28. Lyric
CHAPTER 28
LYRIC
Nolan brought the helo down with more haste than precision, the landing skids scraping against the helipad with a screech that set my teeth on edge. Flynn’s blood was sticky between my fingers as I pressed harder against his wound, willing the flow to stop.
The side door slid open and Nolan stood there, his hair whipping in the rotor wash, face grim as he surveyed the situation.
“Christ,” he muttered, jumping down to help. “Always with the dramatics, Shepherd.”
“You… know… me…” Flynn said, gasping between each word.
“Move, move, move!” Ethan’s voice cut through the rotor noise, his usual composure fractured around the edges as he gestured for the team to load Flynn into the cabin.
Trent and Decker lifted him with a brutal efficiency that spoke of too many similar evacuations. His head lolled against Trent’s shoulder, face ashen beneath the grime and blood. I scrambled in behind them, my torn evening gown catching on the helicopter’s door frame. I yanked it free with enough force to tear the fabric further, not caring about anything except staying at Flynn’s side.
Alistair was already in the cabin, his medical kit open and ready. The calm in his movements was at odds with the tension radiating from his body as he began assessing Flynn’s injuries.
“Pressure here,” he ordered, guiding my hands back to the wound at Flynn.
“Don’t let up,” Alistair added, his voice steady despite the urgency in his eyes. He cut away the rest of Flynn’s shirt to fully expose the wound. “Mav, what’s our ETA to the nearest trauma center?”
“Twenty-three minutes if I push it,” Nolan called back, the rotors already spinning faster as we lifted off. “Eighteen if I really piss off air traffic control.”
“Make it eighteen,” Ethan ordered, strapping himself in across from us.
“I’m… okay,” Flynn muttered.
No, he wasn’t. His face had gone from pale to gray, and his eyes weren’t focusing properly anymore.
Oh, God.
Panic clawed at my throat, but I forced it down. Panic wouldn’t help Flynn.
Someone put headphones on me as the helicopter lurched sideways, banking hard over the water. I braced myself against the cabin wall, my hands never leaving Flynn’s wound. His blood was warm against my palms, a stark contrast to the unnatural coolness of his skin.
“BP’s dropping,” Alistair muttered, more to himself than anyone else as he attached monitors to Flynn’s chest. The portable unit beeped to life, displaying vitals that made Alistair’s brow furrow deeper. “Tachycardic. Possible pneumothorax from the impact trauma.”
No one spoke. I could hear my own heartbeat, harsh in the quiet. The kind of silence that crept in when everyone was too afraid to say the wrong thing or admit how bad it really was.
But then Nolan glanced back form the pilot’s seat. “Alright, you lot.” His voice was light, but there was worry in his eyes as he scanned Flynn. “Time for Preacher’s ‘Don’t Die’ Checklist. Number one: Limbs attached?”
“They won’t be if you don’t watch where we’re going,” Decker muttered, tightening his harness as the helicopter dipped in strong gust of wind.
“Excuse me, do I tell you how to be all broody and morally gray? No? Then leave the piloting to me, Dealer.” But he returned his attention back to the stick as he called, “Number two: Blood on the inside?”
“Not as much as I’d like,” Alistair said, working focused and fast, his hands steady even as Flynn’s vitals trended in the wrong direction.
“Breathing?”
Flynn stirred, waving a hand to get our attention, then pointing to my headset. Ethan unbuckled from his seat and grabbed an extra one, carefully sliding it on over Flynn’s ears and adjusting the mic to rest near his mouth.
“Doing… the… checklist?” Flynn’s voice was almost lost in the crackle of static.
“You know it,” Nolan said. “You still breathing, Outlaw?”
“Next one… to ask… gets punched.”
“So, check.” Nolan glanced back again, this time his gaze meeting mine. “Did you two think before doing the dumb thing?”
“Definitely not,” Ethan grumbled.
A sound that wasn’t quite a laugh, but wasn’t a full sob escaped me before I could stop it.
“Aye, that tracks,” Nolan said. “Number five: Made your peace with God?”
“Fuck, no,” Alistair muttered.
“Alright, good. That’s five for five. Hear that, Flynn? We’re golden.”
Alistair didn’t look up. “You forgot the most important one, Mav.”
“Oh?” Nolan asked. “I got all five.”
“It’s a new one I’m adding now. No bleeding out before we land.”
Flynn let out a breath that was more groan than laugh. “No promises.”
Nolan made a face and turned back to the stick. “That’s not how the almighty checklist works, mate.”
