Chapter Eleven

Natasha

"Who was that?" For five full minutes, I've been trying to work up the courage to ask, though I'm not sure I truly want to know.

Doc tries to roll onto his uninjured side, but hisses out a breath and stops. "Fuck, that hurts. I'll take…a little of that morphine…now."

"How much?" I check each one of the clear vials until I find the one he needs.

"Four milligrams. In my upper arm." He's shivering, so once I give him the shot, I stretch out next to him. Gently, I ease his arm around my shoulders and rest my head on his shoulder.

"Is this okay?" The last thing I want to do is cause him more pain. It's getting colder out here. He's not wearing a shirt, and I'm only in short sleeves and thin pajama pants. The blood soaking the material from my hip is no longer warm, and pretty soon, we'll both be in trouble. The lights are still on, but the heater cut out with the engine.

He nods, and I reach up to link our fingers.

"So…about the guy you called…?" He never answered my question, and I need to know before these men come and take me to the nearest police station.

"McCabe was Special Forces. He runs a K&R firm…in Seattle. I used to…help them out sometimes. Enough they won't leave me out here."

Shit. Special Forces. If this McCabe gets a whiff of who I am, my life could be over. Hell, even if doesn't, I'm compromised. Parker found me. That means Bastian knows where I am. I have to get the fuck away from Doc. And everyone I've ever known.

"Nat?" Doc coughs weakly. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." I force myself to relax, hoping he won't press me.

"I'm depending on you, baby," he whispers. "You're the only one who…can keep me alive. Tell me the truth."

Shit. This man is much more perceptive than I gave him credit for. Even hopped up on morphine.

"Someone just tried to kill me. We're in the middle of Puget Sound, and I just cut a hole in your side. That's not enough to be upset about?"

I didn't lie. Not technically. All of that is true.

"Do you have a record?" he asks.

"No! Why the hell would you think that?" I start to pull away, but Doc is holding my hand tightly. Gripping it. Like he's desperate for the contact. I get the sense he doesn't need much. From anyone. But right now, he needs me. So I relax—or try to—and return my cheek to his chest.

"Because you tensed…when I said Special Forces."

Of course, he'd pick up on that. In eight years, my poker face hasn't gotten any better.

"They're going to deliver me straight to the nearest police station. I killed a man. And I almost killed you."

"McCabe and his team…they're the good guys. They won't…" His voice fades away, his eyes closing once more. I don't try to keep him talking. I can't. Those four words shattered my control.

I killed a man.

It doesn't matter that I killed hundreds in my almost twenty years in the army—directly and indirectly. Dozens of firefights. RPGs. Drone strikes executed on intel from my team.

Parker is the only man I've killed out of uniform. It doesn't matter that it was him or me. Him or both of us. That doesn't make it right.

Nothing about this situation is right. Bastian was supposed to be one of "the good guys" too. Same with Collins. Sutton. Doherty. Bowen. I trusted them, and they took everything from me.

Will Doc's "good guys" do the same?

I almost get up half a dozen times. My gaze keeps drifting to the bright red life raft strapped to the rear of the plane with the blue and white paddles.

If I leave now, I can make it to shore in an hour. But then what? My feet are bloody inside my boots, and my hip is on fire. There's a whole drum section playing against the inside of my skull. A concussion? Probably.

Pressed to my side, Doc still shivers. He needs me. And right now, I need him too.

My eyelids are so heavy. I'm almost floating. But not. My limbs don't want to move. Even my fingers feel sluggish. You're not supposed to sleep with a concussion though. Right?

Doc coughs weakly.

"You're okay," I say softly. "Just breathe."

"How long…has it been?"

I tighten my fingers on his and angle his hand to see his wrist. "Twenty minutes. I'll get you some water." Carefully, I extricate myself from his hold and dig in his rucksack until I find a canteen.

He takes a couple of sips, but he's so pale. There's less blood than I expect when I check his side, but what if he's bleeding internally?

"Your friends will be here soon," I say, hoping I'm right.

"McCabe isn't a friend. It's…complicated."

