Chapter Twelve

Natasha

The wind whips my hair into my eyes and stings my cheeks. Or maybe that's the fear prickling along my skin. West hangs out of the helo, ready to grab the harness as soon as my head is level with the skids.

I land on the deck of the Black Hawk. My legs won't quite hold me, and I'm on my ass the second he unclips the carabiner from the D-ring.

Crawling over to Doc, I catch the gaze of the pilot. Blond. Beautiful. And pissed. At me.

The helicopter wobbles in the air, and West shouts, "Keep her steady!"

The woman turns her focus back to the controls. "I'm tryin'. Someone needs to light a fire under Graham's ass. The wind's pickin' up!"

"He's packing up Doc's kit and securing the plane. Ry would tear us a new one if he left the sat phone behind." West levels his stare at me. "You. Get in the jump seat and strap in. Now."

I want to stay with Doc. To dig his hand out from under the emergency blanket and hold on tight. But the former SEAL has a look that warns me he's ready for a fight and he never loses. It's only a little after 3:00 a.m. These people got up in the middle of the night, commandeered a helicopter, and few all the way from Seattle to save our asses. I'm not going to argue with them.

Doc gives me a nod. "It's okay," he mouths. He's too weak to shout over the roar of the blades cutting through the air.

God, I hope so. It's another five minutes before West helps Graham back onto the deck, and the pilot turns us around.

"Take these," Graham shouts and hands me a heavy pair of headphones with a built-in mic as well as a thin, gray blanket. Now that the adrenaline has worn off, I'm a solid block of ice. "We'll be back in Seattle in twenty minutes. Raelynn knows how to get the most out of this bird."

Raelynn. That's the pilot. She keeps stealing glances at Doc, and the look in her eyes…she's worried.

"Doc, you hang on. If you die on us, I'm gonna be pissed," she calls back to him.

He's struggling to breathe again, but the look in his eyes is almost…nostalgic. He has a history with these people. He cares about them. And I think they care for him too.

My eyes burn. How far are we from a hospital? Any hospital? If he doesn't make it, will our three rescuers have any reason not to murder me? Or turn me in?

I huddle under the blanket, watching West and Graham do their best for Doc. The younger man fits him with a mask hooked up to a small canister of oxygen, and West keeps an eye on the pulse-ox monitor clipped to his thumb.

"What happened?" West asks, staring me down like he can see right through me. "Besides someone beating the shit out of both of you."

"Break-in," I offer. "The guy had a gun. I fought him, but he got a shot off. Well, a couple of them. Doc heard it and came to help."

On the deck between me and the SEAL, Doc shakes his head and calls West's name.

"You're in no condition to talk. Not this far from the hospital," West says and rests his hand on Doc's shoulder.

His eyes crinkle with pain. "Dead body…at the marina. Went…into the water. Need you…to take…care of it."

"Fuck." West glances at Graham, then turns back to me. "Who killed the guy?"

Before I can admit the truth, Doc wheezes, "I did."

The look on West's face…he doesn't believe it. But he's not going to call Doc on it. Not now. "I'll wake Inara and Wyatt. Landing this bird on the island would be difficult. And loud. They can take a boat and be there before sunrise."

He pulls a cell phone from the pocket of his tactical vest. His fingers fly over the screen, and I wish I knew what he was saying to these other people I've never met.

"We're seven minutes out," Raelynn calls.

West fiddles with his mobile again, and after a minute, whoever he dialed must pick up.

"Wright? This is West Sampson. I need that favor we talked about." There's a pause, and he shakes his head. "No. You listen. Get a trauma team to the helipad in the next five minutes and make sure they don't ask any questions. We're about to drop off a patient with a field-treated pneumothorax."

Holy shit. He has a contact at the hospital who can do that?

His expression hardens. "Your medical assistant drugged a pregnant woman so she could be kidnapped from your office. You're lucky you're still practicing medicine at all. Do it, or my next call is to the hospital administrator. How happy do you think he's going to be if I wake him up this early and tell him all about it?"

He swears under his breath as he shoves the phone back into his pocket. "We're going to need a better in at the hospital after this." His cold gaze lands on me. Shit. This man could probably kill me in under ten seconds and not break a sweat. "You stay in the helo," he says. "I have more questions that need answers."

Sweat dampens my palms, and I hug my duffel to my chest. "I?—"

"She comes with me," Doc says weakly. "Non…negotiable."

"Doc, we just airlifted you from the middle of the fucking Sound at 3:00 a.m. You have a hole in your chest, and you've both been beaten to shit. Not to mention the dead body. The favors we called in for this…the ones we'll keep calling in…"

"Non-negotiable," he repeats. "You want to talk…about favors?" His gaze flicks to Raelynn. "She's alive. So is Cara. Hope. Quinton."

Graham sucks in a breath and turns to the SEAL. "I'll stay with them until you're back."

"You have to take care of Doc's plane."

The younger man shakes his head. "I can do that from here. I've got a contact at the Coast Guard station in Anacortes. He'd love a little action."

"A little action?" Raelynn chuckles as the helicopter sinks smoothly toward the helipad on the roof of the hospital. "Did you get a little action with him before you met Q?"

Graham's cheeks turn bright red. "No! He's not gay. Even if he were, he's not my type. Too over-the-top gym bro."

