Free Tom Clancy Duty and Honor by Grant Blackwood

His blue eyes, wide with fear, were rotated toward Jack. Using his fingertips, Jack probed through the bloody hair until his index finger found a groove in the man’s scalp about an eighth of an inch deep and two inches long. The man winced. “Am I shot?”
    “Grazed,” Jack replied, still probing. Trench Coat had fired twice. Was there another wound?
    “There’s so much blood,” the man said.
    “It’s a scalp wound, they’re like that. What’s your name?”
    “Effrem.”
    Jack had a long list of other questions, but they would have to wait.
    “We need to get out of here, Effrem,” Jack said. “Can you move?”
    “I think so.”
    Jack helped Effrem to a sitting position, his back againstthe tire, then walked around and opened the rear hatch. Inside the cargo area was a yellow hard-sided roller suitcase. Jack unzipped it and rummaged around until he found some white tube socks. He tied three of them together, end to end, then returned to Effrem.
    “Hold this against your head,” Jack told him. “Like that.”
    Jack guided his hand, pressing one of the sock’s knots into the wound. He circled the loose ends around Effrem’s skull and cinched the makeshift bandage with a square knot.
    “My head really hurts,” Effrem repeated.
    “You’re going to be okay. Lift up your shirt.”
    “What?”
    Jack was already doing it, jerking Effrem’s shirt and jacket up toward his shoulders. Effrem caught on and helped with his free hand. “Anything?” he asked. Jack could hear the fear in his voice now. The shock was starting to wear off a bit, replaced by the realization of what had just happened.
    Jack turned him around, scanned his back. He saw no wounds.
    Effrem asked, “What about my legs?”
    “If he’d hit an artery, we’d know about it. Trust me. Can you drive? We need to get out of here.”
    “Okay, I think so. Are you the police?”
    “Yell if you see him coming back,” Jack replied.
    He walked back to the Malibu, paused to pick up the Glock’s two spent shell casings, then opened the driver’s-side door. He pressed the trunk release, then walked around and searched it. Empty. He returned to the car and did a rapid search—glove compartment, center console, under the seats . . . On the floor of the passenger seat were two balled-up fast-food bags, one Arby’s and one McDonald’s. In each of these was a cash receipt, which he pocketed. Tucked behind the driver’s-side floor mat next to the gas pedal he found a burgundy-colored passport bearing Germany’s coat-of-arms eagle and the words Europäische Union , Bundesrepublik Deutschland , and Reisepass . The name inside the passport was Stephan Möller. The identification picture showed an early-forties man with short black hair and a thick, hipsterish beard. Jack doubted this was Trench Coat’s real name, but it was a start, another thread he could hopefully unravel.
    He returned to Effrem, who had managed to climb to his feet and was leaning against the SUV on shaky legs. Jack dropped to his knees beside the rear tire and began probing the dirt.
    “What are you looking for?” asked Effrem.
    “My bullet.” The other one was gone, either in Möller’s leg or lost in the trees on the other side of the road.
    It took two minutes, but Jack finally found the bullet’s impact point. He got out his multi-tool, pried the bullet free, and dropped it into his pocket. He stood and faced Effrem.
    “Give me your wallet.”
    “What?”
    “Your wallet. And your passport and cell phone.”
    Frowning, Effrem dug into his back pocket and handed Jack a Belgian passport and a slim brown leather wallet containing a few credit cards, an EU driver’s license, and one from Belgium: Effrem Likkel.
    “Are you robbing me?” Effrem asked, handing over his cell phone.
    Despite it all, Jack couldn’t help but chuckle. “No, I’m not robbing you. Where are you staying, what hotel?”
    “Uh, the Embassy Suites in Old Town.”
    “Room?”
    “Four