Page 45 of Shadowed Hearts: Frost (Nightfall Syndicate #2)

thirty

Asher

T he van's engine dies as we screech into the abandoned parking lot three blocks from the Winchester Foundation. Rain hammers the windshield while Jax kills the headlights. Through the downpour, the rhythmic thump of rotor blades cuts through the night.

"Extraction bird's thirty seconds out," Kade's voice crackles through comms. "Medical team's already airborne with Remy."

I adjust Vanessa's position against my chest, her weight wrong—too light, too fragile. Eight minutes, twelve seconds since exposure. Her heartbeat weakens with each passing second.

The Eurocopter descends through Sacramento's rain-soaked sky, its spotlight cutting through darkness to illuminate our makeshift landing zone. Wind from the rotors whips debris across wet asphalt as the aircraft touches down with precision.

Remy jumps out before the skids fully settle, medical bag in hand, his face grim under the aircraft's interior lighting. Behind him, Cole emerges with a portable monitor and emergency kit.

"Keep her elevated," Remy orders, checking her airway as we rush toward the helicopter. "Exactly like that." He keys his radio. "Vitals are dropping fast. We need to move now."

The helicopter's cabin transforms into a mobile medical unit. Advanced monitoring equipment lines the walls, IV bags hang from custom mounts, and a compact defibrillator sits ready within arm's reach. This isn't standard aircraft—it's a flying emergency room.

I settle into the bench seat, Vanessa secure against my chest as Remy works around us. The pilot doesn't wait for clearance—rotors bite air and we lift off into Sacramento's stormy night.

"Twenty minutes to San Francisco," the pilot announces through our headsets. "Medical bay's prepped and waiting."

Through rain-streaked windows, Sacramento's lights blur past below us. Vanessa's breathing grows more shallow with each passing minute. Her skin takes on a waxy pallor that sends ice through my veins.

Remy connects her to the cardiac monitor. The cabin fills with erratic beeping—98, 56, 105, 72. Irregular patterns that make my jaw clench.

"Pulse is getting thready," he reports, filling a syringe. "Starting the first counteragent dose now."

The needle slides into her IV port. I count her heartbeats, measure the seconds between each breath. The helicopter banks left, angling toward the San Francisco skyline visible through the storm.

"ETA twelve minutes," the pilot updates.

Twelve minutes. 720 seconds. Each one measured against Vanessa's weakening pulse.

The helicopter touches down on CPG's rooftop helipad with military precision. The medical facility is in the underground levels—forty seconds by emergency elevator if we move fast.

"Go, go, go!" Remy shouts over the dying rotors.

I carry Vanessa toward the elevator, her body limp against my chest. Twenty-eight minutes, forty-six seconds since exposure. Her heartbeat stutters weakly beneath my palm.

The elevator doors slide open to reveal more medical personnel waiting. They wheel a gurney forward as we descend to Level B3.

"Keep her elevated," Remy orders, his voice sharp with urgency. He keys his radio. "Medical team standing by—I need dopamine ready, cardiac monitor online, and the full trauma kit prepped. Patient is twenty-eight-year-old female, chemical exposure, showing signs of systemic toxicity."

"Copy," Cole's voice responds through static. "Everything's ready."

The elevator opens directly into CPG's medical facility on B3.

Fluorescent lights buzz overhead as the doors part to reveal state-of-the-art equipment humming to life—monitors, ventilators, machines that cost more than most people's houses.

Multiple screens display readouts in electric blue and green.

Kade stands ready beside the main examination table, his massive frame positioned near the entrance. Behind him, the rest of the team filters in from the stairwell—they must have taken the chopper that was on standby while we flew medical.

"Status," Kade demands, his blue eyes scanning Vanessa's still form.

"Twenty-nine minutes, 52 seconds since exposure. Pulse thready, respiratory depression." The numbers taste like acid. "We need to move. Now."

I lower Vanessa onto the examination table, my hands reluctant to break contact. The overhead lights reveal what the helicopter's dim cabin had hidden—a blue tinge creeping across her lips.

Sarah's lips were blue, too. Cold metal table. Fluorescent lights buzzing at sixty hertz. The sheet pulled back to reveal—

The flashback hits like a sniper round to the chest. For one terrifying second, Vanessa's face becomes Sarah's. Same stillness. Same wrongness. Same failure.

Cole moves efficiently between monitoring stations, his tactical mind applied to medical logistics. The screens around us light up with Vanessa's vital signs as Remy connects leads and sensors with practiced speed.

"Transfer complete," Remy announces. "I need vitals on the main screen."

