Chapter 29
TWENTY-NINE
CHASE MEDICAL NEW ORLEANS – TWO WEEKS POST-CRASH
The Gulfstream’s wheels hissed across the wet runway before the plane slowed to taxi. A thin mist clung low to the ground, rising from the tarmac in pale streaks where the sun hadn’t burned it off yet. The air that swept through the cabin when the hatch cracked was comfortable but humid.
Dante stood before the stairs lowered, one hand braced on the overhead rail, muscles tight and useless. He hadn’t slept in… he didn’t know how long. The last clear moment was Shannon’s hand slipping off his arm mid-flight as her consciousness thinned again.
Below, the Chase transport corridor glowed under floodlights. Hunt Montgomery was already striding toward the jet before the wheels stopped, gloves halfway on, eyes sharp and unblinking. Lucas Hale shadowed him with the receiving cot, murmuring updates into his headset.
Dante barely heard them. He only saw Shannon.
Sam Johnson sprinted across the wet pavement wearing his West Point cadet grays, wrinkled and stained from travel. One hand clutched a half-zipped duffel; the other pointed at the med team blocking his path. “That’s my sister!”
They let him through.
The door finally dropped. Dante stepped down first.
Hunt met his eyes. “Status?”
Dante swallowed. His voice felt scraped raw. “She responded once. Said my name. Didn’t last long.”
A single nod. Then Hunt moved, climbing inside the jet without another word. Dante followed.
Shannon lay cocooned in blankets, lashes beaded with sweat, breaths shallow from exertion and altitude. Her skin looked too pale against the straps.
Hunt checked her vitals, then Hale cut the flight straps with a smooth flick. “Okay, sweetheart. Let’s get you where you need to be. On three.”
Dante watched their precision with a soldier’s eye and hated it. He knew that kind of efficiency. It meant they were scared.
They transferred her without a jostle. As they rolled her toward the ramp, her brow twitched. Dante’s chest clenched.
“Dante,” Sam said, voice tight. “Is she…?”
“Fighting,” Dante answered. “She fought the whole way.”
Sam nodded once and climbed into the ambulance without hesitation. Dante followed.
Inside the main entrance of Chase Medical New Orleans, Mack Browning, tall with a gray-flecked beard, sleeves rolled past his elbows, waited with a clipboard. His expression was of a man who’d already read three reports and didn’t like any of them. “You boys took your time.”
Hale started rattling off vitals. Hunt responded in shorthand. They moved fast through the heated corridor. Dante walked beside the stretcher, close enough his knuckles brushed the metal rail.
Mack looked him over like he was scanning for damage. “We’ve got her. Now let’s see what the hell they did to her.”
Dante didn’t answer because he wasn’t leaving. Not today. Not tonight. Not until she opened her eyes again and knew he was right there. He followed them inside.
TRAUMA RECOVERY BAY – 0745 HOURS
The doors whispered shut behind the gurney, sealing Shannon inside the ICU bay.
For a beat, all Dante could do was breathe, trying to anchor himself to the faint, steady beeping coming from the other side of the glass.
She was in there. Alive. Sedated. Hanging on.
Hunt turned to him and Sam, surgical mask still around his neck, scrubs wrinkled from the transfer. He always looked calm in chaos, but tonight there was an edge beneath it. A razor of urgency only someone who cared would even notice.
“We’re doing another full-body CT and bloodwork,” Hunt said. “If there’s even a whisper of internal damage, I want eyes on it.”
Dante’s jaw tightened. “You think she’s still bleeding?”
Hunt shook his head immediately. “She’s stable, but the pelvis took more force than we anticipated. Hip displacement like that can hide fractures. Hidden bleeds. Nerve issues. I want everything scanned. She has a temp, so I’m looking for an abscess.”
Dante nodded, not because he agreed but because he needed to believe someone in this building was capable of making the right call.
Hunt wasn’t finished. “And after the CT, we roll her into MRI. Brain, chest, pelvis. Comprehensive.”
Sam swallowed, shifting beside Dante. He looked wrecked in his cadet uniform.
Hunt looked between them both, then stepped closer, switching from surgeon to something else. Something commanding. “But before all that, you two are going to listen to me.”
Dante met his eyes and didn’t blink.
“You’re going to shower. Eat. And you’re going to get four hours of sleep before she wakes up again.”
Dante didn’t move. Didn’t answer.
Hunt’s voice softened, but the steel stayed. “You’ll be no good to her like this. We’ve got her stabilized. Let us do our jobs. You need to last the night.”
Dante’s throat worked once before he got the words out. “I’m not leaving this building.”
“You don’t have to,” Hunt replied. “Suite’s directly above us. Penthouse level. Two bedrooms. Blackout blinds. Hot water.”
Sam’s voice finally cracked. “Sir… I don’t want her alone.”
Hunt nodded. “She won’t be. Mack’s stationed outside her door. Hale’s on vitals. If a monitor blinks wrong, I’ll know before the nurses do.”
He handed Dante a keycard, warm from Hunt’s hand. “You’ll be the first call if anything changes. Both of you.” And then he was gone, already disappearing into the organized storm of the trauma bay.
Sam released a shaky breath as Dante stared through the glass one more time, watching the faint rise of Shannon’s chest. Then he turned toward the elevators. Not because he wanted to. Not because he believed he should. But because he needed to stay on his feet for her when she woke up.
