Chapter Ten

Natasha

"Going down? What the hell do you mean ‘going down'?"

"Fuel." His voice is strained. He jabs a gauge on the instrument panel. "Seat…belt."

My hands shake as I stretch the harness across my body. Doc wheezes, easing the stick back. The plane starts to descend, and the motor whines in protest.

We're going to stall. I squint into the darkness. The moon is all but gone now, hidden behind a thick stretch of clouds. How high are we?

Doc adjusts the flaps, flips a few switches on the panel, and clenches his jaw, hard. His chest stutters with a weak cough.

"Doc? What's wrong? What…else is wrong?"

"Not…now." He white-knuckles the controls until the engine cuts out completely. I expect the bottom to drop out of my stomach. But instead, it feels like…nothing. Or maybe that's my panic.

It's almost completely silent other than Doc's wheezing. The plane touches down with the gentlest of skids—like a car hydroplaning on a wet road.

"Is that…it?" I ask.

"Yeah." Doc leans back in his seat. Sweat dots his brow. "But…we're…fucked. Or…I am." His fingers tremble as he tugs at the neck of his black t-shirt.

"What's wrong? Are you hit?" I smooth my hands over his chest until he grabs my wrist and hisses in pain.

"Pneumo…thorax."

I don't know what that is, but it sounds serious. Glancing around the interior of the plane, I zero in on a life raft and oars strapped to the rear wall. "We can row to shore. I'm okay. I can get us there."

"And then…what?" Doc glances at his watch. "Doubt…there will be…anyone…around this time…of night. I won't last…more than another…hour. Maybe less."

"An hour?" This man saved my life. Parker was seconds away from putting a bullet in my brain when Doc stabbed him. "There has to be something we can do."

"We're…in the middle…of the goddamn Sound. No fuel."

"Radio?" It's a stupid idea. They probably couldn't even get here in time. And when they arrive—if they arrive at all—I'm fucked. They'll demand my name—my real name—and I'll be in the system faster than I can give them my rank and serial number.

"Too…risky." He's getting worse. Each breath shallower. His cheeks are pale. "Need you…to put in…a chest tube."

"I can't do that! I'm not a doctor!" There's no way he should trust me with anything more than a couple of stitches. Somewhere not vital.

Doc reaches for my hand and gives my fingers a weak squeeze. "Trust me. If I…could do it myself…I would. But…in a few minutes…I won't be able…to breathe…at all." He tries to straighten, but his eyes crinkle with pain. "I can get…us out of here. If…I live long enough."

"How?"

He punches a button on the instrument panel, and a gentle splash sounds from outside. "The anchor," he says. "Help me…and I'll tell you."

For a brief moment, I wonder if I should take the life raft and go without him. Paddle the eight or ten miles to shore and disappear. But I can't have another death on my conscience. Especially not his. He's a good man. A man I care about.

"Tell me what to do."

With a grunt, Doc pushes himself up. He sways on his feet, then staggers over to his rucksack. "Lay out…the sleeping bag."

I shove the tie down ropes aside to make room while he unzips his bag. "Why? What's this going to do?"

"Probably…gonna pass out…after," he manages. "Floor's…cold."

Logical. God, I hope he knows what he's doing.

"You're not making me feel any better, Doc." Neither is his medical kit. It's stocked better than most clinics I've been to. Several scalpels, clamps, a bag of saline, half a dozen different vials, a suture kit, bandages, pills, an inhaler, and an epipen. And that's just the first layer.

"Doc? Or hell…that can't be your real name. What is it?"

He lands on his ass on the sleeping bag, his eyes almost closed.

"Talk to me. Please."

"Gage," he says with a grimace. "My first name…is really…Gage."

"Gage?" I almost manage a laugh. "That's one of the sexiest names I've ever heard, and you tell everyone your name is Doc?" This isn't the time for inappropriate humor, but it's all I've got. Instead of taking the words back, I double down. "If it weren't for all this," I say, gesturing to the medical kit, "I'd have a hard time believing you were smart enough to graduate medical school."

"Have…my reasons." Doc—Gage—reaches into his rucksack and withdraws a satellite phone. "If I'm out…for more than five minutes…there's one…number saved. Tell…the guy…who answers…he owes me…for the last time."

I don't have time to dwell on his mysterious words because he strips off his t-shirt, and I get my first good look at his bare chest.

A smattering of white hair spreads across his defined pecs, but it's the bruises that send a ball of ice sinking in my stomach. Some are already dark red. Others still pink.

I knew Parker was beating the shit out of him when I came to, but they'd obviously been going at it for more than a few seconds.

Gage—or does he prefer Doc?—tears an antiseptic package open with his teeth, then swipes it over his side from his arm all the way to his waist. A second pad cleans the scalpel, one end of the tubing, and finally, his fingers.

"Take this," he says, pressing the scalpel into my palm before collapsing onto the sleeping bag and feeling along his ribs until he finds the worst of the bruising. "Make a deep cut…right here."