"Focus," West snaps. "Not a fucking word to the trauma team." He arches his brows and stares me down. "You stick to Graham like glue. He gives you an order, you take it."

I nod. Can he see it in my eyes? That I'm going to run the first chance I get?

The skids touch down, and within seconds, Doc's on a gurney, the trauma team rushing him through the automatic doors and into an elevator.

Graham keeps his hand at the small of my back as we wait for the car to return to the roof. "They'll take care of him," he says, as much to himself as to me. "When we get to triage, let me do the talking."

"I don't need a doctor."

He narrows his eyes at me. "And I work with the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny, and Santa Claus. Try again."

"Okay, fine. I can get by with a couple of aspirin and a clean pair of pants."

"Be honest, and I'll get you both of those things. After you see a doctor."

I sag against the back wall of the elevator as Graham punches the button for the main floor. "A guy broke into my house and shot me. Then slammed my head through a glass door and beat the crap out of me."

Graham whistles, takes my right hand, and examines my knuckles. "You fought pretty hard."

"Didn't plan on dying tonight. Err. This morning." I wrap my arms around myself tightly, hoping Graham won't press me any further. He's too perceptive. And though there's kindness in his green eyes, I don't know him at all.

The doors slide open with a ding. The ER waiting room is quiet, only a handful of people slouching in chairs. Graham curls his hand around my elbow and pulls me with him to the triage desk.

"Excuse me. My sister was mugged. She needs to be seen." He leans in and lowers his voice. "Dr. Wright is my neighbor. She said you could get us back ASAP. Without all the usual…fuss."

The nurse pauses for a beat, then sighs. "I'll buzz you through. Bring your sister back and we'll get you in a room."

A little after 6:00 a.m., I pull on a clean pair of scrubs. Nat Templeton—that's apparently Graham's last name—has seven fresh stitches in her hip and another half dozen in her scalp. The doctor wanted to admit me and give me a CT scan, but I refused, and thank God, Graham didn't force the issue. I have a prescription for antibiotics, but the pharmacy doesn't open for another two hours.

Graham knocks as I reach for my boots. "Nat, if you're decent, we can head upstairs to wait for word on Doc."

I peer out from behind the privacy drape. "You don't need to wait for me. I'm…not moving all that well."

"West would kick my ass. And Doc would never forgive me if I let anything happen to you."

Shit. He knows I'm going to run.

"I promise I'll be up in a few minutes."

The kindness fades from his eyes. "We don't say those words unless we mean them."

"Well, maybe it'll take me ten or fifteen. Everything hurts?—"

"‘I promise.'"

Oh.

"You do what we do," he says, "you learn to read people. I don't know what your story is. And until West gets back, I won't press you for it. Doc wants you with him, and that's all that matters right now."

I nod, then regret the motion as the room spins around me. Graham wraps an arm around my waist and helps me into a chair.

"Who is he to you?" I ask when I no longer feel like I'm about to pass out.

"He patches us up when we need it. Most of what we do isn't as simple as pulling people out of a downed sea plane."

"Rescuing us was simple?" I choke back a laugh.

Graham cracks a smile. "Relatively. We didn't have to sneak past border security, pay off a foreign government to look the other way, or find electrical power in the middle of the jungle."

"Who were the other names Doc mentioned?" Gingerly, I reach for one of my hiking boots. "Besides the pilot. Q? Cara?"

"Family. Q—Quinton—is my partner." Graham pulls out his phone and taps the screen. A man with light brown hair grins back at us, an orange cat in his lap. "Don't tell West—or Ryker—I showed you that photo."

"Why did you?" I take my time with the laces. My fingers ache, and it lets me steal glances at Graham.

He pushes to his feet, standing between me and the door. "Like I said, I read people. Beyond treating us off the books, Doc doesn't lie. The man is about as straight and narrow as they come. Yet he trusts you enough he's willing to do it for you. That raises a lot of questions we need answered. But it also means I can probably trust you too."

I scramble for something—anything—to say. But after a breath, he holds out his hand.

"You don't have to talk to me now. Hell, you don't have to talk to me at all. But since we both know your attacker wasn't a random burglar, consider me your bodyguard until West gets back. Surgery is on the fifth floor. I'm sure they'll be done with Doc soon, and he's going to want to see you when he wakes up."

It only takes another half an hour before a doctor in light green scrubs pushes through the double doors that hide the surgical wing. "Mr. Templeton?" the woman calls.

"That's me." Graham rises. This could be my chance. I only need a few seconds of distraction to bolt. I hope. But he doesn't leave my side, waiting instead for the doctor to cross to us.

"Dr. Reynolds is in recovery. He'll have a chest tube for the next twelve to twenty-four hours, but assuming no complications, he can be discharged sometime tomorrow. He was lucky. Whoever treated him saved his life." She gives Graham a pointed stare, but he doesn't react. With an exasperated sigh, the doctor shakes her head. "Fine. Don't tell me. I only risked my entire medical license when I treated the very obvious bullet wound to his upper arm. One of the nurses will come get you in a few minutes."

She stalks back through the doors with a huff. All the tension I've held since the second Parker showed up in my kitchen melts away.

I collapse back into the chair, and my tears finally start to fall.