Page 30 of One Last Storm
“Don’t.” London’s voice, cutting through his spiral. “Don’t go where I think you’re going in your head. Not until we know for sure.”
The truck hit a pothole. It jarred everyone against the metal sides with enough force to rattle their teeth. Orlando lifted his massive head again, then shifted position to rest his muzzle on Axel’s knee, brown eyes full of canine sympathy. His hand found the dog’s fur, warm in the frigid space.
“Even the dog knows you’re losing it,” Shep said, but his voice was gentle.
Yeah, well. He looked away, toward the front windshield where the lights of Anchorage grew brighter. The dashboard clock read 5:47 AM, and ice was building up on the truck’s windshield faster than the defroster could clear it. Maybe he should have stayed home.
Axel closed his eyes. Leaned back against the cold metal of the truck bed, feeling the vibration of the engine through his spine. The engagement ring pressed against his ribs through his jacket, but he forced himself not to check on it again. Orlando seemed to sense his distress and shifted closer, the dog’s solid warmth a small comfort in the frozen space.
Around them, the wilderness rolled past in the pre-dawn darkness—endless snow, scattered stands of spruce, and the occasional glimpse of mountains outlined against the star-filled sky.
Beautiful and deadly, like everything in Alaska.
“We’ll be there in twenty minutes,” Jericho called back. “Hang tight.”
Axel’s heartbeat filled his ears, and he could smell the metallic scent of fear-sweat under his winter gear. The copper tang of adrenaline lay on his tongue.
Twenty minutes to find out if his future was still waiting for him.
Or if it had bled out on some Anchorage street while he was playing hero in the wilderness.
CHAPTER 9
FLYNN
Flynn ran her hands under the chilly water of the hospital bathroom, trying to wash Dawson’s blood from under her fingernails. Shoot, it just wouldn’t…
She slammed her hands on the counter, closed her eyes, tried to stop the shaking, but of course, it only made the gunshot reverberate inside her skull.
She couldn’t stop seeing the way he went down protecting that little girl.
She shoved her way out of the bathroom, trying to find her breath, clear her head.
The hallway outside the surgical wing stretched endlessly in both directions. Motivational posters about healing and hope lined the walls—mockery at six in the morning on Christmas Eve. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows that made everyone look corpse-pale. The antiseptic smell burned her nostrils and mixed with the lingering scent of blood that clung to her winter jacket.
She pulled it off, wadded it up and shoved the entire thing into the nearest trash. Then she folded her arms, found a space of wall, leaned against is and closed her eyes.
Mistake.
The images sharpened. Dawson lunging forward. The gun swinging toward him. Her scream—she’d had a bead on the guy, had pulled the trigger?—
Too late.
The explosion of sound and blood and Kiana’s scream cut through everything.
And then Dawson, on the ground, writhing, his leg shattered.
She’d held pressure on his leg while the EMTs worked. Watched his blood seep through her fingers despite everything they tried. The femoral artery, one of them had said.
Critical.
Touch and go.
Flynn ran back into the bathroom, slammed open the door to the stall and retched.
She found herself on the bathroom floor, sweating, her face in her hands.
Her phone buzzed. She worked it out of her back pocket with hands that still shook. Echo again, but no news. Just >>Still trying to reach them. Will text when I know more.
