She shook him again.
“Oh, God.”
Her mind raced backward to fight with the Colombian, and Cap telling her about the slam into the corner of the kitchen counter.
Had that caused more than bruised ribs? Some sort of delayed injury. She remembered hearing this could happen with blunt force trauma. It happened to football players sometimes, and to people who’d been in accidents.
She grabbed Cap’s burner phone and pressed the nine, but stopped before she pressed one.
She stared at the numbers.
No.
Not yet.
Remembering that Cap had told her the police had gone radio silent, she realized calling emergency services could reveal their location. If the Colombian was still watching, listening, hunting…
Her chest tightened.
She needed help—but quiet help.
Her thumb moved, tapping redial.
The burner phone rang once.
Twice.
“Cap?” The chief’s deep voice sounded through the line.
“No, it’s Emma.”
“What’s wrong?”
Her voice broke. “It’s Cap. He won’t wake up.”
Silence on the line—then controlled urgency. “Is he breathing?”
“Yes. Barely. He’s cold. Pale. His ribs got bruised during the fight. I think something more is going on.”
“Okay,” the chief said. “Listen to me. Don’t move him. I’m dispatching an ambulance—no lights, no sirens. I’ll be there myself. Within minutes.”
Relief flooded her so fast her knees nearly buckled.
“I’m on my way now,” he said.
The line went dead.
Emma put the phone down and placed her hands on Cap’s clammy cheeks.
“Please wake up,” she whispered. “Please.”
His breathing stuttered.
Emma wiped sweat from his temple with trembling hands.
“Come on,” she begged. “Just open your eyes.”
His lips parted, a faint sound escaped his throat—but he didn’t wake.
