Chapter 39 · Smoke and Sutures

His heart wasn't beating, and I was out of patience.

"Don't you dare," I said. I locked my elbows and drove both palms into his sternum. "You don't get to leave. You still owe me three hundred and something nights."

Compression. Compression. Wet crackle under my hands, and blood running down the steel table into my sleeves.

The vault stank of diesel, scorched hair, and old gun oil. Somewhere above us the Spire groaned like a ship taking water. Mia stood at the table's edge holding a flashlight in both hands, and the beam shook all over his gray face.

"Bia," she whispered. "Bia, his lips are blue."

"Light on the wound. Not on his face. Hold it still."

"I'm trying."

"Try harder."

I sounded like my father. I hated that. I kept pumping anyway.

The armor-piercing round had gone in under his collarbone and kept going. The hole in his back was the size of my fist. Every breath he'd taken on the pier had whistled out of both holes.

He wasn't breathing now.

I ripped open the trauma kit and tore the seal out of its wrapper. I slapped it over the hole in his chest.