Page 17 of No Hope of Rescue

I’ll wait until morning to start again—this time on foot.

Shrugging off the backpack, the wind whistles through the cabin, catching here and there, leaving snow falling in places that can’t be predicted.

That’s when I realize the oilskin isn’t covered in snow. It must be more protected.

I make my way to the back again and start to pull back the heavy blanket. This will come in handy.

Why didn’t they take it?

Savi barks again and stares at me.

“Come on, girl,” I say, dropping the edge and moving toward her. I stretch out my hand and grab her collar. “Come in here where it’s—”

But I never finish the sentence.

When I turn around, all I see is a gloved hand sticking out from under the edge of the oilskin.

Chapter Five

Riley Delgado

This time, there are no raised hairs on the back of my neck. I turn quickly, taking a few steps to close the gap, and kneel, pulling the rest of the blanket off.

It’s Brock. His eyes are closed, lips blue, and he’s shaking.

Oh my God.

Squatting, I rip off his glove and mine and check for a pulse. It’s weak, fluttering under my fingers.

“Brock, it’s me. Riley,” I say softly.

His eyes open, but I’m not sure he hears me. There are large blood-soaked wads of cotton or something falling out of his coat. I flash on the pilot’s seat, torn to shreds.

“Where’s Codie? Is Codie here too?”

I scan quickly, trying to see if she’s hiding somewhere.

There’s a sob, a single gut-wrenching sound that grabs my heart. I turn back to him.

“Gone. Dead,” he mumbles, his speech slurred, and again, a kind of stomach-clenching cry rises through gritted teeth as if he’s trying to hold back the truth. His eyes are still screwed shut. He fumbles for me.

Don’t panic. Stay calm.

Everything I do now is from flipping some SAR automatic pilot switch. Ripping open the backpack, I turn on both the jacket and the pants, setting them to fifty degrees Fahrenheit. They’ll only take five minutes or so to heat up, but even at only fifty degrees, it may be too much. In the meantime, I try to raise Brock to a sitting position, just to get his head off the floor.

His gasp tells me something else is wrong. I run my hands over his body. His clothes are damp.

I remember the blood and quickly check his arms and legs for fractures, but I can’t feel anything through his pants or coat. Tipping him forward, I strip him out of his coat. When he leans back, shivering uncontrollably, a dark bloodstain blots his white undershirt. Dark blood flows thick in fits and starts from his side.

Gingerly, I left the shirt. It’s a gunshot wound. I reach for the first aid kit, grab gauze, and pack the wound, while he remains so silent that I keep throwing him glances to be sure he’s still with me. I rip open a patch and apply it. He doesn’t even flinch from the pain. He coughs and it racks his frame. Brock is so muscular and strong, and to see him like this, exhausted, fighting for his life, is frightening.

No wonder Savi didn’t know what to do. Now she curls up next to him.

“Brock. Here, guy,” I say, trying to shove his arms into the sleeves of the heated jacket. It will warm to fifty degrees, and I can leave him at that before moving it to sixty and then sixty-five for five hours, enough to get us practically through the night. I have the smaller one.

That’s the one meant for Codie. Can’t think about that.

After zipping him up, I gently lean his head back into the folds of his damp jacket. He glances at me for a moment and then struggles against me, trying to push me away. He’s forgotten who I am.