"Sounds like a story I need to hear. And we're stuck for now. So…"

Doc shakes his head, then grimaces. "Not mine to tell. McCabe would kill me."

I'm not sure I want to meet this McCabe. I hope the others with him are less inclined toward murder.

Doc is restless, shifting his legs on the sleeping bag, flexing his fingers like he needs something to grab onto. But when he tries to push up on an elbow, I plant my hand on his chest and hold him in place. His heart thumps steadily under my palm. "Stay down, Doc."

"Can't just…lie here."

"Yes. You can. You're just proving that the clichés are true. Doctors make terrible patients." He's not the only one who's shivering now, and I slide back down to share my body heat. "Well, here's a different question. Why don't you go by Gage?"

He grimaces and turns his head away. "Ask me anything else."

"Nope. This is what I want to know. You made me cut a hole in your chest. I'm bruised from head to toe, and I probably have a concussion. Humor me."

With a sigh, Doc reaches for my hand. His tight grip reassures me. "Gage Reynolds was my father."

"So you're Gage Junior?" The smile tugs at my swollen lip, and I wince.

"No." He practically snarls the word. "I legally changed my name thirty years ago. I'm Doc now."

"I'm sorry…Doc. I shouldn't have—" The satellite phone buzzes, the sound muffled against the dark gray carpet, but it's so quiet out here with no engine noise, that it startles us both.

"You close?" Doc asks when I flip the switch and put the call on speaker.

"West, Raelynn, and Graham are five miles out. Be ready to move," the rough voice says.

"Gonna need some help with that." After a pause, he adds, "McCabe?"

I check the phone. "He hung up on you."

"Fucker." He squeezes his eyes shut. "Open the door. They'll…need to get in." Once again, he tries to push himself up, but the tube, tape, and pain conspire against him. His boots scrape over the sleeping bag but fail to find purchase.

"Stay still. That's an order," I snap and climb into the front seat to unlatch the door. The steady thump, thump, thump of the helicopter blades gets closer, but they must be running dark, because I can't see a damn thing.

After another minute, the smooth surface of Puget Sound turns choppy, and the wind picks up so dramatically, it whips my hair into my eyes.

It's too rough. I lunge for the seatbelt and wind it around my hand three times so I don't tumble into the water. I glance back at Doc. The motion can't be doing him any good. His eyes are closed again. Shit.

A dark shadow streaks across the sky, slows, and hovers directly above us. I squint. Is that a person balancing on the helicopter's skids? The end of a rope splashes into the water next to the plane. I blink, and there's a man hanging just in front of me.

"Shit!" I scramble back, my heart in my throat.

"Who the hell are you, and where's the Doc?" the man asks as he raises his night-vision goggles.

"He's inside. I'm Nat. I…uh…run the campground on Blakely." It's the truth. Well, part of it, anyway.

"Well, Nat…I'm Graham. Permission to come aboard?" From the look in his eyes, it's not a question, but I nod and rush back to Doc's side.

Graham clips a carabineer around the rope, then climbs in after me. "Hey, Doc. Got yourself in some trouble?"

"Nah. This is…my idea…of a vacation," he manages. "Can't you see…my tan?" He's starting to wheeze again. Tears prick at my eyes. If he doesn't make it back to Seattle, I'll never forgive myself.

Graham takes a knee next to Doc and examines the tube and my terrible scalpel skills. "Next time, get yourself some higher SPF. Maybe you won't burn a hole in your side."

"Fuck you," Doc says. "Get us out of here."

Us.

"Well, your bedside manner seems to be intact," Graham says with a grim smile. "Is it safe to move you?" The young man presses two fingers to Doc's carotid artery.

"You don't," Doc grits out, "I'm gonna die out here. Just…watch the tube.""

Graham touches his ear. "West? I need the litter. You're going to want to take a look at Doc before we move him."

"West?" I ask.

"He calls the shots," Graham says as he climbs back over the front seats and peers out the door. "And he's our field medic."

