Page 116 of Zorro

If she touched him like that again, with fire and faith and the kind of honesty he wasn’t built to survive, he’d lose it in a single exhale.

One breath and it might be the death of him.

Bailee shouted. “Help him!”

Professor’s face appeared above him. “Flint,” he said, barely audible. Help him,” his voice a dwindling plea.

Before he could even think, further darkness slammed into him. He heard drums. A painful whine, his heart catching…Flint. A soft murmur of voices. Then a hard command from Professor, “Don’t you fucking die on us, Bear,” his voice broke. “Goddammit!”

The hard pressure of Bailee’s hands was the only thing that tethered him, then the soft, aching sound of his Grandfather Ray’s voice. I cannot lose another grandchild.

The ache of it all wrapped around him, sank deep.

Bear, helpless now, slipped into the inky black.

17

Everly reached him, kneeling beside Zorro’s motionless form, her hands slick with the blood of the man who’d threatened him. His body lay crumpled behind her, forgotten in the shadowed blur of violence she’d unleashed to protect what mattered most.

Through clenched teeth, Zorro’s breath hitched as he tried to speak.

“Don’t move,” she snapped.

He coughed once, then groaned. “Bear, my brother. Flint. I need to?—”

“Stay still.”

“Don’t let them die, Everly, babe.” He dissolved into pleading in Spanish.

“We won’t. Everything’s under control.”

“Help is on the way,” Joker growled.

The team surrounded them. Professor was already running toward Bear and Flint.

The elevator dinged and people started to unload. EMTs in navy jackets carrying life-saving gear, BOPE officers flanked either side, weapons at the ready. But one man stood out. “Jules!” she yelled, hearing the relief in her voice. Dr. Jules Marchand, brilliant, so competent, part of the French army reserve.

“Where do you want me?” he asked, his accent thick. He moved like a man who’d done this before, war-zone casual, eyes clear, hands steady. Blood dotted the hem of his tan polo. There was a fine edge to his jaw, like precision lived in his bones. He wasn’t rattled. He wasn’t asking permission. He was here to help.

“Bear. The man on his back with the two weeping children who won’t let him go.” A woman rushed over to him, sleek, Native American, banged up, but she applied pressure, Zorro’s sister corralling his nieces. A BOPE medic and EMTs were already working on Javi.

“The dog?”

“That’s Flint. Handle him like a patient, not a pet. He outranks them all.” She looked up, breathless. “Thank you.”

“No, thank you,” he said. “We follow your lead, Dr. Quinn.” He motioned to the EMT with him and they ran over to Bear. She focused back on Zorro.

“Med kit,” he rasped. “Backpack. Side pocket. Right zipper.”

She looked up. Buck was the closest. “Help me. Get his vest off, his clothes. Move! I need the med kit in his backpack.”

She grabbed hold of Joker’s vest and pulled him across her lap. “Put pressure here!” Buck worked off the backpack and pulled out the kit. He handed it to her, then he was pulling off Zorro’s vest, ripping apart the buttons on his shirt.

She yanked open the side pocket of his pack and froze for half a beat, not from hesitation, but from awe. Of course he was ready. God, she loved him for that. It was so him. So perfectly, methodically him.

Tourniquets, top right. Chest seals. Hemostatic gauze. Pressure dressings.

HyFin, QuikClot, Israeli bandage, trauma shears already unlocked. Airway tools. NPAs. OPA. Nasal cannula. Pocket mask. Decompression needle. Stethoscope.

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