Page 116 of Shadowed Hearts: Frost
And now I'm proving every fear he had about working with me. Great job, Vanessa.
Knees buckle. Wet pavement rushes toward my face—
Strong arms catch me before impact. Remy appears through the downpour, moving with controlled urgency. Clinical fingers press against my neck, checking pulse.
"We need immediate extraction," he commands. "Suspected chemical agent, respiratory and neurological symptoms."
At least someone knows what they're doing.
Headlights slice through the darkness as an engine growls to a stop. Car door slams with thunderous force. Asher materializes from the storm, and despite everything: the chemicals, the betrayal, the mission going sideways. Seeing him makes something tight in my chest loosen.
Remy transfers me to Asher's arms, and I register the minute changes in his expression. Jaw tightening, eyes hardening with cold fury, but hands impossibly gentle.
He's going to be so pissed when this is over.
Violent tremors rack my body without warning.
"Pulse elevated, pupils dilated, tremors increasing," Remy reports with clinical detachment. "We need to move now."
Asher carries me toward the SUV, gait steady despite my added weight. Rain streams down his face, but he doesn't blink, doesn't look away for even a second.
"Something's wrong," I whisper as vision narrows, edges darkening. "I can't—"
My body seizes violently, muscles betraying me completely. As darkness claims me, one last thought pierces through the chaos.
He was right about everything, and now he'll never trust me again.
thirty
Asher
The 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.
