Page 20 of No Hope of Rescue

His sudden strength, derived from desperation, evaporates. He closes his eyes and his arm drops.

“Right. Because we don’t know what fluid is spilled from the crash.” I pause as he’s nodding, and then I add, “But that’s not it.”

Slowly, as if he doesn’t want to have to go over it one more time, he tells me the horrific story of the climb, the men, Codie, getting shot, and how he found the fuselage empty. He stops and wipes his mouth. His hands are red, chafed, but it’s a sign that circulation is there.

“What else?”

He shakes his head. “A two-foot-wide rut, like they dragged something out with them.”

A body—that’s what he means. I do the only thing I can do in this moment. I redirect. “You need to open up that heat vest and let me disinfect that gunshot wound.”

He stares at me a moment, then he stands. The plane has emergency straps running along both sides. I point to some right above us. After taking off his gloves, he grips one in both hands while widening his stance. “Go for it.”

After removing my heavy gloves, I paw through the front pack and take out a bottle of alcohol. Gently, I pull open his damp jacket and the Velcro front seam to the vest, open the locking tabs, and reveal his abs. It’s freezing and I have to work fast, first peeling away the older bandage. I toss it to the floor, then squirt alcohol right into the wound. He doesn’t even flinch.

Probing as gently as I can, I see he was clipped. The bullet didn’t make a direct hit but tore a chunk above his left hip. Thank God his hip wasn’t shattered.

“What’s your call?” His teeth are gritted, either from the cold or pain, or both.

“It’s more than a graze, and you’ll have a nasty scar. It ripped through muscle, but I think that’s it. You’ll need stitches.”

He doesn’t seem to care at the moment. His eyes are shut, and he grips the straps tighter, trying to keep standing. In another minute, I’ve torn the large gauze package open with my teeth and applied another flat bandage over the wound.

He continues breathing shallowly through his mouth, and I reach up and place my bare hands over his.

“You can let go.”

He starts to loosen his grip but stays swaying slightly.

I try again, with more authority in my voice: “Brock, let go.”

He releases and his tall frame slumps against mine so quickly I stagger back a step.

“Sit down,” I say, trying to get him eased onto one of the fallen crates, his back against another. Reaching inside, I feel the vest. The batteries are dead, the heat packs are cold. The batteries in the other vest will work, so I swap them out, though I have to grab him once by the collar to keep him upright.

The pallor of his face makes his three days growth of beard stand out. This time, I turn the thermostats to sixty degrees, close the tabs, press the Velcro into position, then fumble with the zipper because my fingers are already so cold.

I hand him his gloves, and he manages to get them on. Then I pass him a water bottle. “Drink this.”

“How did you find me?” He’s having trouble with the spout. I reach over, pull it up for him, and hand it back before putting on my own gloves. He’s still suffering from brain fog.

“Jace scoped out the snowmobile and gave me coordinates.”

His jaw works for a moment. “You came in here after sunset, in a storm.”

“That’s right.”

“No,” he says softly. “That’s wrong.” He closes those brown eyes.

“I wasn’t going to give up on you,” I start in, internally swinging both arms.

“And how do you know Carter or Jace or Ryan didn’t freeze to death last night looking for you?”

I didn’t think of that. I also didn’t think about Kelly either, out in this, looking for her children.

“You can’t be reckless in this business, Riley.”

“The storm was coming in. We couldn’t track you. Carter didn’t say it, but you two were heading into forty-eight hours.”