Walker (In the Company of Snipers #21) - Irish Winters Page 0,149
the back of Persia’s hand and inserted the IV like a pro. He taped it in place and advised, “Her O2 sat rate’s dropping like a rock, Alex. Is there any epinephrine in that crate if she goes into cardiac arrest?”
“No worries,” Alex replied calmly as he opened a pre-packaged sterile hypo.
“God, I hope you guys know what you’re doing,” Walker muttered, worried this was it, the end. That he’d never kiss Persia’s sweet lips again or smell her warm breath in his face. Never feel the silky tease of her long hair over his bare belly or her fingernails raking through his hair. Never be able to tell her how much he adored her. How he meant to marry her...
Out of nowhere, a tear fell out of his eye, like a damned pussy. He brushed it away. “I can’t lose her.”
“Have faith,” Alex whispered. “She’s not going anywhere. Hold her arm steady. I need to draw enough blood to run a few tests.”
Walker did as asked while Alex extracted a full vial of dark, red blood. Her life force. But it was too late. Persia stiffened. She was seizing.
“Hold her still!” Alex ordered.
“You’re killing her!” Walker growled as tremors shook her like a dog with a rug. Thin strings of drool slid from the sides of her clenched tight mouth even as he held her steady.
Alex was already dripping blood samples into a small rack of previously prepared test tubes that Walker honestly hadn’t seen until then. The man seemed prepared for everything. He’d better be!
With sweat glistening on her forehead and the loose hairs around her face frizzy, Izza intervened from her enthusiastic interrogation with an out of breath report. “Diethyl-meta-toluamide, Boss. He shot her up with diethyl-meta-toluamide. That’s all.”
“Christ, that’s enough,” McQueen ground out.
“You’re telling me,” Izza answered. “Now save her, Boss! Damn it, save her!”
Man, she was as pushy as Alex.
“Organophosphates…” he muttered as one vial turned bright yellow, then blue. “Confirmed.”
“Insecticides?” Walker murmured. There were more lethal poisons, but those were bad enough, especially when administered directly into a person’s bloodstream. “Does that bastard know which brand? What dosage? How much did Peckering give her?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Izza replied. “Rodrigo says Peckering shoots his girls up with this insecticide, then tells them it’s delayed-reaction cyanide. That it’ll kill them inside twenty-four hours if they don’t do what he wants. He gives his new girls larger doses. Rodrigo didn’t know the exact amount. Only knew Peckering wanted them good and sick and wanting to die before he—”
“Before he walks in and saves them,” Walker interrupted, “and they end up believing him.”
“Yeah, well, Peckering keeps his girls locked up tight. He only drugs them when he sends them out. They get the antidote after they return, after they’ve done what he wanted.”
“Asshole,” McQueen growled, his fingers on Persia’s neck, checking her pulse even though the fancy oximeter on her finger was doing the same thing. “You have the right antidote, don’t you, Boss?”
“Atropine,” he answered, as calm as if this kind of thing happened every day. He’d set the test tubes aside, had already lifted another vial from the chest, tipped it upside down, and filled a new hypo. Man, even under pressure, this guy was a rock. His fingers weren’t even shaking.
But Walker was coming undone. He’d treated numerous men and women from combat injuries, but this was different. This was Persia. He didn’t want to think what would’ve happened if Alex hadn’t come with him. Walker couldn’t help it. His eyes brimmed at the gentle care these warriors were taking with her, the way they handled her with respect. The way they both knew just what to do. Both badassed men. Men who ruled the country in their own way. Without them—
“Thanks, you guys,” he murmured, so damned grateful for men who lived to serve.
Alex never hesitated. Never answered, either. Just expertly eased the atropine into Persia’s IV. In seconds, rigidity eased its stranglehold and her body softened. Her spine relaxed. She started breathing again. The caved-in, sucked-in hollow where her collarbones joined, vanished as her chest lifted with steady, calm inhalations.
“Breathe,” Alex told her quietly even as one brow lifted and he asked Walker and McQueen, “Stats?”
Walker responded quickly. “Still elevated, but it’s coming down.” Thank God.
“Oxygen saturation’s in the eighties now,” McQueen said. “Looking better.”
“She’s off-duty TFN. Izza, she’ll need some of your tortilla soup.”
TFN was short for til further notice.
Tortilla soup was short for… Izza, as she wrapped both arms around her boss’s