Page 51 of Run Wild Omega

The helicopter descends, a mechanical beast coming out of the clouds. The downdraft hits us like a wall, sending snow flying horizontally. I turn my back to it, shielding Tess with my body.

Dylan and Miles shout, but I can’t hear them over the roar. The side door slides open. A medic leans out, motioning frantically.

We run.

We reach the skids, and I hand her up to the waiting crew. I watch them strap her in, securing her to the stretcher. I climb in after her, sliding onto the bench seat. Dylan and Miles follow, crowding into the small space.

The door slams shut, cutting off the wind. The engine pitch changes, and we lift.

Below us, the town of Sweet Creek disappears into the dark, a tiny grid of lights swallowed by the storm. I take Tess’s cold hand in mine. Her skin is pale, translucent.

“We’re almost there, babe,” I whisper, leaning close to her ear. “Just hold on.”

The flight is fast. Too fast and not fast enough.

Glenwood Springs Hospital appears below us, a bright island in the dark. The pilot circles once, then drops.

The landing zone beside the hospital is chaos. Lights everywhere. Ambulances idling.

But as the rotors slow and the door slides open, I realize the noise isn’t just machinery.

It’s people.

Dozens of them. Reporters with cameras, news vans with satellite dishes. They swarm the perimeter of the LZ, shouting, microphones thrust forward.

They’ve been waiting for us. The story of the Sweet Creek avalanche and the rescue has already spread.

I jump out first, turning to help the medics lower the stretcher.

“Captain Callahan! Is it true the victim is local?”

“Is she related to the Hartwell family?”

“Was it a reckless hike?”

“Wyatt! Look over here!”

A microphone shoves toward my face, nearly hitting Tess’s leg.

Something snaps in my chest. This isn’t a news story. This is my life. This is her pain.

I step in front of the camera, blocking their view of her completely. I don’t shout. I don’t posture. I just look at the reporter, a man with a red tie and desperate eyes.

“No comment.”

I turn my back on them.

“Move,” I snap at the orderlies waiting by the elevator doors. “Get her inside. Now.”

We push through the crowd. Cameras flash in my face, blinding me. Voices yell questions about the storm, about the SAR team, about the future of the Lodge.

I ignore it all. I focus on the double doors. I focus on getting her into the quiet, sterile safety of the hospital.

Miles and Dylan flank me, a wall of muscle and silence. They don’t speak either. They just move, clearing a path.

We reach the elevator and the doors slide shut, cutting off the noise and the lights.

Silence returns.