Weakest Lynx (42 page)

Kneeling, my thighs clamped like a vice by Spyder’s ears to restrain him and protect his head. His chest didn’t rise or fall. Horror jetted through my veins. I put my cheek toward his face to reassure myself that he was still breathing. Spyder’s exhale whispered against my skin. My breath blew as thinly as his. My legs and feet burned and tingled from lack of oxygen. “Breathe deeper!” I ordered as much for Spyder as for me.

By muscle memory and not from conscious thought, I held Spyder’s nose until he unclenched his teeth and parted his lips. I stuck the tube into his mouth and squirted the glucose down his throat. I used all of my leg strength to protect his head, and to keep him in place while I squeezed the gungy gel. As he fought, glucose smeared everywhere.

Striker wrestled Spyderman down like they were on the Olympic mats, going for a gold medal. I knew Striker would have to. Once I watched Spyder lift a man twice his weight and throw him like a rag doll. Spyder had long thin limbs made of steel.

I had tunnel vision. Nothing existed but Striker, me, Spyder, and the red goo. As I worked, I chanted my mantra. Each inhale was a “Please.” Each exhale, “Be okay.” “Please, be okay.” Like the Little Engine That Could cheerleading itself through the crisis. “Please, be okay.”

I startled when the security guard crouched beside me.

“The rescue squad’s in the building, ma’am; they’ll be here in a minute.”

“Grab more gel and pop the top off for me.” I pointed at the tube with my chin. The guard put it in my hand and waited for further instructions.

“Hold his legs down.”

The security guard looked dubious but did as I said.

I was squirting the second tube of glucose into Spyder’s mouth, as the paramedics rushed over with a gurney. I knew one of the guys, Chuck; I recognized him from my volunteer training. The sight of him buoyed me. We had resources now and trained support. I put on a costume of competence. My teeth stopped chattering; my hands stopped shaking.

“What’ve you got here, Lexi?” Chuck asked, setting his equipment bag beside me.

“Forty-five-year-old male, with no history of heart problems, weak vitals, reporting a recurrence of malaria. High fever. Exhibiting signs of hypoglycemia. I checked with a meter I had. It read twenty-nine. I have most of one tube of gel in, and I’m working on the second one. If you’ve got any more, we could probably use it.”

Chuck opened his case, grabbed a tube, and pulled off the plastic top. He laid it beside me and took out his official blood-glucose meter. He swabbed Spyderman’s finger, with Striker’s help.

“Twenty-two. He’s not coming up, yet. He’s thrashing too much to try to run a line with dextrose. We may want to use a Glucagon shot.” Chuck rummaged in his supply kit.

I caught Chuck’s eye. “Since he’s not unconscious yet, let’s see if I can get enough gel in to calm him down, then we can put him on the gurney and strapped down for the IV.”

He nodded. “We’ll work your plan. Let me get more gels out. He’s spitting most of it on you.” Chuck pulled a handful of tubes from his kit.

I was covered in gel; Spyder was covered in gel. It took every single tube the paramedics had brought with them to get Spyder stable. While Spyder became lucid, the EMTs wiped him off and loaded him on to the gurney. I sat on the floor and watched—nerves vibrating.

Chuck tapped his pen against the clipboard. “Malaria. How’d you know to check for hypoglycemia, Lex?”

Spyder had contracted malaria when he was in Africa with the SEALs. It was Striker who had carried him out of the jungle to safety. When Spyder returned home to recover, I made sure that I was knew everything I could about the disease. I wasn’t about to lose another loved one. Not if I could help it. “I don’t know,” I said. “I must have read something about it along the way. Quinine and hypoglycemia …”

Chuck nodded. “Do you have a name, phone number, and address?”

“His name is …” And I stopped. I didn’t know his name. He was like a father to me, but the only name I’ve ever associated with him was his call name, Spyder—or as Iniquus called him “Spyderman” since Striker and Spyder sound the same over the airwaves. I had no idea what his legal name was. I looked over at Striker, and he shrugged.

“His name is Mr. McGraw. He’s just back in the country. I don’t know where he traveled in from. He’ll be living with me.” I gave Chuck my contact information.

“Are you planning to follow us over to the hospital?” Chuck placed a kit between Spyder’s legs on the gurney. His partner attached the IV bag of dextrose and saline onto a support arm.

“Yes,” I said from my place on the floor.

“Okay, he’s packaged for transport, so we’re going to head on. We’re taking him to Suburban; dispatch says they have a pathologist on call this morning. I’ll catch up with you at Emergency. It’s good to see you again, Lexi. Sorry it’s under these circumstances.”

I slowly gathered the contents of my purse back together. Striker helped me to my feet and held me steady until I caught my balance.

“You’re sticky.” He moved his hands out and away so as not to spread the goop any further.

“Yeah, let’s wash up, and then we can go,” I said. The shock my body was processing pushed me beyond exhaustion. I shambled into the ladies’ room and stood in front of the mirror. Not girly. Not pretty. Not even approachable. I was just one big, fat mess. Red slime in my hair, on my dress, up and down my arms. My mascara had run with the tears down my cheeks, leaving black rivulets. I did my best to wash off, took a deep breath, and headed back to the car with Striker. He opened the passenger-side door for me. I sat down, but couldn’t swing my legs in. I stopped for a minute.

“You okay?” Striker crouched beside me.

“Ha! My legs are shaking from that workout. Spyder fought like a madman.”

Striker put his warm hands on my thighs and slowly massaged them up and down. I reached out and grabbed his wrists, his hands caught under my skirt. I swirled with emotions—too many feelings in one big rush; they made my head spin. “Please don’t.” The last wayward tear slid past my lashes and got stuck beside my nose.

“Lynx, I was trying to help—I wasn’t thinking.” Striker said earnestly.

“Not your fault. I’m just—it’s too much. My emotions have been doing cartwheels since the party.”

“It’s been a hell of a morning for you.” Striker looked deeply into my eyes. His calm confidence steadied me. “Okay, Chica?”

I nodded.

Striker slowly brushed a stray lock of hair back, kissed the tear from beside my lips, and walked around to the driver’s side.

I hauled the door shut with the last of my energy. “I’m exhausted.”

Striker slid under the wheel. “You’re not kidding. Spyderman’s one of the strongest men I’ve ever known.”

“What I want to know is why Spyder would chance traveling in that condition. You spoke to him—he said nothing about his being on death’s doorstep?”

“All he said was, ‘I’m coming in for Christmas, gear up, I need help beheading Hydra.’”

“Wow!”

“My thought, exactly.” Striker warmed me with a smile, pulled his belt across his chest, and steered down the early morning streets with his normal calm—which, as usual, drove me absolutely crazy!

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