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chapel. Kim’s head and shoulders shook from fear and shock.
    Thibodaux had drawn his pistol and stood at the end of the lower walkway outside the chapel, alert for secondary threats. He subscribed to Quinn’s motto of See One, Think Two .
    Camille Thibodaux adopted Mattie into her little clan for the moment, shielding her along with all her boys.
    Major Brett Moore called base security with his calm, pilot-in-command voice to let them know about the attack and to get an ambulance rolling. Claxons sounded seconds later, warning USAFA cadets to shelter in place or move into the nearest building if they happened to be outside.
    “I need your help here,” Quinn said to Garcia, forcing himself to stay calm, though he felt as if his heart was about to explode.
    She nodded, returning a small Kahr pistol to the holster suspended below her bra. She knelt on the concrete and pressed the palm of her hand where Quinn directed, high on Kim’s thigh, next to her groin, putting pressure on the femoral artery.
    Pushing back a rising panic, Quinn peeled off his uniform waistcoat and stuffed it under Kim’s legs. She moaned, her head falling to one side on the cold concrete walk.
    “Her pulse is over the top,” Garcia whispered.
    “Stay with me, Kimmie.” Quinn yanked up the hem of her dress, tracing the arcing fountain of blood back to its source midway up her thigh. The entry wound was relatively small, roughly the size of his thumb, but high-speed bullets are made to tumble when they hit bone, and this one had done its job perfectly. Striking Kim’s femur roughly four inches above the knee, it had bounced end over end in an upward line, literally mowing away bone and muscle. Much of her thigh was an unrecognizable piece of burger.
    Fumbling through blood, bone, and flesh, Quinn pushed the fact that he was working on his high school sweetheart out of his mind. The femoral artery was fairly easy to locate. It was the diameter of a wooden pencil and arcing fountains of blood at each pulse of Kim’s weakening heart. But getting a hold on it amid the mess of snot-slick gore so he could stop the bleeding was another matter entirely. Had it been completely severed, she might have bled out before he’d gotten her to cover. Even nicked as it was, her life expectancy could be measured in seconds.
    Quinn moved Ronnie’s hand down to the wound and used a wadded piece of Kim’s dress to apply direct pressure over the bleeder. He yanked off his tie with bloody hands and ripped away his shirt. Using his teeth, he tore away a long strip of cloth to use as a tourniquet, smearing his face in red during the process. Field medicine was a grisly business. Looping the cloth around her thigh, he pulled it snug well above the wound, remembering the tactical medic’s mantra High or Die .
    Kim gave a rattling cough. Wincing. Pain had finally worked its way through the initial shock. “You’re welcome.” She forced a grin, peering at him through dazed eyes. “You’ve wanted to get out of that tie all day.”
    “Good girl,” Jericho said. His heart was a stone in his throat. “Keep talking to me.” He pulled the cloth tight, knotting it, and then glanced at Lavin, who stood over them wringing his hands.
    “Get me a stick or something to tighten this.”
    Lavin looked up and down the concrete walkway but didn’t move. “I . . . I don’t see any sticks.”
    Quinn spied a cheap fountain pen in the man’s breast pocket and stood long enough to snatch it away. Lavin flinched, apparently thinking Quinn had meant to hit him.
    Using the pen as a windlass, Quinn twisted the tourniquet as tight as he dared before tucking it under the knot to hold in place. He cursed for not having the pocket trauma kit he carried with him ninety-nine percent of the time. The trim lines of the mess dress tuxedo left him little room to conceal a pistol, let alone the wallet of QuickClot and bandages. Out of habit, he noted the time he’d applied the