“He’s losing color. The federal medic is here.”
My breathing stopped. I was three hours away from him.
He was bleeding on the floor of a house I’d never seen.
“I have to go,” I said.
“Pereira’s two minutes out,” Vega said.
I sat down.
Eamon called my phone. “Pereira is nearly there. Wheels up Hyannis six-fifteen. Vineyard helipad six-thirty-eight. Cabot will meet you. The drive is eight minutes from the pad. I’ve got the house with Vega.”
“Tell Dane I’m coming.”
Wiley picked up my coat and held it open. I shrugged into it.
Pereira took us out of Cambridge through Memorial Drive and onto the Pike going south. She drove the way she always drove: ten over, no signal at the lane changes, and no expression at the wheel.
I didn’t ask Dane to speak over the comm. Cabot kept me updated.
“Ambulance at the service drive. Trauma bay on standby. They’re saying he’s stable.”
“How stable?”
“Stable enough that the federal medic isn’t going with him.”
“Are you with him?”
“I’m not leaving him. I’ll call every five minutes until you walk through the door.”
I closed my eyes. “Thank you.”
Dane’s voice, rough, came over the comm.
“Farrow, they’re loading me. Cabot’s with me.”
“Copy.”
“Medic put a line in. Saline. They’re giving me something for the pain.”
“Good.”
A pause.
“Drive safely.”
“I’m not driving. Pereira is.”
“Good.”
Another pause.
“I told you to ask me on Thursday.”
“Yes, that’s tomorrow.”
“The answer was always going to be yes.”