Minutes dragged by as they waited, pain grinding Joaquin down. John asked for an injection of morphine, but Joaquin held out, wanting to do all he could for Hawke, who was now drifting in and out of consciousness.
Silver was worried—Joaquin could see it on his face. He gave Hawke another injection, took his pulse, stayed beside him.
Soon, a desperate thirst joined Joaquin’s list of miseries, his body needing fluids to replace what had been lost from his burns.
And still there was nothing to do but wait.
Marc nudgedthe drone’s controller out of the water with his boot and held it in place while Deputy Marcs slipped her hands into a pair of nitrile gloves. It had taken all of two minutes of wading in the reservoir to find the damned thing.
She picked it up, bagged it. “Thanks for your help with this. You three sure come in handy in a crisis.”
“We’re just doing our jobs,” McBride answered.
They all looked to the west toward the dark wall of smoke. Every time it seemed to have moved more than Marc would have imagined it could. It wouldn’t be long now till it reached the backburn. If it got past the fire crews there, nothing short of a miracle would save Scarlet.
Deputy Marcs put the evidence in her trunk. “Where are you off to now?”
Marc met Darcangelo’s gaze and then McBride’s. “I think we’d like to stay here. If there’s anything we can do to help bring in survivors…”
Darcangelo came right out with it. “We can’t leave with our friends still missing.”
Deputy Marcs seemed to understand. “I’ll take you over to The Cave—Rocky Mountain Search and Rescue Team’s headquarters. Rossiter is a tenured member, so you’ll be among friends. If there are survivors to bring in, the Team will be involved in that effort.”
McBride gave her a nod. “We’d be grateful.”
They climbed into their vehicles and followed her through thickening smoke to a big, square building with two enormous vehicle bays—probably an old firehouse. They parked and followed Deputy Marcs in through an open bay door.
“The Cave,” Darcangelo looked around at the cavernous space, its walls hung with climbing and rescue gear. “I see where they got the nickname.”
They passed through another door and found a handful of people gathered around the radio. Heads turned as they entered.
“Julia.” An older woman with shoulder-length gray hair stood, lines of worry etched into her face. “Any news?”
“We caught the kids who were flying the drone. These guys helped with that. They helped with the evacuations earlier, too.” She quickly introduced Marc, Darcangelo, and McBride to the others, a flurry of names passing by in a rush.
“This is Megs Hill, the Team’s founder, and her spouse, Mitch Ahearn, also a founder. Nicole Turner, Sasha Dillon, Bahir Acharya, Creed Herrera—all Team members and friends of Gabe Rossiter’s.”
“He’s a good buddy of ours, too.” Marc shook their hands.
Herrera eyed him and Darcangelo, his lips quirking in a half smile. “He’s told us about the two of you. He calls you ‘Marcangelo.’”
McBride chuckled. “Marcangelo. I like it.”
Marc and Darcangelo shot him a withering look.
One of the women—Sasha?—smiled, tear stains on her cheeks. “I feel like I know you.”
Marc wasn’t sure how to take that. “We’re here to help bring Rossiter and the others in. Joaquin Ramirez was in the chopper that went down. He’s a good friend of ours, too.”
Megs nodded, the anguish in her eyes at odds with the hard set of her jaw. She was suffering as much as they were—maybe more. “Thanks for your help today.”
She sat, went back to listening to radio traffic.
“Can I get you three some water?” Nicole asked.
Now that she mentioned it …
“That would be great. Thanks.”