Dark Destiny (Dark Sentinel #1) - Lexxie Couper Page 0,3
Patrick in the shallows, scooping the still lifeless swimmer up from Patrick’s board and flinging one limp arm around his own shoulder. “Got ’im.”
Patrick hooked the man’s other arm around the back of his neck and, heart hammering, gut tight, half-dragged, half-carried him from the surf.
The moment they passed the waterline, they dumped him onto his back, the crowd gathering around them, gasping as one as the man’s limp body hit the sand.
Before the displaced grains could settle, Patrick dropped to his knees. He didn’t have time to wait for Bluey to pass him a facemask. The man didn’t have time to wait. Blood roaring in his ears, he tilted the bloke’s head back, pinched his nose shut and covered the slack, blue-tinged lips with his mouth.
One. Two. Three. He transferred his breath into the man’s lungs, watching his chest rise with each exhalation.
Turning his head, he listened for any sound of inhalation. Nothing.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” he growled, feeling for a pulse.
Nothing.
One. Two. Three.
Again, nothing.
Rising up onto his knees, he placed his palm heels to the center of the man’s chest, left over right, and pressed. Again. Again. Again.
“He’s not comin’ back, Wato.”
Bluey’s low rumble lifted Patrick’s head. He glared at his second in charge, continuing to compress the motionless man’s sternum. “Yes, he is.”
Returning his stare to the man’s pale, flaccid face, he counted off fifty compressions before clamping his mouth over the blue-tinged lips again.
One. Two. Three.
Nothing.
One. Two. Three.
Nothing.
A hand closed over his shoulder. “He was under too long, mate.”
He lifted his head, returning his hands to the man’s sternum as he fixed Bluey with a level look. “Get the paddles ready.”
Bluey released a long sigh and turned away, reaching for the defibrillator.
Patrick pressed his hands into the man’s chest. Again. Again. “Don’t you fucking dare,” he ground out, staring hard into the lifeless face. “I’m not gonna let you.”
He pinched the salt-crusted nose and covered the slack mouth with his, forcing breath into the man’s lungs.
One. Two. Three.
One. Two. Three.
Nothing.
“No,” he snarled. He rose higher onto his knees and pressed the heels of his palms to the man’s chest. “I’m.” Press. “Not.” Press. “Going.” Press. “To.” Press. “Let.” Press. “You.”
He dropped his head and forced breath into the man again.
One. Two. Three.
One. Two. Three.
Nothing. Still nothing.
“It’s enough, Wato.” Bluey’s voice sounded far away. “He’s gone.”
“He’s not fucking gone.” He jerked his head up, glaring at his second in charge. “Give me the paddles.”
Bluey looked back at him, pale blue eyes calm, face expressionless. “You’re frying dead meat, mate. You know that.”
“No!”
He smashed his palm heels to the man’s sternum, compressing his chest in rapid succession.
A hideous, wet glurk burst from the man’s throat, followed immediately by a gush of hot water and sour bile from his mouth.
“Yes, you fucking bastard,” Patrick growled, ignoring the gasps and cries around him as he continued to stimulate the man’s heart in steady, forceful blows. “Spit it out. You can’t breathe with half of Bondi in your lungs. Get rid of it.”
Another glurk, this one less wet, less fluidy. More water erupted from the man’s mouth, spurting this time from his nose as well. A groan slipped from his lips, weak and raw, the sound almost lost in the sudden cheers from the crowd. Eyelids fluttering, arms twitching, the man rolled his head, a shudder wracking through his body before he slumped still again.
Patrick’s heart stopped for a second. Shit. He was losing him. Again. “Give me the paddles.”
Face expressionless, eyes worried, Bluey held out the defib paddles. Patrick snatched them from him, the violent action eliciting another gasp from the crowd.
“Charge ’em,” he ground out, staring at the motionless man’s face. A high-pitched whine cut the thick tension as Bluey charged the defibrillator.
“Charged.”
“Clear.” He pressed the gel-smeared paddles to the man’s unmoving chest.
Two-hundred joules shot through flesh, muscle, bone, and tissue. Two-hundred joules of electric life.
The man bucked, spine bowing, fingers splaying wide.
Mouth dry, Patrick stabbed his fingertips against the man’s neck, feeling for a pulse.
Still nothing.
“C’mon!” he shouted, giving the man’s fleshy shoulders a hard shake. “I’ve got you this far. Fight, damn it.”
A movement to his left—slight and almost imperceptible—flickered in his peripheral vision. Long legs. Blue denim. Black stiletto boots. A cold breeze blew against his cheek. A hot tightness squeezed his heart. He felt—
“He’s breathing!” Bluey yelled, slapping his back. “Fair dinkum, mate. You’ve done it again! He’s breathing!”
Patrick snapped his stare to the once-motionless man’s face, unable to control a powerful surge of elation