Page 14 of Raven's Curse
He glanced at Greer when she inhaled, then shoved it all down — went to work.
Pressure on the wounds.
Quick body scan for other injuries.
IV for fluids and meds.
Greer barked out orders over her radio and cell, guarding his six. Allowing him to completely focus on pulling some kind of miracle out of his ass. A damn repeat of that night in the chopper, only this time, Chase could alter the outcome. Be the man Rhett needed him to be.
He got Rhett bandaged, then heaved him onto his shoulder. Greer didn’t wait for instructions, just took off, clearing the way, dancing around him in an effort to block any possible attack as they raced for her Bronco. She had that wire gate shoved all the way open, her back seats collapsed forward with the tailgate and window wide open by the time he reached her. Jumping inside, he laid Rhett down, as Greer slammed the tailgate shut behind him.
A chime sounded as she hopped behind the wheel, then the engine growled as the SUV lurched backwards. Rocks and dirt pinged off the chassis as she spun the vehicle, punched the gas.
The tires screeched, a plume of smoke billowing out behind them as she swerved onto the winding road, taking the turns with laser precision. Far smoother than he thought possible as she continued talking into her radio.
Chase gave Rhett a firm shake. “Rhett! Brother, can you hear me?”
Nothing.
No blinking, no twitching. Chest barely moving.
Chase rubbed his knuckles along Rhett’s sternum, counting it off in his head. He’d give it a good thirty seconds — the length some patients needed to respond. Outliers, true, but he’d afford Rhett every chance to react.
Chase got to twenty-five when Rhett’s eyelids fluttered, a fleeting glimpse of brown as the man stared up at him. “I’ve got you, just stay with me.”
Rhett’s mouth moved, what looked like Chase’s name forming in silence, his hand fisting Chase’s shirt before he drifted off, head lolling off to one side, that arm falling to the floor with a thud.
Chase checked his pulse, again. Weak. Slow. Pressure reading eighty over forty and dropping. “Damn it, I need more supplies. Blood. Monitors. A fucking defibrillator. I need the equipment in the chopper.”
Greer spared him a quick glance. “Foster’s on his way. I’ll pull over wherever he can land.”
He pushed down the surge of panic until everything burned into ice-cold determination. No emotions. No hint of the man beneath the medic. Just his gear and the experience of twenty years’ worth of battles. Of bringing soldiers back from the brink. Carrying them for miles. Treating amidst skirmishes and incursions. Whatever it took. Whatever the means.
Greer hit the main road, then abruptly swerved to the side, a distinct whop whop whop sounding above the weight of Rhett’s weak pulse. Dust and dried leaves swirled around the Bronco as the trees shook, the entire SUV rattling as Foster roared overhead, insanely low before flaring off the speed, squeezing the damn helicopter across the pavement, somehow planting the machine between towering pines and electrical lines.
Greer opened the back, shielded some of the downwash swirling the fog as Chase heaved Rhett onto his shoulders — booked it for the chopper.
Kash, Nyx and Jordan jumped out, talking to Greer as Zain held open the doors. He gave Chase a boost, shutting the doors after Greer hopped in, staying close without crowding Chase. Zain grunted, what Chase assumed was the result of that bloody number glaring up at them, then settled.
Saylor sat on the far end, sleeve already rolled up. “I’m O neg. And before you ask, I’m not pregnant. Nothing to compromise his health. Promise.”
“Give me a minute.”
Chase grabbed leads and tubes, hooking up oxygen and monitors. Readying the defibrillator for the inevitable cardiac arrest he knew lingered. Waiting to strike. The scenario he feared would be the true beginning of the end as he fought to keep Rhett alive until they reached the hospital.
Chase swabbed Rhett’s arm — readied a line before checking his heart rate. The man’s jagged rhythm looking like a damn seismograph jumping across the screen.
“Shit. He’s got bradycardia, runs of V-tach. He needs more than I can give him, Beckett.”
The helicopter shook as Foster pushed the nose forward, gaining more speed. What Chase suspected bordered on mechanical damage. That razor-sharp line Foster often rode when a soldier’s life was on the line.
And Rhett was far more than that.
Chase started the direct transfusion, setting a timer to prevent taking too much. Putting Saylor at risk, too.
A tone.
Steady.
