“Where is she?” I shouted at one of the spies.
He didn’t answer, so I turned to the other. “Where is she?”
Before he could answer—assuming that Christian’s chokehold would have let him—Trevor called from inside.
“Found her!”
19
Noah
I used to run track in high school. I used to run the relay race: four men passing a baton as they’d run around a track. Since that morning, we busted into the spies’ home to rescue Bonita. I’ve also run a seven-man relay, passing a comatose girl through a forest in Iceland.
I didn’t win a medal for either.
But I never ran harder or faster than I did that morning.
I held her limp body in my arms, covered with a coat to protect her from the rays of the rising sun. I kept my eyes on my relay partner ahead of me. If I looked down at Bonita, I was afraid I’d crumple to the forest floor in despair.
Sasha and her men were having brunch on the terrace when one of them spotted us dashing toward the house. They met us in the driveway.
“Get the car,” Christian shouted. “We need to get her to the hospital.”
Christian hadn’t even finished the sentence, and Dan was already running to the garage.
There were a half dozen men between Bonita and me, and I could only see her dangling feet and got a glimpse of locks of brown hair hanging from a head that was covered in a coat.
“Bonita,” I tried to call out, but it was only a murmured breath that escaped. “Bonita.”
Dan pulled the Porsche around, and Christian, holding Bonita in his arms, jumped in. And they were off, spraying a cloud of dust and gravel in their wake.
I reached out a hand. “Bonita.”
The cloud dissipated, and they were gone.
“Tell me what happened,” said Sasha.
Trevor had only begun the story when Sasha silenced him with a raised hand. “I need to make some calls,” she said.
We followed her inside and listened with bated breath as first, she called the hospital to alert them of the emergency headed their way. Then she phoned a man she called Dr. Crumb.
“Bonita’s fallen into a coma,” she said. And it was obvious she’d already talked with Dr. Crumb about her. “I’ll make the arrangements,” she said. “Be ready in thirty minutes. I’ll call back to confirm.” She ended the call.
“Who’s Dr. Crumb?” I asked.
But Sasha silenced me with a stern look on her face and an index finger extended in a vertical position. She made another call. “We have an emergency.” “No.” “I need Dr. Crumb brought here immediately.” “Faster than that.” “Okay. I’ll tell him you’re on the way.” She ended that call.
My mouth hung open, questions at the ready. I could tell from the look of my friends that they, too, were ready to unleash a barrage of questions. Nobody spoke.
“Dr. Crumb. The helicopter will be there in twenty minutes. Godspeed.” She ended the call, turned to us, and gave us her attention.
“Who’s Dr. Crumb?”
“Do you have another car?
“We need to get to the hospital.”
“We need to be with Bonita.”
“Why a helicopter?”
“We need to get to the hospital.”
Sasha didn’t interrupt us. She let the questions come at her, three or four at a time. Finally, she raised her hands and commanded silence. We gave it to her.
“Solar urticaria is an extremely rare allergy,” Sasha said calmly. “And Bonita has an even rarer version of it. The hospital will only be able to do so much. Stabilize her, nothing more.”
“Then we need to get her to a better hospital!” I yelled.
Sasha calmly shook her head. “No, Noah. We’re bringing the better hospital to her.” The confidence with which she spoke calmed us all down. “I know you all want to help,” she continued. “But right now, we need to let the medical professionals do their job. I’m afraid all we can do is wait and trust them.”
“Who’s Dr. Crumb?” Ken asked. “It seems like he already knew about Bonita.”
Sasha nodded. “Dr. Crumb is a brilliant doctor, a specialist, the specialist in allergies. And Dr. Crumb is a friend.”
“And he’s coming here?” asked Ben.
Sasha nodded. “A helicopter will be flying him in from Scotland. He will be here in”—she looked at her phone—“in approximately two hours and twenty-six minutes.”
Sasha looked at me. She squinted then approached. She reached out her hand and brushed the hair back from my forehead. “You’re bleeding?”
I touched my head. My hair was damp and sticky. I looked at my fingers and saw a bit of blood. “It’s nothing. I must have scraped my head on a branch or something.”
She turned and motioned for me to follow. “Come with me. Let’s get that cleaned up.”
The woman I loved was at the hospital in a coma. And me, what was I doing? Sitting on a stool in the bathroom, getting a tiny scratch on my head cleaned up.