Page 59 of One Last Shot

Okay, so it hadn’t gone quite as swimmingly...

Oh, who was she kidding? She could have gotten Oaken killed. So much for herbright ideas.

He nudged her with his foot, and she looked over at him. He frowned.

She looked away.

She wasn’t sure what it was—why whenever she tried to do something, well,good,it went south.

They landed on the Air One square at Merrill Field, and she got out, holding on to her helmet, her emergency medical kit.

“I’ll get that,” said Oaken, coming up beside her. He held his helmet in one hand, a ropes bag over his shoulder, and now grabbed her kit.

“I got—okay. Knock yourself out.”

He said nothing until they got inside the Tooth.

She had her jumpsuit off, dressed in only her thermals when he returned from dropping the bags off in the gear room.

“Let me see your arm.”

She looked over at him. He had stripped off the dry suit down to a pair of long johns, workout shorts, and a thermal shirt. And of course, it showed off all those rescue muscles. Not to mention the skim of whiskers on his chin—probably designed for today’s on-camera interview, but it didn’t hurt his stun factor.

Now he sat on the bench next to her and leveled those blue eyes on her.

“It’s nothing.” But she didn’t recognize the look he gave her.

Or maybe she did. The same look he’d worn when they’d found Mike tucked under a cave, wounded and maybe dead.

She couldn’t remember ever being under that much scrutiny—or rather, the caring kind of scrutiny. Staff Sergeant Hecktor, her Marine squad leader, had given her plenty of scrutiny during her early days.

At the end, of course, he’d given her his life.

“Of course it’s something,” Oaken said, his tone a little terse. “You hit that strut pretty hard—I saw it. Show me. I know you have a tank under your thermal—so...” Heraised an eyebrow.

“Fine.” She pulled off her outer layer. She did wear a tank underneath, and okay, as she moved her arm down, she grunted.

“Yowza,” he said, gripping her elbow. “That’s a serious bruise.”

She angled her head, tried to see the darkened, raised hematoma.

“I’m getting you some ice. It’s probably too late, but maybe we can stop some of the deep bruising.”

He got up and headed out of the room.

She angled toward the mirror. Yeah, that did look mean. She’d hit her bicep, and a fist-sized bump rose from the side of her arm, blackened, deep purple, and red.

“Here we go.” Oaken carried an ice pack wrapped in a cloth sleeve and now wrapped it around her arm, pulling it taut and velcroing tight. “Now, some ibuprofen.”

Opening his locker, he took out his backpack and dug in the outer pocket. Found a container and slapped out a couple pills. Handed them to her, then cracked open a bottle of water.

“You’re quite the medic.” She downed the meds. “And you did great out there today. Hopping onto the egg like that—almost like you were the real thing.”

She knew, as soon as the words emerged, that they hit wrong. He drew in his breath, forced a smile, nodded.

“Oh, Oak—I . . . I’m sorry. I?—”

“I know what you meant.”