Page 15 of Raven's Curse

Unforgiving.

“Damn it, no pulse. Starting compressions.” Chase drove down hard on Rhett’s sternum, hands locked, arms stiff. Hoping he didn’t crack too many ribs in the process. “Zain, remove his mask and grab the bag. Every thirty, brother.”

Chase rattled off the count, Zain following along. Repeating the procedure, that damn monotone sound mocking Chase in the background, only a hint of a wave registering through the sticky pads on Rhett’s chest.”

“Greer, grab the paddles for me.”

He paused after she’d added some gel, had the paddles positioned in front of him.

“Charging to two hundred. Clear!”

The defibrillator paddles hummed, then discharged with a violent thump that jerked Rhett’s body. The screen went black, then snapped back — still chaotic, the heart quivering uselessly.

Chase cursed. “Still V-fib. Charging to three hundred. Clear!”

More humming followed by another shock. Rhett jerked, again, the damn monitor still mocking Chase.

“Charging to four hundred. Clear!”

Nothing.

No P-waves. No QRS intervals.

“Pushing one milligram epi.”

He plunged the syringe into the IV port. Waited, cursed the lack of response.

More compressions.

Another shock.

Still nothing.

Just that faint squiggly line. A dwindling glimmer of hope.

Chase restarted CPR, sweat beading his brow, arms cramping, but he kept pumping, alternating his focus between Rhett and that monitor — the increasing bloody patch on his shoulder. The gunshot wound Chase couldn’t worry about with Rhett barely holding on. “Come on, Rhett. Don’t fucking quit on me, now.”

Minutes bled into each other, Foster talking over the radio. Readying the trauma team. As if their combined will might bend biology — reverse the damage. Chase stopped the transfusion, muttering a quick thanks — that Saylor needed to stay seated, keep pressure on the needle site and grab some food — shocking Rhett one last time.

The helicopter flared over the helipad, Foster plowing the damn thing on without jostling them. The exact opposite of what his aggressive approach suggested. The doors opened, a team gathered around the machine.

Chase kept up compressions, rattling off vitals and procedures, meds and methods, as they lifted the stretcher onto a gurney, then raced into the building, the large, double doors whooshing closed behind them. They headed for a trauma room, taking over Rhett’s care once they had the gurney secured — doctors and nurses swarming the room.

Chase held firm, shaking his head when one of the nurses asked him to leave. “No. Not until I know he’s okay.”

Foster’s hand landed on his shoulder, the weight nearly taking Chase to his knees. Not comforting, like his best friend had done a thousand times before. This was different.

Resolute.

A finality Chase wasn’t willing to accept.

Foster’s fingers curled around his arm a moment later. “You’ve done all you can. We need to let them work.”

Chase shook his head. “No. Not, yet, I can’t?—”

He swallowed, wanted to puke. He couldn’t leave. Couldn’t abandon Rhett with his life on the line. The damn monitor still calling out that eerie tone. What had been an annoying beep just a few hours ago.

Crushed beneath the truth that, despite everything — the blood, the meds, the damn race against time — they’d already lost him.