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“Here’s a kid,” Pete said, and Doyle turned as Pete helped someone out of the hole. What if their kids had run into Sebold and...
No.As the boy rolled out of the hole and sat up, as Doyle stared at his tear-streaked face, he didn’t know whether to retch or reach out for him and pull him into a desperate embrace.
Kemar.
He leaned against the cave wall, breathing hard, staring at Pete, then Doyle.
Doyle pulled off his mask. Kemar’s eyes widened and he took a shaky breath.
“It’s okay, kid.” He crawled over to him and put the mask on him. “You’re going to be okay.”
“Doyle—” Pete started, but Doyle glanced at him, shook his head. Pete’s mouth pursed, and Doyle turned back to Kemar.
“You hurt?”
“No.” He hauled in breaths, however, as if he was terrified. Doyle set his hand on Kemar’s shoulder, gave a squeeze.
“It’s going to be okay. What were you doing in here?”
“I told Sebold about the treasure and what that guy said, and he wanted to find it. He saw him coming out of the cave yesterday, and...” Kemar was crying now, his nose running and gooing up the mask.
“Shh. Everything will be fine. We’re going to get you out of here.” He winced then, hoping. “Did you see Rohan or Jaden or Gabriella?”
Kemar’s eyes widened and he shook his head.
Doyle ran his hand around the back of Kemar’s neck, squeezed, and met his eyes. “Calm down. Let’s get out of here. It’ll be okay.”
Oh, he wanted to believe his own words.
He pushed the boy toward the entrance. Pete handed him a neck gaiter, and he pulled it on, then up over his mouth, and followed.
Pete came behind them.
Where were the Hope House kids? The question hammered in Doyle’s head, his chest.
Worse, he’d just risked his life forSebold.
And Kemar. Hello.
His headlamp illuminated the entrance.
“Jake?”
No response. Perhaps he was attending to Keon.
Kemar reached the connecting tunnel, stood up. Doyle came out after him, looking for Jake.
“Jake!”
Pete’s voice made Doyle turn.
In the glow of Doyle’s light, Jake was stumbling toward them down the passageway. Blood drenched his uniform, a slice across his chest, and one hand pressed on the wound, the other holding his backpack.
“What happened?” Pete said, meeting him and taking the pack from him.
“That guy came out foot first. Kicked me in the face, broke the vent, stole my headlamp.” He sank to a crouch. “He got the pack and took off. I followed. He ambushed me.” He released his hand. Bloody. “Slowed me down a little.”
Pete had pulled off his pack, dug out a kit, found a gauze pad. “Just a little?”