The Explorer lurched once more, the sideways motion ending in a jarring halt as though it was butting up against something in the current. One of the bridge supports?
Zack’s head, the entire right side of his face, throbbed with intense agony even shock and the freezing water couldn’t blot out. Disoriented, he groped for a window or door handle.
Which way out? Where? Nothing but pitch-blackness.
He searched, running his hand along the interior. Leather. A seat, but which one? The cumbersome gear weighed him down and must come off, but his need to reach freedom pushed him dangerously close to panic.
Stay calm. Find the windshield, exit through the busted glass, then discard the coat.
He shoved forward, hands out, but he was swimming blind. Totally turned around. Instead, he found a side window, the edge of a door.
Zack yanked on the handle, pushed. The door wouldn’t budge, and panic knifed his chest. Swiveling in the opposite direction, he tried for another escape route. Seconds passed, maybe half a minute. His chances slipping away. He found another door, but by now his lungs burned. He needed air.
He located a different handle. Pulled, pushed. Kicked the glass. All to no avail.
His lungs screamed, his futile efforts to free himself slowing. As reality hit, horror electrified his brain.
He wasn’t getting out of this alive.
Two hours ago, he’d actually entertained giving up. Now he wanted desperately to live. Get involved with life again. To find out who’d taken a shot at Cori Shannon, and why. Maybe get to know her and . . . what?
But fate had stolen those options from him.
Please, God, I don’t want to die! Help me. . . .
Precious air exploded from his lungs. Unable to stop the inevitable, he sucked in great gulps of brackish water. Clawed at the glass, the door. No use.
His limbs grew heavy, refused to function any longer. His struggles ceased, the fight over. Consciousness began to fade, along with the pain.
Besides his team, who would mourn his loss?
Nobody. Not even his father.
You’re a disappointment, boy. Wasting the superior intelligence God gave you on a city job, going nowhere.
If he could, he’d laugh at the irony. His father had been right after all. And he couldn’t even blame his own tragic end on the old fucker’s debt to his dangerous friends.
No time for regrets. No more fear. Only a strange lightness in his body as he finally accepted, let go.
Zack smiled inside, raised a gloved middle finger in defiance.
Get seven hundred fifty thousand dollars out of that, assholes.
When he drifted into the gentle embrace of death, all he felt was relief.
3
A tall firefighter yelled, “Zack, nooo!” He had the name TANNER printed across the back of his coat in reflective lettering. The grief and rage in his voice—and the others’ voices, as well—went through Cori like an arctic blast.
Tanner started to yell orders. One of the team ran for the huge red engine, jumped inside, and started it. He pulled up near where her Explorer had gone over, and she wondered what they planned to do.
Cori rushed to the mangled opening in the guardrail, stared in horror at the sight of her SUV sinking into the Cumberland River. With Zack Knight trapped inside. “Oh, my God!”
“Please, stay back. In fact, why don’t you step over to the ambulance with me and I’ll check you out?”
Frowning, Cori glanced around to see a lady firefighter gripping the sleeve of her leather coat, expression grim. She shrugged out of the woman’s grasp. “You’re kidding, right? Do I look like I’m unconscious and drowning to you? Did you see how hard that chain hit Zack in the face?”
“They’re going to get him out,” the woman replied, striving for calm. But her voice wobbled, betrayed the upset she tried to hide. “I’m Eve Marshall. Right now my job is to attend to you.”
“Look, Eve, I appreciate that, but I’m a nurse.” Or she would be in four months . . . a graduation that wouldn’t be in her future if not for Zack’s sacrifice. “I got a bump on the head and I’m shook-up, but Zack’s going to need you more.”
Eve paused, then nodded. “All right. You’re welcome to go sit in the ambulance, where it’s dry, or—”
“I’ll stay out of the way.” Cori gestured to a mountain of a man donning a harness with a thick rope attached to it. He’d stripped off his fire department hat, coat, pants, and boots, leaving him in a navy polo shirt and trousers. Two others were checking every square inch of the straps. “Is he going in?”
Eve turned and heaved a deep breath, eyes darkening with worry. “Yes. That’s Lieutenant Paxton. We can all lift or carry a person if necessary, but he’s the strongest in a situation like this.”
Cori studied the giant, hard and popping with muscle. The man looked like he could bench-press a truck, which meant he had a chance of rescuing Zack. Maybe a better-than-average chance. The ferocity of the storm had abated somewhat, and although the Cumberland was swollen to overflowing the banks, it wasn’t a swift-moving river.
Please, let him get Zack out. Alive.
In those couple of seconds, skidding for the guardrail, she’d felt completely helpless. Alone, terrified and at the mercy of fate. Zack must’ve felt that way when he went over the side.
Tears sprang to her eyes as she watched them lower Lieutenant Paxton the few feet to the river. Her head knew the accident wasn’t her fault, but her heart wasn’t listening. If either of these men was hurt, she’d never be able to live with herself.
Leaning over as far as she dared, craning her neck, she noted the metallic red of her Explorer just below the water’s surface. From here, she couldn’t tell whether she was looking at the side or the roof, but the vehicle was jammed against one of the bridge columns. She prayed the vehicle would stay put.
Paxton went in right next to the submerged SUV, tugged on the rope. They gave him slack and he dove, disappearing into the murk. How long had Zack been under at that point? Less than one minute?
The bridge might’ve been deserted, the only sound the dying wind and soft patter of sleet. No one spoke; no one moved. The tension and fear were palpable as everyone waited, practically hanging over the edge, gazes glued to the water. Next to the firefighters, Cori saw two cops she hadn’t noticed before. They seemed nervous, too.
A minute passed. Longer.
The lieutenant surfaced, but had no one in his grasp. He took a deep breath and dove again.