I stay out of the way as West—he's older and leaner than Graham—maneuvers a bright orange backboard with half a dozen straps into the small cabin.

He's as shocked to see me as Graham was. Steely blue eyes unnerve me, and I shrink back against the cold metal wall.

"West, that's Nat. Nat, that's West. Former Navy SEAL and all around badass," Graham says.

West gives me the once-over. "You injured?"

Before I can tell him no, Doc clears his throat. "Probable concussion. Shot to her thigh. Cranial lacerations?—"

"I'm fine. You're the one with the hole in his chest." My voice cracks, and I stare down at my hands. They're still stained with Doc's blood.

The SEAL pulls a harness from a small pack at his waist. "Put this on while I secure the Doc. Unless you've never used one of these before?"

"I got it." Dammit. From the look on his face, I probably should have played dumb. How many civilians know how to put on a full hoist harness?

West rummages through his pack until he finds a thick roll of stretchy tape. "Sit him up," he tells Graham. "We need to make sure that tube doesn't come out in transport."

The two work together, winding the bright blue gauze around Doc's chest half a dozen times. With each pass they make over the tube, Doc looks worse, until I'm about to yell at them to stop.

"You doin' okay, Doc?" West asks when they finish.

"Hell…no. Hurts like a motherfucker." The words are too weak. Too slow.

West cracks a wry smile. "Just be grateful we didn't come by boat. The ride back would be miserable." He moves to Doc's feet. "On three. Roll him onto his right side."

The SEAL slides the litter under Doc's body. He and Graham work in tandem, covering Doc with a blanket, then securing one strap after another over his shins, thighs, waist, and chest. By the time they're done, I don't think Doc can move at all.

"Got an anchor on this thing?" Graham asks as West climbs back out of the plane and the two position the litter across the two front seats.

"Already dropped." Pain roughens Doc's tone. "Not gonna matter. I'm…in the middle of a shipping lane. Someone'll have her…towed by morning. Or…sink her."

Graham chuckles. "Doc, we're a full-service rescue operation." He winks at me. God, the ladies must love him. He's got that wholesome, boy-next-door look about him, with the muscles of a fighter. "Kidnap and ransom, rescue, retrieval, pet sitting, housecleaning, window repair…and towing."

The rope jerks twice, and Graham pats Doc's shoulder. "Up you go."

The litter slides out of the plane, leaving me with a sense of loss I'm wholly unprepared for. Suddenly, everything hurts. I'm a little dizzy and sink down onto the floor next to a pool of Doc's blood.

"You're next," Graham says. "Nat?" The young man offers me his hand. I stare at it for so long, worry furrows his brow. "You're worse off than you let us believe. What hurts the most?"

My heart.

"I'll live. Doc needs us to go. Right now."

I let Graham pull me to my feet, blinking hard to force away the darkness creeping along the edges of my vision.

He eyes me, his gaze lingering on my hip. And the strap digging into the wound. Much longer, and I won't be able to hide the pain. I focus on the goosebumps covering my arms and the cold air tousling my hair.

After what feels like forever, the young man nods. "Okay, then. Got to get you clipped in." He snags my duffel bag. "This yours?"

Lunging, I snatch it from his hands and clutch it to my chest. "I need that."

"Wasn't suggesting we leave it behind. But I can take it up for you. Along with Doc's ruck."

"No." I can't let that bag out of my sight. If anyone gets a look at the passports, the wads of cash, and the pistol inside, they'll know I'm not who I say I am.

Plus, my favorite sweater's in there. My only sweater now. I'll never see the house on Blakely with the rest of my clothes again.

"I mean, I can get it. You have enough to deal with," I say. "Thank you."

He stares me down for a long moment, but then cups his ear. "Roger that. Sending Nat up in sixty." Helping me over the seats, he reaches for the rope with one hand, and the carabiner on my harness with the other. "Fair warning…it's going to be bumpy. And loud."

I almost tell him I've jumped out of a perfectly good helicopter before. Dozens of times, actually. But that would raise more questions, and once we get to Seattle, I need them to let me go. Or at least not care that I disappear.