“It’s not…that bad,” she argued between puffs of air.
“Let me in.” In an awkward shuffle, Zander and Jamie traded places in the confined space.
“By the way,” she mumbled as Doc gloved up and got to work packing her wound to staunch the bleeding. “In case I don’t get a chance—ow…” she groaned before continuing. “I wanted to say, I’m sorry about your friend.”
Cody felt a direct hit to his heart as the drone of the helicopter filled the heavy silence of the cabin. Each of them lost in their own heads; they focused on the things they could control. Flying. Tidying. Providing first aid.
“Okay. Without hauling you over the instrument panel, there’s nothing more I can do until we land.” Jamie backed out of the cockpit ass first. “You’re stable for now, so I don’t want to give you any morphine until I can see what we’re dealing with. But let me know if you feel like you’re going to pass out, the bleeding changes, or your pain gets any worse.”
“Roger that.”
Another round of silence echoed around Cody’s chest. Longer this time.
“Hey, Ryder. Wake up.” Chase ordered. “I need you to monitor the instruments. No slacking off just because you’re shot to shit. Talk to me. What’s our bearing?”
“Rude,” she complained, proving he’d misjudged her lack of chatter for unconsciousness. “I’m not dead yet, Mr. Magoo. Bearing is still two-nine-zero degrees. ETA to base twelve minutes.”
“Well, do me a favor, and don’t kick off before you clean up the mess you made.”
“Funny,” she replied, sounding about as amused as a wounded soldier could under the circumstances. “You should.” Shallow breath. “Do standup comedy.”
“You know, I’ve always?—”
The comms link interrupted Chase’s comeback with a static-filled squawk. “Black Hawk One, this is Ninja Sea Turtle. Do you copy? Over.”
“Loud and clear, Ninja Sea Turtle. What’s your status?”
“You want the bad news first?” T-Two asked. “Or the really bad news?”
Ow! Jesus Christ.
A bolt of electricity cleaved through Grant’s brain, splitting it in half. Hand over his heart, his muscles spasmed, his fingers dug into his skin, and the steady drumming beneath his palm, combined with the warmth he felt, seemed at odds with being dead.
“Hey, hey, hey, my little bâton de poison. Look what le Capitaine Highliner dragged in, eh? You made it this time. No banana prostate examens for you.”
Surprised to be alive, it took a hot minute for Grant to clear enough fog from his malfunctioning melon to make any sense of what he wasn’t seeing but definitely hearing. “Did you just call me a fish stick?” He rolled his head in the direction of JP’s voice, and bile rose to the back of his throat as the entire universe spun out of control.
“If the batter fits.”
Grant snorted, the rasp burning his throat like he’d swallowed gas and lit a match. “How long have I been out?”
“Quelques heures.”
“A couple of hours!” He tried to sit up and failed in spectacular fashion. And not just because a hand landed in the center of his chest to shove him back down. He hurt. Everyfuckingwhere.
“Easy, ten toes. Repose-toi une minute.”
“No time to rest, JP. I need to contact my team.” He had to know if Jay was alive. Confirm they’d made it back to Wales in one piece. Make sure no one told Gray he’d jumped out of a helicopter and been left behind.
Presumed dead.
“Later. Right now, you have a concoction, and your docteur needs to medic your head.”
“It’s concussion, you French fuck, and I can confirm, I don’t have one.”
“Sure. Sure. How many fingers?”
Considering he couldn’t see jack shit through the hazy blur clouding his vision, he took a wild guess and hoped for the best. “Three.”
