Grave Secrets (Manhunters 1)

A nagging sense of fear forced her to focus, but her equilibrium was off. She felt like she was sitting at an angle. And her eyes weren’t working right. All she saw was white. White filling every window of the car. Yet the interior seemed dim.

Reality flooded in, swamping her brain with white-hot terror. Hank. Cops. Gunshots. Avalanche.

She turned her head, searching for Ian. But she moved too quickly, and pain shot down her neck, making her wince. “Shit.”

The sound of her own voice pried her mind open, and everything spilled in at once. Her heart rate jumped, and adrenaline gushed through her veins. She forced her eyes to open and her brain to turn.

Her surroundings were intensely silent. She had no idea how long they’d been unconscious. Had no idea how far the avalanche had taken them. Had absolutely no idea how to get out of this.

She found Ian still in the driver’s seat. The blood registered first. Bright red, matting his hair, painting his face. A sob bubbled out of her. “Ian. Ian, wake up.”

The car had come to rest at an angle with Ian’s side of the car up. Or maybe Savannah’s side was up. She was so disoriented, she didn’t know. The roof over Ian’s side of the car jutted into the space. In the back, the roof had been smashed in, crowding the interior. Several windows had shattered but remained intact, the bulletproof glass spiderwebbed.

Fear clawed at her gut. She reached for Ian, but her seat belt had cinched down on her like a vise. “Ian.”

His head lolled toward her. Blood dripped onto the console from his forehead. That was good, right? He couldn’t bleed if he wasn’t alive, right?

Her mind darted to Jamison, and fear burned her heart. “He was miles away from the avalanche,” she told herself. “He was hidden away on a back road with Everly and Sam. He’s okay.”

Those realizations helped her drag her panic back into line with the present. The thought of getting back to her boy gave her the motivation to fight.

She pushed against the seat belt until her fingers touched his forehead and found his skin still warm. She tapped his head. “Ian. Ian.”

When he didn’t stir, the barriers on her fear broke, and panic rushed in. Her quick breaths billowed in the car. “You can’t die. You can’t.”

She searched his skin for any kind of heartbeat. When she couldn’t detect one, she slid her fingers through the blood, pausing on his neck.

She closed her eyes and focused on the connection, murmuring, “Please be alive. Please be alive.”

A gentle thump rolled beneath her fingers. Her heart surged. Her eyes opened, and she repositioned her fingers to make sure what she felt was real.

“Come on, you big military stud,” she murmured. “Stay with me.”

Another thump tapped her fingers. Then another. And another.

Relief washed through her, the wave so powerful, she slumped into her seat. “Thank you, God.”

Savannah attacked her seat belt buckle again, but her numb, weak fingers gave out. “Ian,” she yelled in frustration, “wake up, dammit.”

His lashes never fluttered. Every second that ticked by felt intensely precious. His head wound looked severe. His brain could be hemorrhaging. He could be bleeding internally.

Savannah tried to wiggle out from the constriction of her seat belt and for the first time realized she was still wearing the bulletproof vest. She ripped at the Velcro and lifted the vest over her head, growling through the pain cutting across her torso.

With the vest off, she had an extra inch or two to work with. But she was already exhausted. She sobbed in frustration. “Ian, please wake up.”

She leaned forward, reaching for the glove box. Her fingers barely brushed the metal. She grimaced against the pain. Pushed against the locked belt crossing her torso. Jabbed at the button. The glove box door fell open. With urgency driving her, she wiggled and shifted for another half inch and grabbed at anything she could reach.

She pulled at papers and let them fall to the floor. Grabbed the string of a tiny flashlight and dropped the device into her jacket pocket. Tugged at something leather.

Falling back in her seat, she stared at the hunting knife. “Yes.”

A burst of excitement had her hands fumbling to pull the leather from the blade. She was shaking with fear, shivering with cold. But she pulled the knife free and sawed at the nylon belt across her chest. Something so simple had never felt so difficult. It was like cutting stone with a butter knife. Her numb fingers struggled to hold on to the handle tight enough to cut. Her other hand fought to hold the belt still.

Finally, she sliced through the last tendril of nylon. The belt fell loose. Savannah pulled her feet under her, knelt on the seat, and leaned over Ian. “Okay, I’ve got you now.”

She cradled his face, holding his head still in case he had a spinal injury. If she cut off his seat belt, he’d fall to her side of the car. She couldn’t begin to fathom how they’d get out of here. Or what they’d face even if they did.

Savannah snuffed out her defeatist thoughts and supported Ian’s head with one hand, tapping his cheek with the other. “Hey, Ian, wake up. I need you.”