Page 117 of Shadowed Hearts: Frost
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."