Another minute. The strain mounted in the anxious group. Cori glanced at them to see a Hispanic firefighter tug a gold cross from beneath his coat, clutch it in his palm. No one else noticed, but she saw the handsome man bow his head, lips moving in silent prayer. His entreaty lasted only a few seconds; then he crossed himself, hid the necklace, and resumed his vigil.
Touched, Cori ached with the need to cry. That one act, witnessing a man’s prayer for his missing comrade, and these people became
real
. These were Zack’s friends, sick with fear. They knew there was a good chance by now that he wouldn’t make it.
“Please,” she whispered, crossing herself, as well. “Get him out.”
How long since the vehicle went under? Four or five minutes? Too long, even if Zack held his breath for the first couple of minutes.
Another squad car pulled up. A cop got out and shuffled over, joining the first two. “The firefighter still under?”
“Yeah,” one muttered, sounding glum. “Looking more like a recovery than a rescue.”
Oh, God!
She refused to believe that. Zack Knight couldn’t pay with his life for saving hers.
Don’t let it be true.
Paxton’s head broke the surface again—along with the burden in his arms. The lieutenant nodded, and a collective burst of relief from the group was quickly replaced by greater anxiety as they began to haul the men out of the water.
Paxton had both arms wrapped around Zack’s chest, holding the man’s back against his front. The lieutenant gritted his teeth, neck corded, every muscle straining with his friend’s limp, sodden weight.
To Cori, it seemed to take forever for the team to bring the two men up and onto the bridge. In reality, mere seconds passed. Paxton released his burden to the care of his comrades and rolled to his knees, coughing, broad chest heaving from exertion as he watched.
Tanner and the Hispanic man—Salvatore, the lettering on his coat revealed—laid Zack flat on his back. Eve ran for the ambulance, and a fourth firefighter crouched close at hand, letting Tanner and Salvatore take over. The three cops hovered several feet away, obviously wanting to assist, but out of their element. At the moment, no one paid Cori any attention.
Salvatore checked Zack’s neck for a pulse. Shook his head. “Nothing.”
Tanner ripped open Zack’s coat and Salvatore started chest compressions. Heart in her throat, she wobbled forward on shaking legs. Stared down at the man who’d saved her life.
Black hair was plastered to his skull, his fire hat and glasses gone. His sculpted lips were blue. Long, thick, spiky lashes curled against pale cheeks. The right side of his face bore a raw, scraped imprint where the chain had struck, from his hairline, across his cheek and jaw. He’d have a nasty, swollen bruise for weeks, possibly some broken bones—if he survived.
Eve returned, rolling a gurney with a plastic backboard and a portable defibrillator unit on top.
“Come on, Knight.” Salvatore pumped his chest furiously. “Goddammit, don’t do this.
Breathe
, you little shit!”
Nothing little about Zack. He was six feet of lean, graceful male. The glasses hadn’t detracted from his appearance, but without them, his good looks were even more noticeable. He’d been blessed with high cheekbones, a sharp blade of a nose leading to full, sensual lips. A strong jaw. His was a kind face, and she prayed he’d open those laser blue eyes and smile at her again.
Salvatore paused long enough for them to quickly slide the backboard under Zack’s body. Cori wondered at this, until Eve grabbed the defibrillator from the gurney and placed it on the ground next to Salvatore. Of course.
They couldn’t afford to waste precious seconds getting Zack settled into the ambulance before jump-starting his heart. With the rain, however, there was a chance of electric current zapping whoever handled the patient. The backboard would keep Zack grounded so this shouldn’t present a danger to anyone else.
Eve handed Salvatore a small pair of scissors, and he cut Zack’s shirt in two up the front, parted the material. Next, he wiped his friend’s chest with the torn edge of the shirt and stuck two pads to his skin, one over his heart and the other to the side of the left pectoral. Wires ran from each pad to the defib box. Cori had seen these new units before, hands-free types that were slowly replacing the traditional paddles used to deliver the shock to the patient.
“Clear,” Eve said.
Salvatore pushed a button on the unit. Zack’s body jolted, then lay unmoving. Eve noted the readout and shook her head. No dice.
“Again.” Her mouth flattened into a thin line.
Another jolt. But the shocks weren’t working. Belatedly, it occurred to Cori that the blow to his temple might’ve killed him outright. That he’d never had a chance at all.
“Again.” Wetness rolled down Eve’s cheeks that had nothing to do with the melting sleet. Her face reflected the entire team’s anguish as the third try met with no success.
No movement. No life.
“Julian, it’s been too long,” the lieutenant said quietly, laying a big hand on Salvatore’s shoulder. His eyes were red-rimmed, his voice breaking. “He’s gone. I’ll call time of death.” The other man shrugged off his touch.
“No!
Dios
, not yet.”
“Y-you can’t give up! Please . . .” Cori stood riveted in stunned horror.
God, this man drowned saving my life. He’s dead.
Tanner wiped a shaking hand down his face. “Howard’s right. There’s not—”
“Wait!” Eve shouted. “We’ve got a faint pulse. Let’s get his lungs clear, get him breathing.”
Salvatore pushed upward on Zack’s diaphragm, shoving the water from his lungs. Murky liquid gushed from between his bluish lips several times, but Salvatore’s efforts went unanswered.
Paxton, who’d removed the harness, leaned forward. “Come on, buddy, breathe.”
Salvatore spat a vicious curse in Spanish, flung aside his hat. Helpless anger twisted his features, but his attention never wavered from their fallen brother. Moving positions, he tilted Zack’s head back, pinched his nose, and placed his mouth over the other man’s. Gave a couple of puffs of air, sat back.
Nothing.
“Dios mío.”
He bent, gave two more.
Zack’s chest heaved once. Twice.
His body jerked, and he vomited the river. Coughed a couple of times, and lay immobile. Much too still.