I swallow hard. "There has to be another way."

"Isn't." His voice is getting weaker. The pauses between his words longer. Most of the color has fled from his skin. "You'll know…when you've hit…the right spot. Tube…goes in. Tape it down."

His eyes drift closed. Fuck. No. I can't lose him too. Mom. Dad. Chris. Logan.

Doc and Gladys are the only two people left in this world I care about.

"Gage? Doc! Look at me!" His lips are blue. His chest is barely moving. Little starts and stops. "Please don't die on me," I whisper.

I press the scalpel to the spot between his ribs. It slides in easily. I expected it to be like cutting a steak. Not…a stick of butter.

Blood trickles down his side. Too much. "How will I know? You didn't tell me how I'd know."

The harsh, coppery scent burns my nose. Too many memories.

Logan's blood running over my hands. His eyes, staring up at me, shimmering with tears. The way his mouth moved but no sound came out. My sobs when I knew he was gone.

I take a deep breath to try to still the tremble in my fingers before I push deeper. The plane bobs gently on the water, and I have a blade an inch deep in a man's chest.

What if I cut something…vital? What if my hand starts to shake too much? Or the wind picks up? Is this far enough? He's barely breathing. If I kill him…

Cool fingers cover mine. Thank God. He's still alive. Still conscious. He doesn't make a sound—I'm not sure he can—but pushes down, forcing the scalpel even deeper. I feel a pop, then hear a hiss of air before his hand falls away.

"Doc? Please. Come back to me!" For the first time in years, I start to pray.

The blue tinge to his lips disappears. He's no longer struggling for each breath. I almost drop the tubing twice—my fingers are so slick with his blood—but eventually wedge one end into the gash and tape it to his side.

Wiping my hands on my light gray pants, I try to calm my racing heart. "Is that enough?" He's so still. Only the slow rise and fall of his chest give me any comfort. What if I did it wrong? What if he dies anyway?

The seconds stretch into minutes. How long until I have to call the number on that phone? Will the man on the other end even come if Doc isn't awake—or alive—to ask him? And how will he find us?

I'm about to reach for the phone when Doc groans softly. Linking our fingers, I squeeze gently. "Open your eyes. Please?"

"Working…on it," he whispers. Another sound—more of a grunt this time—and he focuses on me. "Clamp. End…of the tube. Now."

I fumble for the springy metal, then secure the clamp around the part of the tube furthest from his body. "Like that?"

"Just…like that." He lets his head fall back against the sleeping bag with a sigh.

"You'll be okay now?" I hate how pitiful I sound, then again, I did just perform some sort of demented surgery on him while we float in the middle of the Sound on a downed plane.

"Fucker…broke my rib. It caused…a pneumothorax. Collapsed my lung. The tube…will keep me breathing. For a while."

"A while? A while? How long is that?" Shit. He's not reassuring me. If anything, I'm more scared now than when Parker had a gun to my head.

"Long enough. If McCabe answers the phone." His voice is getting stronger, but he closes his eyes and shudders. "Hurts like…a son of a bitch."

"Do you have something in your kit I can give you?" One of those vials has to be a painkiller.

"Not yet." Doc grimaces, the muscles of his neck straining as he tries to lift his head. "Need to stay focused. But…hand me…the phone."

The hole in my chest burns. I need supplemental oxygen, antibiotics, stitches…and morphine. But if I give myself a shot now, I might not be alert enough to keep myself alive. Or convince McCabe to come for us.

One ring. Two.

"This better be a goddamned emergency, Doc. It's the middle of the night, and the last time we spoke, I told you to go fuck yourself."

Anger prickles over my skin. If this weren't life and death—my life and death—I'd call someone else. Anyone else. I'd like to rip McCabe a new one. But I can't. Not yet.

"Some asshole…shot my fuel tanks. Plane went down. South of Lopez Island. Need medical. Soon."

A baby wails in the background, and McCabe's wife starts to sing some nonsense song about the moon and rainbows to calm the kid down.

"Define soon."

"Not…a fucking…dictionary. Look it up."

"For fuck's—fudge's—sake, Doc. Can the SEAL take a boat to your location or does he need to get a helo?"

Next to me, Nat jerks, then mouths, "A helo?"

If I weren't so bad off, I'd chuckle at the shock in her eyes.

"Doc? I need an answer. It'll be thirty minutes for the helo. Plus however long it takes Raelynn to get to Boeing Field and fuel up. A little under an hour for the RHIB."

A spasm of pain rolls through me, and my vision tunnels. "Had to…walk Nat…through putting in…a chest tube. My lung could…collapse again any minute. Send…the helo."

"Roger that," Ryker says, all business, like I didn't just wake him up from a sound sleep and demand he save a dying man he hates. Hell, he didn't even ask who Nat was. "Keep your phone on. I'll call you back when they're close."

He hangs up before I get a chance to say thank you. Or anything at all.