“Get some plasma in him, now!” Kodiak ordered.
“Okay. You’re close?” Breakneck’s voice was eerily calm now, the voice of a man who had shoved every ounce of emotion into a locked box to do the work that needed to be done.
Preacher looked at Blair, his gaze intense.
“ETA,” she asked into her comm, her own voice tight with a desperate hope she couldn't hide.
“Five minutes,” the pilot’s voice came back, crisp and professional.
Her fear for Breakneck intensified, a clawing panic that threatened to tear her apart, but layered beneath it was a deep, gnawing dread for Iceman. She had come to know the gruff master chief over the course of the operation, and beneath the hardened, no-nonsense exterior was a man of unwavering loyalty and a dry, surprising wit. He was Breakneck’s anchor, his mentor, the man who had shaped him into the operator he was. He had become a friend, and the thought of that steady, unshakable presence bleeding out on a cold concrete floor was unbearable. She had seen the way Breakneck not only looked up to him but loved him like a father, a profound respect that went far beyond the chain of command. If they lost Iceman, they wouldn't just be losing a teammate. They would be losing a piece of Breakneck’s soul, and she wasn't sure he could survive that.
The cold, clinical report from Breakneck, stabbed, lower abdomen, so much blood, echoed in her head, each word a fresh wave of nausea.
The cannery came into view, a hulking, rusted skeleton against the gray sky. Blair’s eyes scanned the ground, desperately, until she saw him. Breakneck, staggering out from the shadow of the building, Iceman slung over his shoulders, his head lolling, his body limp. Breakneck moved with a single-minded, animal determination, fatigue in every line of his big, beautiful body, the IV held up as he ran, his boots pounding, his stride eating the ground toward the chopper.
The helicopter touched down in a whirlwind of dust and rotor wash. The SEALs scrambled out, a blur of tactical gear, converging on Breakneck and Iceman. Kodiak was the first to reach them, barking orders, taking Iceman’s weight as they loaded him into the chopper, but Breakneck couldn’t let go. “It’s okay, man. We’ve got him.”
He finally released him with a shuddering exhalation.
Blair waited, giving them room to manage Iceman, then she pushed through the guys. Breakneck was standing there, swaying slightly, his face pale and ashen, his pupils blown wide with shock. He blinked at her, as if he couldn’t quite believe she was real.
Then she saw it. The blood. It was soaked into the bottom of his shirt, just below the vest, a dark, wet stain that spread down the front of his pants. The fabric was ragged, torn, and the blood was fresh, glistening. He looked at her, his face crumpling into a mask of pure, unadulterated anguish.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice raw and broken. “Don’t let him die.”
He stumbled toward her, his legs giving way, his body going limp as the adrenaline finally burned out.
She caught him, the weight of him threatening to pull her down, but she refused to let him go. Moments later, she wormed her way to Breakneck in the chopper, set his head in her lap, her hand shaking as she combed her fingers through his hair over and over again as the chopper flew at top speed to the nearest hospital.
46
The helicopter bucked through a pocket of turbulence, the floor vibrating under her knees. Blair barely felt it. All her attention was on the weight in her lap, the rise and fall of his chest uneven beneath her hands.
“Easy,” she murmured, not sure who she was talking to. Him. Herself. The moment.
Breakneck’s lashes fluttered.
Her breath caught. She leaned closer, her fingers threading through the thick, unruly hair stilled, then resumed, moving to the silky strands at his temple. She stroked slowly, gently, grounding him the only way she knew how.
His brow furrowed, then eased, and he looked so adorably confused.
A breath left him, low and shaky. “That…feels good,” he whispered, the words slurred, pulled from somewhere deep and unguarded.
Her throat closed. She didn’t answer. She just kept her hand there, steady, present, letting him anchor to the touch.
His eyes opened again, barely, unfocused and searching. For a second, she thought he wouldn’t find her.
“Blair,” he breathed.
The sound hit her like a blow. Relief and fear tangled so tightly in her chest she couldn’t tell them apart, and for a terrifying second she was afraid this was all she was going to get.
His face softened, as if the sound of it had settled something inside him, and then the moment slipped away. His body went heavy again, consciousness receding, the fight finally giving way to exhaustion and blood loss.
Blair bowed over him, her forehead resting briefly against his, her hand never leaving his hair. Her grip tightened without her meaning to, a sudden, visceral panic flashing through her body. Don’t let go, don’t let this be the last thing. “I’ve got you,” she whispered fiercely. “I’m right here.”
The helicopter surged forward through the night, rotors screaming, carrying them toward lights and doctors and answers, her command heavy on her, but for that brief, fragile moment, all that existed was her touch, his breath, and the quiet truth that he’d come back to her before letting go again.
She took a hard breath. There was no more time for emotion. She depressed her comms. “Ayla?”