“What exactly is the checklist?” I asked and glanced over at Ethan. He looked exhausted, tired, and worried. He just shook his head.
“It started as a joke. They were making fun of my actual checklist,” Alistair explained, and knocked his knuckles against the clipboard attached to his medical bag, where he’d been recording Flynn’s vitals.
“It became a tradition,” Trent added. “Our little pre-mission ritual.”
“Aye, we do the checklist, and no one dies,” Nolan said. “That’s why it’s Preacher’s ‘Don’t Die’ Checklist.”
“Post-mission… in this case,” Flynn mumbled, his eyes fluttering. “Got it… backwards… like everything else.”
I reached for his hand. His skin felt cold, clammy. I squeezed gently, and to my surprise, he squeezed back.
“You’re going to be fine,” I said, the words coming out more like a command than a reassurance. Like I could make it true through sheer willpower.
Flynn’s amber-brown eyes found mine, a hint of that infuriating spark still there despite everything. “Worried… about me… princess?”
Yes, I was. But I rolled my eyes because, even bleeding out on a stretcher, the man couldn’t stop being insufferable.
His gaze softened as he looked at me, something vulnerable breaking through the pain. “Don’t... look so scared. Not... dying on you.”
But the monitors told a different story. The line jumped erratically, each unsteady peak making my heart stutter in response. Alistair’s movements became more urgent, his usual methodical calm giving way to the controlled urgency of a man fighting a losing battle. He reached for another syringe, injecting something into Flynn’s IV line.
“Pressure’s dropping,” he announced, his voice tight. “He’s going into shock.”
“Do something,” I demanded, my voice cracking despite my effort to keep it steady.
“What do you think I’m doing?” Alistair snapped, then immediately softened. “I’m sorry. I’m doing everything I can.”
Flynn’s grip on my hand weakened, his eyes losing focus as they drifted past me to some middle distance. The color had drained from his face completely, leaving his skin with a waxy, translucent quality that terrified me more than the blood.
“Flynn,” I said sharply, squeezing his hand. “Stay with me.”
His lips moved, forming words, but now sound came out. Still, I knew what he was saying.
I love you.
Oh, God. He was saying goodbye.
I tightened my hold, as if I could physically anchor him to consciousness through sheer force of will.
“Stay with me,” I whispered, leaning closer. “You promised, remember? No dying.”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips, but it faded almost immediately as his eyes rolled back. The monitor emitted a high-pitched, continuous beep that I could hear despite my headphones and the roar of the rotor.
“Fuck! He’s crashing!” Alistair shouted, already reaching for the defibrillator. “Nolan, how much longer?”
“Ten minutes!” Nolan called back, the helicopter lurching as he pushed it harder.
“He doesn’t have ten minutes!” Alistair positioned the paddles. “Clear!”
I let go of his limp hand even though it was the last thing I wanted to do.
Flynn’s body arched off the stretcher, then fell back limply. The monitor continued its unbroken wail. Alistair hit him again, and again, each jolt lifting Flynn’s body in a macabre dance that seemed to mock life rather than restore it.
“Come on, you stubborn bastard,” Alistair muttered, his face shining with sweat as he adjusted the settings and positioned the paddles again. “Not like this. Not today.”
I watched, frozen, as Alistair shocked Flynn a third time. The cabin seemed to contract around me, the walls pressing in, the air suddenly too thin to breathe. This couldn’t be happening.
Not to Flynn.
Not after everything we’d survived.
Not when he was the first person I’ve loved since losing my sister.
Ethan moved beside me, his hand gripping my shoulder in silent support. I hadn’t even realized I was shaking until I felt the steadying pressure of his fingers.
“Flynn,” I whispered. “Please, stay. I want you to stay.”
The monitor hiccupped, a single, faint blip interrupting the continuous tone. Then another.
“We’ve got rhythm,” Alistair said on an exhale. “He’s holding, but just barely. The knife nicked an artery. Between that and the neural agent interfering with clotting...” He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.
He met my gaze. “Keep talking to him, Lyric. He hears you.”
My lungs remembered how to work again, air rushing in so quickly it made me dizzy. I reached for Flynn’s hand once more, careful to stay out of Alistair’s way.
“That’s it.” I pressed a kiss to his cold fingers. “Keep fighting. We have unfinished business, Shepherd, but I’m not telling you what you want to hear on your deathbed. I won’t say it until you’re healthy. So you keep fucking fighting.”