“Nope. This is what I want to know. You made me cut a hole in your chest. I’m bruised from head to toe, and I probably have a concussion. Humor me.”
With a sigh, Doc reaches for my hand. His tight grip reassures me. “Gage Reynolds was my father.”
“So you’re Gage Junior?” The smile tugs at my swollen lip, and I wince.
“No.” He practically snarls the word. “I legally changed my name thirty years ago. I’m Doc now.”
“I’m sorry…Doc. I shouldn’t have—” The satellite phone buzzes, the sound muffled against the dark gray carpet, but it’s so quiet out here with no engine noise, that it startles us both.
“You close?” Doc asks when I flip the switch and put the call on speaker.
“West, Raelynn, and Graham are five miles out. Be ready to move,” the rough voice says.
“Gonna need some help with that.” After a pause, he adds, “McCabe?”
I check the phone. “He hung up on you.”
“Fucker.” He squeezes his eyes shut. “Open the door. They’ll…need to get in.” Once again, he tries to push himself up, but the tube, tape, and pain conspire against him. His boots scrape over the sleeping bag but fail to find purchase.
“Stay still. That’s an order,” I snap and climb into the front seat to unlatch the door. The steadythump, thump, thumpof the helicopter blades gets closer, but they must be running dark, because I can’t see a damn thing.
After another minute, the smooth surface of Puget Sound turns choppy, and the wind picks up so dramatically, it whips my hair into my eyes.
It’s too rough. I lunge for the seatbelt and wind it around my hand three times so I don’t tumble into the water. I glance back at Doc. The motion can’t be doing him any good. His eyes are closed again. Shit.
A dark shadow streaks across the sky, slows, and hovers directly above us. I squint. Is that a person balancing on the helicopter’s skids? The end of a rope splashes into the water next to the plane. I blink, and there’s a man hanging just in front of me.
“Shit!” I scramble back, my heart in my throat.
“Who the hell are you, and where’s the Doc?” the man asks as he raises his night-vision goggles.
“He’s inside. I’m Nat. I…uh…run the campground on Blakely.” It’s the truth. Well, part of it, anyway.
“Well, Nat…I’m Graham. Permission to come aboard?” From the look in his eyes, it’s not a question, but I nod and rush back to Doc’s side.
Graham clips a carabineer around the rope, then climbs in after me. “Hey, Doc. Got yourself in some trouble?”
“Nah. This is…my idea…of a vacation,” he manages. “Can’t you see…my tan?” He’s starting to wheeze again. Tears prick at my eyes. If he doesn’t make it back to Seattle, I’ll never forgive myself.
Graham takes a knee next to Doc and examines the tube and my terrible scalpel skills. “Next time, get yourself some higher SPF. Maybe you won’t burn a hole in your side.”
“Fuck you,” Doc says. “Get us out of here.”
Us.
“Well, your bedside manner seems to be intact,” Graham says with a grim smile. “Is it safe to move you?” The young man presses two fingers to Doc’s carotid artery.
“You don’t,” Doc grits out, “I’m gonna die out here. Just…watch the tube.””
Graham touches his ear. “West? I need the litter. You’re going to want to take a look at Doc before we move him.”
“West?” I ask.
“He calls the shots,” Graham says as he climbs back over the front seats and peers out the door. “And he’s our field medic.”
I stay out of the way as West—he’s older and leaner than Graham—maneuvers a bright orange backboard with half a dozen straps into the small cabin.
He’s as shocked to see me as Graham was. Steely blue eyes unnerve me, and I shrink back against the cold metal wall.