PENTHOUSE SUITE – 45 MINUTES LATER
The suite was quiet in a way that felt unnatural. Too polished. Too still. The kind of room meant for rest, not for men who hadn’t known rest in days.
Fog drifted over the Mississippi outside the windows, the city wrapped in an early-morning haze. Dante stood at the glass, arms braced on the cool surface, his reflection staring back at him, tension in his jaw so sharp, it ached.
Behind him, Sam sat on the couch, posture slumped, uniform rumpled, exhaustion heavy in his eyes. Neither spoke at first. The silence stretched, thick and heavy.
Then Sam finally said, “You love her.”
Dante didn’t move. Didn’t hesitate. “Yeah.”
“When?” Sam asked.
Dante let out a slow breath. “Somewhere between watching her fly,” he said, “and watching her fall.”
Sam gave a tired, humorless huff. “Sounds like Shannon.”
Dante met his eyes. “I wasn’t supposed to,” he admitted. “They wanted me at the Academy to keep her safe. I wished she didn’t need guarding like that. But… Krueger. And after him, she needed someone who didn’t break when she fought back. Someone who saw her strength for what it was.”
Sam’s jaw tightened. “She called for you on the tarmac. Before they masked her. She said your name.”
The memory hit Dante hard. “I know.”
Sam’s voice dropped even lower. “What do I do now? How do I help her?”
“You sit with her,” Dante said simply. “You talk to her. You make sure she doesn’t feel alone. Not for one second.”
Sam nodded slowly.
Dante hesitated. “Did she… ever mention Mara? Before the flight?”
Sam swallowed. “She made me promise that if anything happened to her, I’d tell Mara’s dad she was the best stick in the air.”
Inside the bathroom, Dante stripped off the dusty flight clothes and stepped under the steaming water. It hit him like heat against bruises. His breath caught.
He pressed one hand against the tile, bowing his head as water traced down his spine. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. Not from pain—from fear. For the first time since the crash, he allowed himself to feel it fully. She could still die.
A violent tremor ran through him, the kind he hadn’t felt since he buried his father. His throat closed. His vision blurred. He forced himself to breathe, to stand upright, to not fall apart right here.
She needed him whole.
FORT NOVOSEL – BLACK TARMAC HANGAR – 1240 HOURS
Bravo Team stood ready. Packs tight. Weapons checked. Final comms brief printed and burned. Sean Paulsen walked the line with a clipped, low voice. He was all business.
“The rules of engagement are narrow. You’re eyes-only until further notice. Civilian presence in the sector is minimal. If you encounter resistance, assess threat profile and report, but do not engage unless fired upon.”
Twelve operators acknowledged the order. Dante wasn’t among them.
Sean met their gaze. “Chandler is our field medic. We’ll receive our local contact in the air. Satellite overhead at zero-seven-hour intervals. Your window is ten days max unless the gods spit on us and call it eight.”
The ramp opened with a roar. The team filed in, boots echoing across the bay. No chatter. Just the sound of war in motion.
The transport lifted into the early afternoon sky.
CHASE MEDICAL NEW ORLEANS – ICU SUITE
Shannon surfaced slowly, as if rising through layers of deep water.
First came the low and constant ache in her hip, sharp pain under her ribs, and a tight pull in her throat where the vent had been.
Then the sounds: the soft whir of monitors, the steady hum of filtration, and the faint creak of a chair shifting beside her bed.
She opened her eyes to dim lights in a ceiling she didn’t recognize. There was a faint metallic taste of blood at the back of her tongue.
And Dante.
He sat at her bedside, elbows resting on his knees, watching her with the kind of focus that felt like gravity itself. He looked exhausted. He was unshaven, his shoulders tense and his eyes rimmed with red, but the moment she stirred, he was on his feet.
“Hey,” he said softly. “Easy. Don’t push yourself.”
She tried to speak. Nothing came out. Just a rasp of air that scraped her healing throat.
Dante stepped closer, his voice low and steady, the kind of calm she once believed nothing could shake. “You’re safe. You’re at Chase Medical New Orleans. Hunt’s been on you from the minute we landed. You’re okay.”
Her fingers twitched on the blanket. Dante reached out, taking her hand gently, like he was afraid she might shatter under his touch. His thumb brushed her knuckles, slow and grounding. “I’m here. I’m right here.”
She stared at him until her vision stopped drifting. His face sharpened. His eyes steadied her. And then the memory struck with perfect, brutal clarity.
The flight.
The scream.
The lurch of the helicopter.
Esten slumping beside her.
The world falling away.
Shannon swallowed painfully. Her lips moved, each motion stiff and tight. She formed the word without sound, her voice still too raw to carry it.
Mara.
Dante inhaled sharply, as if the name punched the air out of him. He didn’t look away. “I know,” he whispered, his voice thick. “I know.”
The quiet but devastating truth settled through her. Mara was gone. And she lived when she shouldn’t have.
Warmth gathered in her eyes before she could stop it. The first tear slipped free, sliding down her temple into her hairline.
Dante didn’t speak or push. He just held her hand, steady and warm, anchoring her as grief finally found its way through the fog. For the first time since the crash, the smoke, and the darkness, Shannon let herself feel it. She wasn’t falling anymore. She wasn’t alone.