Midnight Hero - By Diana Duncan Page 0,61
Bailey beside him, he strode to the makeshift barricade at the rear, and then shoved aside the dresser.
“Oh, no!” Bailey gasped.
Con’s gut tightened. The big man had slid from his semi-sitting position, leaving a bloody streak on the wall. His eyes were closed, and he lay slumped on the mattress. The machine gun sat askew across his lap, and his hands hung at his sides. He appeared limp and lifeless.
Con cleared the thickness from his throat. No stranger to death, he would never get used to it. Especially if the Grim Reaper had claimed another friend. He glanced at Bailey, her face white and strained in the gloom. She’d been shocked and horrified by a fight. If Syrone were dead, the discovery would devastate her. “You’d better wait over there, sweetheart.”
“He’s my friend, too. I’m not going anywhere. We have to help him, Con.”
Hoping Syrone wasn’t beyond help, Con knelt and eased the Kevlar hood off him. He pressed two fingers to Syrone’s neck. His ebony skin was cool. Too cool. Con didn’t feel a pulse. His spirits sank, sorrow and dread hovering over him in a heavy, smothering cloud. “C’mon, big guy. Don’t do this. Those rug rats of yours need their daddy.”
Bailey stifled a sob. “Is he—?”
He shifted his hand, pressed harder. Ah, there! Weak, thready, barely palpable. “He’s alive!”
“Thank God!”
Con briskly patted Syrone’s cheek. “Syrone. Hey, wake up.”
Syrone stirred. Moaned.
Con patted him again. “Syrone. C’mon, buddy.”
“Wha—?” Syrone mumbled.
“Open those big brown peepers and talk to me.”
Syrone’s eyelids eased open. “Irish? Why did you hit me?”
Relief weakened Con’s limbs. “Sleeping on the job, man.”
“Oh, crap.”
“My sentiments exactly.” He unwrapped the quilts and unbuttoned Syrone’s shirt. “Let’s have a look at the damages.” Blood had soaked through, and the sodden bandages had loosened. He reapplied a thicker, tighter dressing.
Syrone shivered. “I’m cold clear to my bones.”
“I know.” Frustrated, Con turned to Bailey. There wasn’t much they could do. Shock would kill their friend. He required surgery, and probably a transfusion. And he needed warmth. Perhaps the two of them could bundle up with him and share body heat. They couldn’t afford the time, but couldn’t leave Syrone to die, either. “He’s fading fast. We need more quilts.”
“I’ve got something better.” Bailey dug in her backpack and tugged out a box of disposable hand warmers. She passed a handful to Con. “From the camping store…they’ll last six hours. I have foot-warmer heating pads and a Polarshield blanket, too.”
Wonder surged through him. Untrained, scared, she’d risen to the occasion and come to his aid countless times tonight. Her quick thinking and unquenchable spirit awed him. “Baby, what would we do without you?” He kneaded the packets to activate them, tucked the already-warming pads under Syrone’s armpits and against his chest, and buttoned him up. He applied the foot warmers to Syrone’s socks and then put his boots back on. Finally, he wrapped him in the crinkly Polarshield blanket and two quilts. “Okay, big guy, that’s about as personal as I care to get with you.”
“Likewise, Irish.” Syrone sighed. “Damn, that feels fine.”
Con again turned to Bailey. Worry shadowed her delicate features, but she gave him an encouraging smile. Outwardly frail and sensitive, his girl possessed innate strength and fortitude. For years his job had been his first and only love. Now, he wasn’t ashamed to admit she was the center of his universe. What would happen to her, to the hostages when the chopper didn’t arrive? How would he protect them? From here on, the scenario could unravel at warp speed and spiral out of control. People could die.
He shook his head. Focus. One crisis at a time. “Do you have any more of that candy syrup from the toy store?”
“Yes, but I thought he couldn’t have anything by mouth.”
He whispered in her ear. “If we don’t get him stabilized, he won’t live long enough for it to matter.”
Clearly shaken, she passed him the small wax containers shaped like cartoon characters.
He twisted the ears off the wascally wabbit and poured the thick, grape-scented liquid into Syrone’s mouth.
Syrone coughed. “What are you feeding me, Irish? Poison to put me out of my misery?”
“Super-secret healing elixir, brewed by celibate Tibetan monks under a full moon.” He urged his friend to swallow the contents of the second container. A duck, cherry, unless he missed his guess.
“Ugh! Those monks need to go low-carb. This stuff would strip the paint off my SUV.”
Con laughed. “Probably. But as my darlin’ explained to me earlier, it’s instant glucose.”