towards base. Expected to pick him up, give him a good scolding – not a reprimand, he believed Brock's version of events over Bevy's, and yes, he was well aware, even in his fevered state, he didn't yet have the whole story – for missing his transport on the pull-out, and return to base where he could admit defeat and accept IV fluids.

Yeah, all hadn't gone as planned. Not one part of it; they hadn't encountered Clay on the road. Or any sign of him. Or sign of any other transport. No people, no hostiles, not even a fucking bird or prairie dog. Then they were at the area where the recon mission had been. A sand storm had kicked up, comm's went out, sat phones didn't get a signal and they were left blind.

They'd gotten out of the Humvee, he'd given permission for the men to split up and scout but had ordered them to remain within both sight and shouting distance. Lisa had gone with them. He hadn't been able to venture far from the shade thrown by the Humvee, had sat in the sand drinking water when, out of nowhere, Clay was walking towards him.

He'd gotten to his feet, only to return to his ass with a hard thud when Clay had collapsed in his arms, taking Jason down with him. He'd passed out, just coming around when Lisa let out a whistle to recall the team. They'd loaded up and driven towards what they thought was base. The sand storm made going tough, the compass had gone haywire, and now, here they were, no idea where and no idea how badly Clay was injured, or how or why or where, and Jason wasn't fit to have command of the situation. If anything happened to that kid, Bevy was done for. Hell, didn't matter if all Clay turned out to have was heat stroke and a hang-nail, he was going after Bevy with everything he had.

()

His eyes no longer burning, his face no longer on fire, the voices around him familiar, Clay was content. Maybe he'd passed out, he didn't know. He wasn't sure of anything. He didn't know where he was and opening his eyes and looking around, didn't place him anywhere he knew.

"Well?" Sonny demanded impatiently. "What we looking at?"

"No bones broken." Trent replied. "Bruise on his chin most likely from a fist. No signs of concussion. Kid ain't even scratched."

"Except his leg." Brock said.

"Yeah." Trent eyed the swatch of material they'd cut around and ignored, in distaste. When they'd attempted to pull Clay's camo's off, he'd whined. When pressure tugged at his hips, he'd whimpered. When gentle pressure became a yank, he'd cried out in pain. When the sharp yank didn't pull the material free, he'd screamed, head banging the table, back arching as his feet scrambled for purchase to push him up or off the table. They'd cut the pants off and cut around the area stuck tight to his skin and left it alone. "Embedded."

"What is it?" Sonny asked.

"Dunno." Trent shrugged. "Need water to loosen it without hurting him too much."

"Jason's on it."

"Trent, he's burning up here." Brock said. "Should he be this hot?"

"Probably not. We need to cool him down."

"We have ice."

"It's for Jason."

"He'll share."

Mahir stepped forward, speaking rapidly to her husband when he tried to stop her. She shook her head, shaking off his restraining hand. The boy on her table was too hot. She knew the signs of heat stroke. He was in trouble and the lunkheads standing around him were doing nothing about it.

Sonny reached for his handgun, but she untied her apron, took it off, removed the lid from a cistern in the corner and dunked it inside. Her movements were slow, she kept her hands visible at all times and she didn't attempt to hide was she was doing.

Leaving Clay in the hands of Brock and Sonny, Trent moved to see what she was about. He squatted down and dipped a hand in the cistern, bringing the liquid in his cupped palm to first his nose, then mouth, tasting it with his tongue.

"Water." He confirmed. "Thank you." He withdrew the apron, didn't bother to wring it out, and dripping water across the floor, returned to the table. There, he wrung it out over Clay's chest and stomach, letting the cool water trail wherever. "Feels good, eh?" he repeated the procedure three times, then motioned for Brock and Sonny to lift the kid off the table. He laid the soaking wet apron on the surface on the table and Brock and Sonny laid him down on top of it. "Where's the cooler? We need to get him to drink."

"Right here." Lisa was back. "What do you want him to have? Water?"

"Ice packs?" Trent asked. "What else you got? Gatorade?"

"Yup, blue gels."

"One under his neck."

Lisa complied, shushing and cooing as she lifted Clay's head and settled the ice pack under his neck. "Hey, there blues eyes." She smiled when he blinked up at her. "Hi."

"Davis." He licked his lips, rousing in response to the dousing of the cool water.

"Right here," She said cheerfully. "How you doing?"

His response was a groan and he turned away. She patted his cheek with a tsk-tsk and recalled his attention. "Not yet, need you to drink for me."

"'s, it?" it smelled weird. What was it?

"Sit? No, you don't have to sit up. Can you lift your head a bit? That's it….here…." she supported his head with one hand and held a bottle to his lips with the other. His tongue licked at the mouth of the bottle, lapped at the liquid but he didn't accept it, pulling away with a grimace. "No….no. Clay, you can't….you have to….come on. Hey, please?"

But he didn't respond to her cajoling, Brock's orders or Sonny's threats. She cast a worried glance at Trent who, with tweezers was poking around the material on Clay's leg.

"He can't swallow." She said worriedly.

"Yes he can." Jason nudged her aside, taking the bottle from her. "He just doesn't like it." He frowned at the bottle, holding it in the light Brock provided for Trent's gentle, and as of yet, non-evasive exploration with the tweezers. "What the fuck is this?" he scowled. "Is this….does that say…..you're trying to give him coconut water?"

"Doc said to give it to…you." Lisa told him triumphantly. "So, HA!"