The cardiac monitor comes alive with erratic beeping. Her heart rate jumps across the screen—88, 76, 102, 69. Irregular patterns that my mind files away as signs of distress.

"BP dropping fast," a nurse announces. "Eighty over forty and falling."

"Starting the second counteragent dose." Remy fills another syringe with fluid in one smooth motion. "This should help stabilize her cardiovascular system."

I position myself at Vanessa's side, my hand finding hers. Her fingers are cold. Too cold. She runs hot, always moving, always vibrating with energy. This stillness violates everything she is.

Jax, Xander, and Damian enter through the main doors, water still dripping from their jackets. They must have taken the second helicopter right behind us. Xander's brown eyes immediately lock onto Vanessa's still form, his jaw tightening.

"How bad?" Damian asks quietly, positioning himself where he can see both the monitors and the exits.

"Toxin's attacking her nervous system," Remy replies without looking up from his equipment. "Heart's fighting it, but—"

Vanessa's body suddenly arches upward, her back lifting impossibly high off the table. Her limbs jerk in violent, unnatural spasms.

"She's seizing!" Remy lunges forward. "Hold her down! Now!"

My world stops. Vanessa's small frame convulses against the white sheets, her arms and legs thrashing with terrifying force. A nurse quickly places a rubber wedge between her teeth while another fights to restrain her flailing limbs.

"Shit," Xander breathes, his usual explosive energy contained in that single word.

My chest constricts so tightly I can barely breathe. This isn't unconsciousness. This is her brain misfiring, synapses destroying themselves.

I've seen men take bullets and keep fighting. But this—watching her body betray her while I stand helpless—this breaks something fundamental inside me.

"BP crashing," someone shouts. "Sixty over thirty."

"Push five of ativan," Remy orders. "We need to stop the seizure before—"

The convulsions intensify. Foam forms at the corners of her mouth. Her eyes roll back, showing only white.

A sound tears from my throat, part growl, part plea. My hands shake as I reach toward her, then pull back, useless. Every calculation, every probability assessment, every mathematical certainty I've ever relied on dissolves into chaos.

"DO SOMETHING!" The roar erupts from deep in my gut. "FUCKING DO SOMETHING!"

The seizure lasts forty-three seconds. I count every one. When her body finally goes limp, the silence feels worse than the violence.

"Vitals stabilizing," a medic announces. "Seizure's stopped."

But the monitor beside us starts stuttering. The cardiac rhythm becomes erratic, jumping between normal and dangerous. Then a high-pitched alarm cuts through the room as the green line flattens.

Flatline.

The sound that emerges from my throat doesn't belong to me. It's raw, animal, desperate as something inside me shatters completely.

"She's in full arrest," Remy shouts, grabbing the defibrillator paddles. "Everyone clear!"

The medical team swarms around her. Someone tries to pull me back from the table.

"Sir, we need space—"

"NO." I throw them off, my vision tunneling to nothing but Vanessa's still face. "brING HER BACK!"

"Charging to 200," Remy calls out. "Clear!"

Vanessa's small body arcs off the table. The monitor continues its flat, merciless tone.

"Still no pulse. Charging to 300. Clear!"

The paddles hit her chest again. The monitor's merciless tone continues unbroken.

Blood pounds in my ears. Every heartbeat that isn't hers feels like theft. A shadow falls across her face as Xander steps between us, his massive frame blocking my view.

"Frost, you need to give them room to work—"

Something inside me explodes.

I spin and drive my fist into his face. Blood erupts from his nose as my knuckles connect. He staggers backward, shock replacing his usual confidence.

"What the hell—"

He's trying to separate me from her. Fatal error.

"Brother, they need space!" Xander grabs my shoulders, trying to pull me toward the door. "Let them work!"

"GET OFF ME!" I break his hold and tackle him, driving him backward out of the medical bay and into the adjacent equipment area. We crash through the doorway as my fists connect with his ribs, his jaw, anywhere I can reach.

The hallway erupts in chaos as we slam into a bank of monitoring equipment mounted on the wall. Sparks fly as screens shatter, the smell of burning electronics filling the air.

Xander tries to restrain me again, but fury transforms me into a different creature, one that measures angles of devastation rather than accurate bullets.

"BACK OFF!" The words come from some primitive part of my brain where logic doesn't exist. "DON'T FUCKING TOUCH ME!"

Jax moves in from the medical bay entrance. "Asher, you need to—"

I catch him with a vicious elbow to the chest. He doubles over, gasping, before I grab him and hurl him into a steel cart loaded with medical supplies.