Page 34 of Searching Blind

Ethan snarled something under his breath but backed off.

Another adjustment.

Another call for help into the void.

More static.

Until finally— faintly— a voice came over the airwaves.

“...-peat your las—...break up...Fire Tower...come in...”

Sawyer exhaled sharp and fast; that was Ash Rawlings’ voice. He pressed the transmit button. “Ash, it’s Sawyer. We have eight people stranded at Blue Mountain and need help.”

No response.

“They heard us,” Sawyer said aloud, more to himself than anyone else. He adjusted the dial minutely left, then right, as he waited for Ash’s voice to cut through the static once more.

It didn’t come.

“All right,” Grant finally said. “Sawyer, keep at it. Everyone else, grab a shovel. We need to bury Maya.”

chapter

eleven

Sawyer tried for hours to get another response on the radio, pausing only long enough to feed Zelda when she got antsy. Nothing worked. Eventually, his lack of sleep caught up to him. He was getting sloppy, his brain fuzzy. His head ached, and his back protested the long hours he’d spent hunched over the radio. He needed to close his eyes for a few minutes, but the prospect of sleeping now without Lucy here to watch his six felt dangerous.

God, he hoped she was having better luck than him.

Sawyer sat back in his chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose with a weary sigh.

The radio sat silently on the table before him. He had done everything possible to get it working again— everything that his knowledge and instincts told him to do— but it seemed the old machine had given up its last breaths for that one fleeting connection.

Maybe it was enough. Maybe Ash had already mobilized Redwood Coast Rescue, and his team was on its way.

He gave a bitter chuckle, running a hand over the rough stubble on his jaw. Wishful thinking. Too bad that never saved anyone.

Fuck, he really needed to sleep.

He laid his head back against the headrest and let his heavy lids drift shut…

The prick of pain at his neck startled him awake. Adrenaline surged through his veins, blasting away any traces of fatigue.

His hand instinctively shot up to his neck and found the point of a blade digging into the soft flesh over his jugular. His breath hitched in his chest as he processed the situation. Assailant—unknown. Weapon— knife. Objective—unclear. Chances of getting out unscathed? His weary brain couldn’t calculate.

A hand snaked out of the dark, clamping down on his arm. Its grip like a vise, cold and impersonal. “Where is Pierce St. James?”

Pierce?

What the hell?

He didn’t recognize the harsh whisper and couldn’t even tell if it belonged to a male or female. The blade dug deeper, drawing blood. The metallic tang filled his nostrils.

Oh, God.

Zelda!

He still felt her weight on his foot. She hadn’t moved.

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