CHAPTER SEVEN
QUINCY
“It’s a surface wound.” Kennedy hit me with that lazy smile of his–the one that made his dimples wink, and I wanted to knock him upside his bleeding head.
“Head wounds can be dangerous,” I snapped, rubbing another alcohol wipe over his temple to mop up the blood.
I’d flown the guys and the package–a.k.a. the rescued civilians, back to Mexico City with my heart pounding out of my chest the entire flight. I’d had the bird up and running, rotors spinning as they came out of the woods. We were off the ground the second Taft stepped onto the running boards, not even waiting for him to climb in. My adrenaline had flooded my system when I saw the blood on Kennedy and knew we needed to get the f**k out of there.
Turned out, he’d been grazed by a bullet. His skull had been