"Why the hell would he do that?"

"Because it's been proven to be one of the best drinks for re-hydration and the replenishment of nutrients and minerals." Lisa retorted. "Better than water."

"Not if a man won't drink it." Jason set the offensive bottle aside. But Jason would, if he had to, drink it. They all knew that. "Don't blame him. Where's that purple Gatorade? Didn't taste too bad."

The bottle she handed him had a tab top. Jason popped it up with his teeth, gripped Clay's chin with one hand, wedged the top between the kid's lips and squeezed. Clay choked at first, his mouth suddenly flooded, and he spit out more than he swallowed, but once his parched throat welcomed the moisture, he was content to open his mouth and drink as long as someone held the bottle for him.

"Jason, you good?" Trent asked.

"What's wrong?" Jason righted a fallen chair and sat down.

"We gotta make a decision."

"About what?"

"Staying, going, leaving. All of us, some of us…..taking him outside…..what to do."

"How is he?"

Trent shrugged. "Hard to say."

"Any signs of shock?"

"Heat stroke maybe. Exhaustion at least."

"Blood loss? Internal injuries? Trent? Don't shake your head. Guess if you have to!"

"Not a medic Jason."

"Closest we got."

"I ain't enough."

"You're going to have to be."

Trent sighed, staring at the tweezers in his hand. "Depends on what's in his leg."

"You don't know?"

"Geez Jace, he was screaming, we tried to take his pants off." Brock spoke up, no need for the boss to gang up on Trent. "We haven't touched his leg."

Clay was now shivering uncontrollably and Mahira offered Lisa a light sheet to put over him. Lisa nodded her acceptance of the offer and shook it out, letting it float down to cover Clay where it fell.

As Pashtan carried in the first pot of hot water, the men gathered protectively around their fallen Team member, who was still sprawled out on her table, and began arguing. Two were soon nose to nose, neither backing down.

"For the love of Christ, Jason, I'm not a combat medic!" Trent finally yelled. "Do you see a med patch?" he thumbed his chest. "I can't do what you're asking me to!"

"You're all he's got!"

"I can't do this!"

"We're right here with you." Brock said supportively.

"I can't hurt him like that Jason! Why don't you get that?" Trent spun around, clasping his fingers behind his head. "Might as well call it minor surgery, I have nothing to put him out with."

"I can punch him." Sonny offered. A lame joke. But it very well might come down to that.

"I get it Trent, I do. But comm's are down, sat's are out, we're cut off from base, all we got is a Humvee that's not a gunner, limited ammo and MAYBE enough gas to return to base. If we can figure out where base is. We chance it, don't make it, he's gonna die in my arms from heat and blood loss and shock or whatever you want to pick."

"Don't put that on me." Trent said harshly. "Not fair Jason."

Sonny looked at Clay. His blue eyes were open, but glassy and unfocused. He was succumbing to blood loss, shock, trauma…something. He was limp, his bones had oozed out and what mass was left, had turned to liquid. He was floppy as a rag doll. The pain meds he'd been given were just strong enough to keep him compliant. Not nearly strong enough if Trent started cutting into his leg to dig out whatever the fuck was embedded in his skin.

"Here, we have hot water, shelter from the sun, control of the sand, towels." Sonny said finally. "We can apply a tourniquet, control the bleeding."

"I nick the artery, I've killed him." Trent argued. "No pain med in that kit is strong enough either."

"Are the chances of you nicking an artery greater than the risk we take if we head back to base with him, run out of gas and are stranded in the desert? No shelter from the sun?" Lisa asked.

"No." Trent muttered. He slumped against the wall and slid to the floor.

"You have a surg kit, don't you? Clamps, sutures, staples, glue?"

"Yeah." Trent mumbled, eyes on his feet.

She spread her hands and shrugged.

Silence.

Brock broke the silence. "Blackburn will come."

"Eventually." Jason agreed.

"Can't you just leave whatever it is in, stop the bleeding, wait for Blackburn to find us?" She persisted.

"We don't know where we are." Sonny pointed out. "We drove blindly from the recon site."

"But he will find us." Lisa insisted.

"How long though?" Jason countered. "The longer we wait, the weaker he gets. Infection."

"He's strong, but no one is that strong." Trent shook his head. "Long as that's in his leg, his body will fight it, not let him heal."

"But we won't be here that long. Morning at the latest." Lisa handed Jason a wet towel. She expected him to pass out at her feet any second now.

"He's been in the sun too long. He's as dehydrated as Jason is. Whatever went in his leg, took dirt, sand, sweat, threads of his pants…bacteria, infection in with it….he can't fight it." Trent sighed. "Not alone, not for long."

Somber silence.

"Our choices." Brock said. "Stay here and wait for rescue, he could die. Send someone back, leave him here, they don't make it, or do and don't make it back to us in time, he could die. Take him and we make it, woot. Take him and head back, don't make it, he will die."

"If we knew where base was." Sonny pointed out. "The way the wind blows out here, where there was a dune this morning, ain't one now."

Trent cursed, whipping the towel on his shoulder at the wall. "No fucking way Bevy's walking away from this in one piece."

"Agreed." Jason nodded. He wouldn't force Trent to do anything he was uncomfortable with, it had to be his decision. Again, Jason cursed his earlier refusal to allow the doc to treat him.

Trent pushed to his feet. "You guys wanna hold him or tie him down? I can't have him moving all over."