Chapter 4
Chapter Four
One breath.
That was all Chase allowed himself to process the scene. To stare at Rhett’s face, his heart lodged in his throat, his hands shaking from the cold slide of fear down his spine.
One defining breath.
Then, he moved, got Rhett onto his back, bandages and clotting powder tossed onto his legs. Chase took vitals, cursed, then ripped open Rhett’s shirt.
He froze.
Stared at the number carved into Rhett’s skin — forty-two. Deep. Precise. The edges too smooth to be unpracticed.
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.
Unforgiving.
“Damn it, no pulse. Starting compressions.” Chase drove down hard on Rhett’s sternum, hands locked, arms stiff. Hoping he didn’t crack too many ribs in the process. “Zain, remove his mask and grab the bag. Every thirty, brother.”
Chase rattled off the count, Zain following along. Repeating the procedure, that damn monotone sound mocking Chase in the background, only a hint of a wave registering through the sticky pads on Rhett’s chest.”
“Greer, grab the paddles for me.”
He paused after she’d added some gel, had the paddles positioned in front of him.
“Charging to two hundred. Clear!”
The defibrillator paddles hummed, then discharged with a violent thump that jerked Rhett’s body. The screen went black, then snapped back — still chaotic, the heart quivering uselessly.
Chase cursed. “Still V-fib. Charging to three hundred. Clear!”
More humming followed by another shock. Rhett jerked, again, the damn monitor still mocking Chase.
“Charging to four hundred. Clear!”
Nothing.
No P-waves. No QRS intervals.
“Pushing one milligram epi.”
He plunged the syringe into the IV port. Waited, cursed the lack of response.
More compressions.
Another shock.
Still nothing.
Just that faint squiggly line. A dwindling glimmer of hope.
Chase restarted CPR, sweat beading his brow, arms cramping, but he kept pumping, alternating his focus between Rhett and that monitor — the increasing bloody patch on his shoulder.
The gunshot wound Chase couldn’t worry about with Rhett barely holding on.
“Come on, Rhett. Don’t fucking quit on me, now. ”
Minutes bled into each other, Foster talking over the radio.
Readying the trauma team. As if their combined will might bend biology — reverse the damage.
Chase stopped the transfusion, muttering a quick thanks — that Saylor needed to stay seated, keep pressure on the needle site and grab some food — shocking Rhett one last time.
The helicopter flared over the helipad, Foster plowing the damn thing on without jostling them. The exact opposite of what his aggressive approach suggested. The doors opened, a team gathered around the machine.
Chase kept up compressions, rattling off vitals and procedures, meds and methods, as they lifted the stretcher onto a gurney, then raced into the building, the large, double doors whooshing closed behind them.
They headed for a trauma room, taking over Rhett’s care once they had the gurney secured — doctors and nurses swarming the room.
Chase held firm, shaking his head when one of the nurses asked him to leave. “No. Not until I know he’s okay.”
Foster’s hand landed on his shoulder, the weight nearly taking Chase to his knees. Not comforting, like his best friend had done a thousand times before. This was different.
Resolute.
A finality Chase wasn’t willing to accept.
Foster’s fingers curled around his arm a moment later. “You’ve done all you can. We need to let them work.”
Chase shook his head. “No. Not, yet, I can’t—”
He swallowed, wanted to puke. He couldn’t leave. Couldn’t abandon Rhett with his life on the line. The damn monitor still calling out that eerie tone. What had been an annoying beep just a few hours ago.
Crushed beneath the truth that, despite everything — the blood, the meds, the damn race against time — they’d already lost him.
Foster sighed. “Chase.”
His tone spoke volumes. No upbeat pep talk. How strong Rhett was. That he’d conquered worse. Just Chase’s name slapping him in face. The final blow before it all collapsed.
Chase looked down at his hands. The blood. The sweat. A smear of gel across his knuckles. Remnants of a life’s worth of training and skill reduced to elements he knew hadn’t been enough.
He hadn’t been enough.
He turned, walked out, each step harder than the last. Bleeding what was left of his sanity onto the floor. Just another mess the hospital staff would mop up — wash away along with his soul.
Voices echoed in the background, people rushing past in a hazy blur as he planted his ass on a chair. The air settled heavily around him, the lights casting his shadow on the floor.
No comfort.
No more chances.
Just the voice in his head screaming out in anguish. The blood on his hands silently mocking him.
No other choice but to wait.
Greer stood in the hallway, everything blending into flashes of white coats and blood-soaked gauze.
Voices shouted out vitals and procedures, instruments clattered onto trays.
Someone clipped her in the shoulder, but she barely registered it, her gaze focused on Chase — ass in a chair, head bowed in defeat as he stared at his hands.
Blood coated his skin, more soaked into his clothes.