Page 78 of Collateral Damage
She pulls. The bone slides back into the socket with a wet, heavy jar that vibrates through my entire ribcage. The world goes white for a second, a wave of nausea rolling over me so hard I nearly retch. Then it settles into a dull, leaden throb.
Ava sags against me, her forehead on my chest, her breathing just as broken as mine. “Is it really over?” she whispers.
I stare at the black smoke rising into the white sky. We’ve missed a check-in. Caleb will be rallying and already in the air.
Thank you, Jesus for the good men you have guarding my back.
I glance at the blood pooling into the snow around Reagan, lean down and press my lips to her frozen skin. “Yes, my love, it’s over,” I say.
Eighteen
Ava
The heavy thrum of the rotors vibrates through the soles of my boots, a mechanical roar that tries to drown out the chaos in the cabin. The sharp, acidic tang of aviation fuel clashes with the scent of woodsmoke still clinging to my hair.
Beside me, Axel reaches for Silas’s arm. My instincts snap into place before I can even think.
"Don't touch that," I command. My voice is sharper than I intended, cutting through the engine noise. "The shoulder's been reduced, but the joint is unstable. Support it from underneath, not the side."
Axel pauses, his brow furrowing under his helmet. "Ma'am?—"
"I have trauma training, and he's now my patient," I counter. I don't give him an inch. I can't. "Underneath."
He yields, adjusting his grip. I watch his hands with a hawk’s intensity. Silas is pale, his muscles leaden, and though I want to reach out and smooth the hair from his forehead, I have to stay in 'Doctor' mode. If I slip into 'Ava,' I might fall apart, and he can’t afford for me to fall apart yet.
Stray flakes of snow drift through the open bay, melting against Silas’s skin.
Axel is fast. He lands the IV line on the first try. I find myself grading him, a silent, frantic peer review. He’s professional, his voice carrying that flat, medic monotone that usually reassures me. Today, it just makes my chest tighter.
"BP's low," Axel says.
"He's been bleeding for at least forty minutes," I reply, my voice steady despite the adrenaline vibrating in my marrow. "Possibly longer. The arm wound is the priority, but check his right ribs as well. He took a knee to that flank."
Axel nods, accepting the directive without question. Good. He recognizes my seniority even if I’m covered in soot and blood.
The helicopter surges, climbing for altitude. My stomach drops, and through the salt-streaked window, the fire vanishes. Swallowed by the white.
Caleb leans into Silas’s line of sight, his jaw tight. "You look terrible," he says.
"You should see the other guy," Silas croaks.
Gallows humor. It’s a horrific, beautiful sound. He’s still there. He’s still quipping. I see the softening in Caleb’s eyes—the relief he’s too stoic to voice and I feel a sudden, desperate need for contact.
I reach out, my hand finding Silas’s in the cramped space. I don't look at him. I keep my eyes fixed on Axel’s hands, on the monitors, on the clinical reality of the situation. I keep my face a mask of professional calm.
But my hand is shaking. I can’t stop it.
Silas turns his palm over, threading his fingers through mine and gripping back. The effort clearly costs him, but he doesn't let go. He is my anchor in this vibrating metal box.
"ETA?" I ask, looking at Caleb.
"Twenty-two minutes," he says, checking his watch.
I nod, mentally mapping out those twenty-two minutes. I can hold it together for that long. I have to.
By the time we arrive, Silas is no longer capable of conversation, and his grip has gone limp in my hand. I’m praying nonstop as we touch down.
The landing pad is a blinding theater of artificial light. The trauma team is already there, a blur of scrubs and urgency.
