A smile crept across Reiff’s worn face. “Look who’s talking.”
Behind them, a jittery Rachel Souza tried to control her breathing. Shaking, she turned when Henry Yamada burst through the front door and shouted “Oh my God!” at the scene before him.
Waterman stepped forward and took Masten’s other arm over his shoulders, helping the man forward and into the center of the lobby.
“Only one exit wound,” said Reiff. “The other must still be inside.” He then watched as Rachel scrambled out of the booth and ran across the lobby, calling Yamada forward and ordering him to remove his shirt.
Together Reiff and Waterman eased Masten to the floor while Rachel tore the T-shirt in two pieces. She pressed a ball of cloth against each wound, eliciting loud groans from Masten.
“Robert, listen to me. I need you to stay still. Do you understand?”
He nodded painfully.
“We can’t stay here,” warned Reiff.
“We have to. We need to get him stabilized.”
While she worked, Waterman looked up and over Masten with an inquisitive look, which Reiff answered with a simple nod. The threat belowground was not over.
“How long?” asked Waterman.
“Minutes.”
The older man looked at Rachel, who was ripping open Masten’s bloody shirt. “We have to go.”
“I heard you!” she answered. “But we have to—”
“Lady, you don’t understand. We have to go.”
She shot him a look. “I said—” But she stopped when she saw his face.
“If we don’t, we may all be lying here in a few minutes.”
She glanced at Reiff, who nodded in agreement and then examined Masten’s bare chest. A sunken chest wound into a lung. “Okay, okay,” she replied, trying to think. “Let’s get him up carefully. Keep him upright.”
She could see blood bubbling around the hole, indicating the air was getting inside, which could collapse the chest.
When the front doors burst open, Reiff’s eyes weren’t ready for full sun, and he quickly squeezed his eyes shut, while still trying to help carry Masten.
Slowly opening them again and stumbling, he spotted the blurry image of a pickup truck at the curb, with two more now arriving and men jumping out to help.
“Reinforcements,” answered Waterman before Reiff could ask.
Two of the four men passed the group and provided cover with rifles aimed at the entrance while the rest rushed Masten to the lead truck, opening one of the doors and sliding him into the vehicle’s rear king cab seat.
Rachel climbed in after him and pointed Yamada to the front passenger seat. “Help me get him into a sitting position,” she said, trying to carefully lift Masten’s frame. Yamada squeezed between the two front seats to help until they had Masten leaning against the opposite door.
Rachel quickly removed the bloody balls of ripped T-shirt and threw them to the floor. Grabbing one of Masten’s own hands in the same motion, she flattened it and placed it over his chest wound. “Keep your hand right here; we have to seal it off from any outside air!”
With her hand on top of Masten’s, she frantically looked around the inside of the truck. “We need something plastic, like a bag! Something airtight.”
Yamada searched the area around himself, then pulled up the front seat’s center console. “Nothing.”
“Check the glove compartment!”
He dropped the small compartment door, rummaging inside until he found a thin plastic baggie holding what looked like the truck’s registration information. “What about this?”
“Yes! Give it to me.”
Using her mouth and one free hand, Rachel pulled it open and dumped the contents out. Then she lifted Masten’s hand and placed the plastic smoothly over the hole. “Is there anything like tape in there?”
Yamada turned back to check. Finding none, he suddenly peered at the driver’s door when it opened, and a large man began to climb in. “We need tape!”
The man, a few years older than Waterman, with long, gray frizzled hair pulled into a ponytail, glanced over the seat at Rachel and Masten. He nodded and disappeared from view, throwing open a lid to one of the truck’s rear bed cabinets. He returned with half a roll of duct tape.
“Perfect!” Rachel motioned for the man to give it to Henry. “Rip me off four pieces! About five inches each.”
While she waited, Rachel studied Masten’s haggard face. His breathing was rapidly becoming more labored. “It’s getting harder to breathe.”
He nodded.
“Slow breaths, Robert. Slow breaths. And minimal talking.”
Again, he nodded.
As Yamada began handing her strips of tape, Rachel worked to seal the plastic over the wound as she spoke aloud to Masten. “You’re going to be okay. We need to keep any more air out to allow you to breathe.” Two pieces of tape were in place, and she reached for a third. “The open hole is creating liquid in your lung. It shouldn’t be fatal if we can keep you upright and keep the liquid at the bottom. Do you understand?”
He nodded.
“The wound to your shoulder isn’t as severe. We’ll tape some more cloth over it to stem the bleeding. Should give us plenty of time to reach a hospital.”
Outside, Waterman led Reiff stumbling to his truck and pushed him inside. Then, finally, the two men squatting before the building stood and retreated to the third vehicle.
In less than ninety seconds, they were gone.
Reiff gripped the panic bar above his head when Waterman made a sharp right turn and accelerated to keep up.
“Where are we?”
“Flagstaff.”
“Well, at least that much was true.”
They passed through a large intersection, mostly empty, and continued as it narrowed into a two-lane street lined with trees, until slowing and turning again.
Maintaining a firm grip, Reiff looked out his side window, bouncing up and down in his seat while Waterman drove.
All three trucks sped from street to street as Reiff peered out in bewilderment. Studying each block as it raced past. Until finally turning to Waterman.
“Jesus.”