She heard a snipping sound and saw that he was cutting through her jacket and shirt with sharp scissors, and some distant part of her mind remembered how much she’d spent on this jacket. But then she was drifting.
She knew when they put a splint on her leg because it hurt, even with the morphine. She knew when they strapped her to a body board and lifted her into the litter. Then she felt herself falling.
Her eyes flew open on a jolt of adrenaline. “Chaska!”
“It’s okay, Naomi. We’re just headed up a steep slope.” A man looked down at her—not Chaska, but someone else. “I’m Jesse Moretti. We won’t let you fall. We’ve got you strapped in tight. Chaska is up at the top on belay.”
Naomi had no idea what “on belay” meant, but she figured it had something to do with getting her out of here.
Six people—three men and three women—were carrying her litter, all of them wearing bright yellow T-shirts that had the words “Rocky Mountain Search & Rescue Team” printed on the back.
Because she was immobilized, she couldn’t see what was going on, but step by step, they moved up the steep slope.
She must have drifted off because the litter abruptly leveled off, bringing her eyes open again.
“See?” Jesse grinned down at her. “We didn’t let you fall.”
“I guess Belcourt didn’t tell you that we’re pros,” said one of the women. “I’ll have to dock his pay.”
Laughter from the others told Naomi that the woman was joking.
And then Chaska was there. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
They attached ATV wheels to the litter—she couldn’t see this, but they told her that’s what they were doing—and then they rolled the litter down the trail, the rocking, bouncing motion quickly lulling her to unconsciousness again.
The next time she opened her eyes, she was being lifted into an ambulance, voices surrounding her, one of them Austin’s.
“She’s A and O times four. She’s had ten mgs of morphine IM. In addition to the bullet graze on her left arm, I think she’s got a concussion and a broken tibia.”
“She’s probably dehydrated and hypothermic, too.” That was Chaska.
He was still there, still nearby.
A man’s face swam into view. “Can you tell me your name?”
“Naomi … Archer.”
“I’m Eric Hawke, and I’ll be your paramedic today.”
“Hey, I was her paramedic first,” Austin said.
Erik got a look of feigned annoyance on his face that told her the two men were friends. “Okay, so I’ll be your other paramedic. Let’s get you to the hospital.”
Chaska stayed at the scene, answering Deputy Marcs’ questions.
“Did she give you a description of the men?”
Chaska shook his head. “She was in and out of consciousness and in a fair amount of pain. I was more focused on first aid than asking questions.”
Marcs nodded, then pressed a finger to her earpiece, listening to something coming over her radio. She had taken over as IC—Incident Command—after she’d arrived, and all traffic was going through her. After a moment, she spoke into her hand mic. “Lupine Command, copy.”
Chaska had put his radio away. “News?”
“They found her campsite. There were several spent casings—forty-five ACP. Her vehicle was there, but its windows were broken, and the tires had been slashed. The steering column was messed up, too. It looks like they tried to hotwire it but didn’t know what they were doing. They rifled through her tent, too, and slashed her sleeping bag.”
They’d been angry at her and had taken their rage out on her belongings. There was no doubt in Chaska’s mind that they would have done the same to her if they’d caught her. “They couldn’t have gotten too far on foot.”