Author's Note: Hello! Yes, I did post this story before. But a wonderful reviewer mentioned that they would've liked to see more of the team worrying over Adam during the two days he was out. So I extended it! It's not as long or as detailed as it could've been, but I hope this extended version is still enjoyable all the same. Since it ended up being longer, I split it into two chapters, so be wary of that!

Also, as a disclaimer, I am so not a medical professional (but truly appreciate and admire those who are), so please be understanding of my medical blunders if there are any. You are all incredible human beings, and I thank you profusely for taking precious time to read my tale.

And So We Fight On

Chapter One

Dalton hiked up the stairs, the heavy plastic bucket in hand. Leaving Patricia with McGuire, he had one focus—marking their location for the rest of his team. They had only one chance to get out in just a handful of minutes. To most, this would seem like impossible odds. But Dalton trusted his team. Every one of them had been handpicked by him personally, and he was confident they could get the job done.

He ran up the last several steps, eyes snapping forward as a flutter of fabric waved in his peripheral.

Then he saw the other man. And the gun.

He instantly reached for his handgun, sliding it out of the holster with ease.

And just as he pulled the trigger, something punched him in the shoulder—hard. His balance tipped, but he kept his eye on the target, releasing another couple shots until the threat was down.

As the man slid down the wall, Dalton hit the ground, his head smacking the concrete. For a moment, all he felt was pain. In his shoulder. In his head. And then it faded away, his vision dimming as the familiar warmth of unconsciousness enveloped him.

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McGuire could only stare as the prisoner pressed an old nail against Patricia's neck. Dalton had given him a command; he couldn't just leave Patricia alone and in danger.

"You are following a direct order. Get. Out," Patricia ground out, her face fierce with determination. Truthfully, Patricia's word was more powerful than Dalton's, but McGuire couldn't just let his team leader down like that.

"Get out," she pressed, her eyes narrowing. Pursing his lips, McGuire took one last look at Patricia before pushing his way out of the room. He hated that he had to leave, but at the moment, there was nothing he could do about it. Dalton would come up with a solution. He always did.

Fortunately, there weren't any unfriendlies in the hallway, and there was only one path for Dalton to take. McGuire headed straight for the stairs, taking steps two at a time in search of his team leader.

His heart dropped when he saw a familiar head of hair at the top.

"Adam," he huffed urgently, hands already reaching toward Dalton. McGuire's eyes flickered over his team leader, his gaze catching crimson. Quite a bit of it.

There was a faint groan, and McGuire squeezed Dalton's arm in response, looking around to ensure the area was clear. There was only one other man, slumped on the floor, clearly no longer with them.

"Top? Top, can you hear me?" he asked, his free hand probing the bloody shoulder as he hastily looked for the wound. It looked like the shot had just missed the chest plate, sinking itself into unprotected flesh, and the bullet hole was still weeping blood freely.

McGuire gently pushed Dalton onto his side to look for an exit wound, grimacing when he didn't see one. "You with me?"

"Yeah," came the faint reply, weary and strained. "I'm here."

McGuire dug into his medical supplies, grabbing some gauze. He hated to apply a rushed bandage, but they didn't have time for anything better. Binding the wound was the best they could do right now, so he got to work.

"Why aren't you with the director?" Dalton asked, his voice a little stronger.

"The prisoner…Looks like he picked up a nail somewhere and used it to hold her hostage. He told me to get out, and the director gave me a direct order to leave the room."

Dalton shook his head. "You've got to get back down there." There was a pained pinch to his features, but he still looked every bit like the strong team leader McGuire respected. The amount of blood was worrying, but with Noah's voice urgently pushing in his ear, McGuire couldn't give Dalton the recovery time he needed to reorient himself and get back into action.

Once the gauze was securely placed over Dalton's shoulder, McGuire reluctantly pulled the man off the floor. Dalton's stumble didn't go unnoticed.

"You okay?" McGuire prodded, his chest squeezing worriedly as he watched the team leader reach for the heavy bucket again.

"Okay enough," Dalton mumbled. "Get back down to Director Campbell. Make sure she's safe."

The team medic wasn't exactly comfortable leaving Dalton alone in such a state, but orders were orders. And hopefully, it wouldn't be long before the rest of the team got them out.

With a heavy sigh, McGuire bounded back down the stairs.

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His vision was swimming. He could feel the wet cold of blood on his shoulder, and it hurt like hell to move the limb connected to it. Still, he had a job to do, bullet wound or not.

With a cry, he lifted the bucket of powder onto the window sill, pouring the contents down the exterior wall. Hopefully, this would be easy to spot. He had to get Patricia out. He had to get McGuire out.

