Never leave your wingman.
She reached her hand inside the prone man's chest. Looked up. Closed her eyes. He watched the gentle ripple of muscles flexing under her sleeve while she held the man's heart in her hand and squeezed, again, again.
Silence.
Stubbornness and confidence stamped on her features. No wonder this woman gave off the air of never needing anyone.
"Four minutes," the flight nurse said.
Her jaw tightening, Monica kept squeezing.
"Dr. Hyatt, it's been six minutes."
Her eyes closed tighter for—hell, he didn't even know how long—before her chest deflated with a sigh, eyes opening.
Her bloody hand slid out of the chest cavity.
The roaring pandemonium stopped. Short. Quiet. Nothing but blood, hanging tubes and still people remained.
Shit. Jack's fist clenched against the metal of the plane. His eyes closed.
"Time of death..." Monica checked a watch, continued the pronouncement of calm facts riddled with bitter undertones.
This woman did not accept failure well. Being responsible for her family, her patients—feeling the weight of someone's life in her hands—had to be one helluva load to carry.
Jack looked down, saw a pair of boots beside his, not even sure when someone had joined him. He glanced up, found the Colonel, not looking much steadier than he felt.
Monica tore off her gloves. Snap. Fling. Restrained anger and frustration filled the belly of the plane.
He started to go toward her, but realized she wouldn't be ready for comfort. Not yet.
At least he'd learned something from the Vegas mess.
Backing away, he left Monica to her patient, the Colonel to his troop. Jack cleared the ramp, pivoting back toward the mobile command post, the death gurgle still echoing in his head.
A shadow snagged his attention.
Across the cement, near the main terminal door, a lone female figure stood with a military cop a few feet to the side. Yasmine. What the hell was she doing here? Regardless, the last thing Monica needed was round two of a hissing match with her sister tonight.
Here was something he could do to help her. Jack strode across the open tarmac toward Yasmine, his steps heavier than just ten minutes ago but no less determined. Slowing but not stopping, he gripped her arm to guide her through the door. "You need to be inside."
She dug in her heels with far more strength than her size or weight would dictate. "Who?''
"What?"
"Who was hurt? How bad is it? Monica wouldn't tell me anything."
What did it matter to her? She knew her sister was fine and she'd only just met the rest of them. Could she care that much about the Colonel after only a few days?
Of course, he'd been knocked on his ass five seconds after seeing Monica for the first time.
Jack gentled his hold on her arm. "One of the troops—a private—was injured during a training exercise."
He left out mention of the death until the rest of the deployed soldiers could be told. Still couldn't quite wrap his brain around it himself yet.
Yasmine blanched, flinched. Then undeniable relief flooded her face. "But Colonel Cullen is all right?"
"Yes, he's fine. I saw him myself less than a minute ago." How odd that she hadn't waited to ask Monica. He knew Yasmine was scared spitless of him, but she'd opted to question him rather than her own sister.