Page 82 of Tank
Victor was going to let her die.
When we find Vanessa in the back room, the sight of her nearly brings me to my knees. She’s limp and barely breathing, her skin pale as a ghost, her lips a terrifying shade of blue, vomit splattered across her shirt. Ricky lets out a sound that shreds through me and leaves me raw — half sob, half scream, the guttural despair of a heart being wrenched from a body — as he falls to his knees beside her, the sight an echo of what I thought Tank would be.
“She’s still breathing,” I say, pressing my fingers to her neck and feeling the faintest, most fragile pulse. Barely.
Tank moves with frantic purpose, scooping Vanessa up in his arms and cradling her like she weighs nothing. “We’ve gotta go. Now.”
He kicks open the back exit, and then he turns his wild eyes to the street and charges forward like he’s on fire. He smashes the window of a black sedan parked on the curb, unlocks it from the inside, and throws open the back door. Ricky climbs in, pulling Vanessa across his lap, his tears spotting her shirt as he cries, still begging her to wake up. The desperation in his voice is a raw wound laid bare.
I dive into the front passenger seat, barely registering anything but the sound of my heartbeat in my ears. Tank’s already hot-wiring the ignition, his hands moving fast and furious. The engine growls to life, and he floors it, the tires screeching against the pavement as we tear through the streets of Boise, hunted by time, by our own fears, by death riding on our heels.
Ricky’s voice is ragged and raw behind us, the sound of a man breaking apart.
“Don’t die, baby. Please. You hear me? Don’t fucking die. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
I look back at them — at Ricky rocking her, cradling her head in his hands like he can hold her to life, like the sheer force of will might be enough — and my throat tightens, choking me with emotion, with fear, until something weak and strangled forces itself from my lips. Agony, suffering, the feeling of failure so intense my heart might stop. I’ve never been this scared. I don’t know how to be this scared.
I turn back around, pressing into the seat as Tank speeds forward. My heart pounds against my ribs like it’s trying to escape my chest, every beat an explosion of panic, terror overwhelming. I reach out blindly, fingers trembling uncontrollably, and I grab Tank’s arm with a grip that feels like I’m drowning.
“Please,” I whisper. It’s all I can manage, a plea in a single word. “Please drive faster.”
Tank doesn’t look at me, but he shifts his hand, his fingers moving to find mine, threading them together and squeezing with a steady reassurance.
“We’ll make it,” he says, his voice a rough promise, a certainty he doesn’t dare let himself doubt. “We’ll make it. I promise.”
But his promise doesn’t soothe the fear gnawing at my insides, the terror clawing through me and leaving me raw and exposed.
I don’t know how to believe him.
Outside the windshield, the hospital is still a blur in the distance, streetlights streaking past like ghosts. It’s not close enough. I can feel the time slipping away.
I clutch Tank’s hand tighter.
And one awful thought spirals through my mind.
Will we?
Chapter Forty-Five
Tank
Ricky barrels through the ER doors like a man possessed, driven and wild-eyed, and I’m right behind him, my legs pumping, heart pounding, lungs screaming, Vanessa's small body limp in my arms. Her head hangs back, and her lips are going blue. The weak thump of her pulse echoes in my mind. A cruel countdown. Her arms dangle with an awful stillness.
"Help!" Ricky yells, his voice already ragged with fear. "Somebody help!" He runs ahead, turning back to shout over his shoulder, panic and desperation etched into every feature. "She's not breathing!"
Bianca runs beside me. She's silent, but her face says everything: lips pressed white, eyes burning with something fierce and unyielding, like she can will Vanessa back to life by strength alone.
"Doctor!" I bark, loud enough that the receptionist jumps and drops her pen. "We need a crash cart and Narcan now!"
Bianca breaks away from my side and lunges for a nurse. I see her grab the woman’s arm, face fierce and unyielding. "Maria! It’s Vanessa — she overdosed. She needs help. Right now.”
The nurse doesn't waste a second with questions. Recognition flashes across her face, sharp and immediate, and she spins around and calls for a gurney, urgent as a shouted prayer. In a blink, the trauma team floods into the hallway, a well-oiled machine. They peel Vanessa out of my arms, set her on the gurney, and rush toward the blinding white light of the double doors. The doors swing open, swallow her whole, and Ricky's eyes go wide with a silent scream.
She's gone, and we're left standing there, gutted and breathless.
Ricky stumbles, drops to his knees outside the trauma room, his face twisted like a raw wound. It's the collapse of a man who’s already rebuilt himself from pieces one too many times. His bloody palms slap against the white tile, and he leans forward to press his forehead to the floor.
I move toward him, my chest aching with every step, but he jerks away the second he senses me getting close.