Dalton turned to go back downstairs, stopping when black dotted his vision. His body ached with weakness, and his shoulder and head throbbed with the wild beat of his adrenaline-fed heart. He just had to push hard as hell until all this was over.

Using the walls for support, he swayed and stumbled as he jogged back to the stairs and down the steps. Once at the bottom, he allowed only a few seconds of rest, then plowed on toward the room. His vision was blurry and his legs were struggling to carry his weight to the door. Before he could manage to slip inside the room, a blast shook the building, small bits of rubble pinging the door from the inside.

Noah's voice continued to drone desperately in the comms, urging them to get out of there before they were discovered. Dalton knew what little time they had, and he knew his team would hesitate to leave without him. The extra seconds they'd wait would put Patricia and the prisoner at risk. So he mustered all the strength he had, pushed the door open, and sprinted toward the open hole in the wall. The glaring light of the sun assaulted his eyes, stabbing the back of his brain without mercy. Still, he pushed on.

He could almost feel the worried glances from his team, but they were too busy piling into the Humvee to actually say anything.

Damn, he felt like shit.

He climbed into the passenger side, feeling overtaxed and dizzy. His vision was graying in and out, and he knew without looking that blood was seeping through the pure white of the gauze.

Once they were all in and hurtling towards the road—with Joseph working on the bleeding prisoner—Jaz braved the question they were all thinking. "You okay, Top? You look like hell."

He swallowed thickly, blinking hard against the throbbing pain in his skull. "Fine for now. Focus on the task at hand."

Before Jaz could ask further, Noah was talking, saying something about creating some space between them and the hostiles behind.

"That means drive faster," Jaz said heatedly, looking to Amir.

"I'm aware," he muttered, pressing harder on the gas pedal.

Dalton was trying his hardest to stay present, but his head couldn't seem to stay up, and he wasn't sure how long he'd last.

"Top? Adam?"

He could feel Jaz's hand cupping his face, a rare act of worry for her tough personality.

"He's really pale, McG."

Two fingers were pressed against his neck. He wanted to swat them away, but he was so tired. So, so tired.

"I's fine," Dalton mumbled, attempting to sit up straighter to push back the weakness. The job wasn't over yet. He couldn't rest.

There was a wild shout of "Brace yourselves!" and a small explosion ahead of them. Amir did his best, but the swerve into the ditch was inevitable. They were stuck. The Humvee wasn't going anywhere.

They'd have to fight their way out now.

The blast left them somewhat disoriented, and they tried to fight past the ringing in their ears as they prepared themselves for heavy action. Smoke wafted in through the windows, coaxing coughs out of the passengers.

With the prisoner badly injured, Dalton was determined to not be another burden to the team. He pushed open the door, falling out of the vehicle and scrambling to find a somewhat safe place to face the enemy. Someone pressed a rifle into his hands just as he turned to ask for one. A wave of dizziness washed over him, but he pushed it aside, instead focusing on the threat.

As he pressed the rifle against his shoulder, he hissed, dreading what was about to come. Luckily, McGuire had his hands full with hailing bullets and a bleeding prisoner, otherwise Dalton was sure the medic would pull him from battle. Injury or not, Dalton had to be here for his team. It was his duty.

It took thrice as much focus to aim properly, but he wasn't going to let that stop him. Without further hesitation, he pulled the trigger.

And pain burst through his shoulder.

He let out a cry but hoped no one had heard, instead blinking away the blurriness in his vision to refocus. A small hand grasped his good shoulder and he glanced back to see Jaz staring at him worriedly.

"I'm fine," he yelled in frustration, waving her off. She looked doubtful but, surprisingly, didn't press the issue. Dalton turned back towards the enemy, blinking harshly. As his vision cleared, he could see a couple of men loading up an RPG and cursed as he turned back to his team. Jaz was gone now, but he hoped most could hear his shout over the gunfire.

"Take cover!" he bellowed, daring to look back at the enemy as he heard the telltale hiss through the air. The explosive hit only a few feet away from him, sending his already dizzy head into a tailspin as he collapsed on the dirt.

"Top!"

He recognized McGuire's voice in an instant and felt a pull on his tactical gear. It felt like he was being dragged backward, supposedly away from danger. The world faded into a muffled blob of noise, and for a moment, he wasn't exactly sure what he was supposed to be doing. A tinny, electronic voice was buzzing in his ear, but he couldn't pick up any words.

And hell, why did he hurt so much?

Someone was touching his shoulder and face, hands aggressive yet careful. Dalton tried to blink away his graying vision, attempting to engage in what was going on around him. When had it gotten this hard to focus?
"Top?"

Ah, his hearing was coming back. Was that McGuire?

"Top, stay with me."

He wasn't sure where he was going.

There was that voice buzzing in his ear again. It sounded sharp. Urgent. Another voice answered, mingled with the distant echo of warfare. Preach? It sounded like Preach.

