The shooters were sure of their work. They’d seen the blood, the slump of Oliver’s body, and the silence of his chest. It was enough confirmation. No need to linger.
But the CIA agent had been seconds away. By the time he reached the scene, the shooters were gone, and Oliver lay sprawled on the ground, lifeless to the untrained eye. The agent crouched beside him, as his fingers searched for a pulse.
“Still alive,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. The bullet had torn through Oliver’s shoulder, dangerously close to his chest but sparing his vital organs.
“Get me an ambulance—now!” he barked into his comms.
“No time,” came the reply. “ETA is ten minutes.”
The agent clenched his jaw.
“We don’t have ten minutes. I’m taking him myself.” He scooped Oliver up, his mind racing.
