Skin Deep (Station Seventeen #1)(68)

“Command to Walker,” Bridges answered, all business. “Report.”

“I have an unconscious victim on the second floor, Delta side.” He needed to find Shae and get this woman out of here, now.

“McCullough to Command, the rest of floor two is clear.” Shae’s voice filtered through the two-way, calm and controlled. “Walker, fall out to the primary exit. I’ve got your back.”

Relief spilled through him. “Copy, McCullough,” Kellan said, and Bridges’ voice followed.

“Command to McCullough, copy that. Walker, you’re a go. Drake and Copeland are standing by at the primary exit to assist.”

The second the words registered, Kellan’s arms shot out. Turning the victim to her back, he took a cursory look at her, just to make sure she had no obvious injuries he’d make worse with a fireman’s carry…

And then he saw the woman’s face.

“Angel?” His heart ricocheted against his ribs. For a stop-time second, Kellan thought surely his brain was playing some adrenaline-fueled, nasty-bastard trick on his eyes—how the hell could Angel be here, in the bathtub of a burning house, when she was supposed to be with Isabella?

After a single blink, he smashed down on his confusion. This fire was getting meaner by the second. He couldn’t afford to do anything right now other than move.

Move.

Shoving away anything that wasn’t uncut instinct, Kellan lifted Angel out of the bathtub and propped her over his shoulders. The threshold back to the hallway—two steps—the smoke-clogged stairs—twelve plus the landing to make a baker’s dozen—the handful of paces to the front door—all six. Each set of strides became a blur of shapes and sounds as he counted his way to the door. Sweat poured between his shoulder blades, his lungs constricting beneath the crush of adrenaline filling his chest, but he couldn’t stop. Couldn’t think.

Couldn’t be scared Angel might be dead instead of at the diner with Isabella, where she was supposed to be giving the statement that would put DuPree away forever.

Sunlight blasted Kellan’s field of vision, stunning his senses but not his movements as his boots pounded over the threshold and into the front yard. His muscles screamed with every step, but he refused to give in until a familiar female voice penetrated his consciousness.

“Easy, Walker. Let’s see what we’ve got.” Quinn Copeland, the second half of Station Seventeen’s paramedic crew, rushed up to meet him with a gurney. Kellan lowered Angel to the thin mattress dividing the space between him and Copeland, reaching up to remove his helmet and his mask but not budging an inch as she began her rapid trauma assessment.

“Damn it.” Quinn’s face went from zero to shit-storm serious in less than a breath. “She’s not breathing, and I can’t find a pulse.”

Kellan’s gut took a hard slide toward his knees. “We need to help her. We need—” He yanked his chin in a rough glance from side to side. “Where’s Drake?”

“He’s on the other victim,” she said quietly, her gloved hands moving fast enough over Angel’s body to turn them into a purple blur.

“What?” Oh hell, how many women had been inside that house?

Copeland flattened her palms over Angel’s chest and began CPR, and shit. Shit! This couldn’t be happening.

“Gates found someone else inside just seconds after you radioed in, and from the sound of things, the guy’s as bad off as this woman.” She completed a round of compressions, pausing for a lightning-fast vitals check before shifting to resume CPR. “The paramedics from Twelve are on their way to help us get both victims to Remington Hospital. Until then, Drake and I have to divide and conquer here on-scene.”

“You’re not taking her to the hospital?” Kellan asked, dread filling his belly, and Copeland pegged him with a light gray stare that defied her sweet, all-American looks.

“Drake’s guy is critical too, Walker, and they won’t both fit in the ambo. We have to wait for the guys from Twelve to help us with transport, so right now I’m all this woman’s got.”

“No you’re not,” Kellan said. “Let me help.” He jerked his chin toward his radio before she could protest. “Walker to Command, requesting to assist Copeland with the victim.”

“Command to Walker,” came Bridges’ voice. “Affirmative. You are a go for medical assist.”

Relief left his lungs on a hard burst. “Copy that, Command,” Kellan said, quickly shucking the soot-stained leather on his hands in favor of a pair of nitrile medical gloves and squinting through the sunlight to look at Quinn.

“I’ve got your back, Copeland. Just tell me what to do to help you help her.”

She didn’t hesitate. “Okay. Take over compressions so I can get her hooked up to the monitor.”

Copeland shifted her hands to make room for his to replace them, and Kellan leaned in from the other side of the gurney. Willing his hands not to shake and his focus not to falter, he laced his fingers together, palm over knuckles. He pressed them to the front of Angel’s once-white dress, his brain making the startled realization that it was the same one she’d worn last night.

She hadn’t even changed clothes from the party.

A fresh shot of adrenaline bloomed in his veins, but he stuffed back the heart-twisting detail. He had to focus on helping Angel, right here and right now. No emotions. Just actions.