Chapter 892

She looked toward the camera mounted on the support tower, startled by the question. Her face was a mask of pain and cold, but her eyes were sharp, still fighting.

She shook her head, the motion sharp and defiant. “No!” she shouted back.

Because you’re here, she added in the quiet of her own mind.

A beat of silence passed through the comm. When his voice returned, it was rougher.

“Good. Then listen to the rescuer.”

“Can you swim, Thompson?” the safety officer barked from the line beside her.

“Yes!”

“Good to know. Hope we don’t need it.”

A series of smaller, rapid-fire cracks echoed from above as more of the damaged bypass hardware shifted under load. The rescue basket dipped another foot, then three. The haul line held, but the swing widened toward the pool’s black surface.

The dark water rushed up to meet them.

“Secondary descent!” the rescuer yelled. “Controlled drop into water! Stay long!”

In the command center, Jarrod stood rigid before the screen, every muscle in his body locked by a violence he could not spend. His right arm remained fixed across his torso inside the heavy medical brace, a hard obstruction beneath the modified jacket. His splinted left hand hung useless at his side. He could not reach for her. He could not cut a line. He could not haul a rope.

He could command.

“Water team, move,” he said, his voice a blade. “Basket entering pool zone. Prepare cold-water extraction. Do not load her right side.”

The impact was a brutal, shocking violence.

Icy water enveloped Caroline, a crushing weight that drove the air from her lungs. The cold was a physical blow, so intense it felt like fire. Her vision exploded in a flash of white, then went dark.

She was sinking, but not free-falling into the depths. The basket had tipped, half-submerged, its safety straps and the emergency line keeping her from vanishing completely beneath the surface. Her waterlogged uniform and heavy boots dragged at her body while the current shoved the basket sideways against submerged rock.

Her lungs were on fire, screaming for air. Black spots danced at the edges of her vision.

A gloved hand clamped onto the front webbing of her harness.

The safety officer.

He was there in the darkness with her, his face distorted behind the visor, his headlamp cutting a blurred cone through the black water. He pointed urgently at the side-release buckle tangled near her hip, then slapped the basket frame.

Free the hip. Stay in the basket.

Then he pointed at her own hand, then at the buckle, his meaning clear. Your hand. You do it. His other hand was locked on the rescue frame, keeping them both from rolling under.

Caroline understood. He could stabilize her, but the jammed buckle was trapped under her body angle. If he forced it blind, he might release the wrong strap and spill her into the water.

Forcing her numb, disobedient fingers to move, she began working on the buckle, her movements clumsy and desperate, fighting the cold and the crushing need for air.