There was a poke at his shoulder, and he flinched harshly at the blooming pain.

"Come on, Top."

What? What was he missing?

The ongoing pumps of firing bullets were starting to dig into his brain, and the odd explosion or two sent a spike through his skull. Dalton felt like he should be doing something, but he couldn't remember what.

"We gotta go. Come on. We gotta go."

Urgent hands pulled him up from the ground, throwing his arm over warm shoulders. Dalton half jogged, half stumbled to keep up with his human crutch, but it felt like he was ultimately being dragged across the sandy earth.

In the next instant, there was a boom of heavier explosives, sending Dalton flying before his shoulder was ground into the rough, gritty dirt.

Then everything went black.

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Jaz coughed as she took stock of her wellbeing. Other than a few scrapes and bruises, she seemed to be relatively okay. Looking around, she saw Preach and Amir hastily checking themselves over before glancing around at the rest of their party. With a quick sweep to her left, Jaz was relieved to find the director safe and sound with a still-alive prisoner. And as she looked to her right—

She froze.

Dalton was motionless. Like a ragdoll in McGuire's hands.

McGuire was coughing away the last of the dust, rolling the team leader onto his back. He started pulling away the gauze on Dalton's shoulder, hastily inspecting the wound. There had been quite a bit of blood before, but the stain had grown even larger since they'd left the prison.

Jaz should've noticed. She should've checked to make sure Dalton was alright. But when they were under fire, his back was to her, and she couldn't see much of his shoulder. He'd looked pale and his cry of pain had alarmed her, but she convinced herself that he would say something if he was truly in danger.

And she'd left him there to find herself a better perch in the battle.

Noah's voice buzzed in their ears. "Preach, status? Anyone? Status?" But all Jaz could think about was getting to Dalton. Lending what help she could.

Preach answered Noah breathlessly, stating that most of the team was alive and well but that Dalton and the prisoner needed medical treatment right away.

Jaz was tempted to look at Patricia, at her other teammates. But she kept her eyes on Dalton. She hated that she hadn't prodded him further. That she hadn't urged him to sit aside to keep him from worsening his injury.

"How is he? What happened?" Jaz asked worriedly, kneeling on the other side of Dalton.

McGuire was working quickly, having already torn the gauze from the team leader's shoulder as he starting cutting at the sleeve material.

"I found him on the ground in the prison, unconscious. From what I could tell, he only sustained one shot to the shoulder and possibly a minor head injury," McG muttered, pulling off the cut material and tossing it aside. Jaz pursed her lips as he pulled out some forceps and a skin stapler. "But there's no exit wound, and I didn't have time to remove the bullet or give him the proper care." He paused, pouring some alcohol over the forceps for good measure.

McGuire carefully dug the forceps into the wound as Jaz furrowed her brow. Preach moved to stand at Dalton's feet, looking around for any other signs of a threat. Jaz could feel his concern rolling off him in waves. They were all worried. Jaz knew that without question. Even Patricia, as tough as she was. It was clear she cared about every member of the team, regardless of how she sounded over the comms on any given day.

Jaz sighed as Noah offered a curt update on arriving help, which Preach quietly acknowledged. Sweat was collecting on McGuire's brow, and Jaz wondered if she should offer any help. Just as she was about to ask, he whispered a breathy "got it" and pulled the forceps out of the still bleeding wound. A crumpled bullet was fit firmly in the forceps' grip, coated in a sick shine of red. McGuire dropped it on the gauze he'd removed earlier and prepared the skin stapler.

Jaz flinched faintly with each click of the stapler, wondering silently if this was too little too late. The thought haunted her. She wasn't prepared to lose another teammate. Especially Dalton. He shouldn't have been using a rifle with a bullet still in his shoulder. The kickback had probably done more damage. She should have taken the rifle from him. Maybe she should've dragged him away from danger.

But Jaz knew Dalton better than that. He'd fight tooth and nail to keep everyone safe. His team's wellbeing was his first priority, and he'd never send his team to do something he could do himself.

McGuire cleaned Dalton's shoulder as much as he could before wrapping fresh gauze over the wound. The medic started an IV with fluids, mumbling something about how it was his last bag. McGuire was very capable, but even he could only do so much out in the middle of the desert.

Once the IV was in and the fluids were flowing, McGuire checked Dalton's pulse, looking to the sky with a wordless prayer. He closed his eyes, his tense shoulders relaxing a bit.

Jaz wanted to ask but was afraid of the answer. Fortunately, Preach voiced the question for her.

"Will he be alright?"

McGuire didn't answer right away. For a moment, he simply sat still, taking a deep breath as Noah reported that help was only a couple minutes out.

"I don't know," he sighed.