He cursed again. “You might not need any bullets.”

She left him and ran to the car. He heard her fumbling around in the trunk, then swearing as she tried to click on the spotlight. “Dammit! Did you take the batteries out? Where are they? Did you hide them?”

“I was busy while you were napping.”

She came back, dropped to her knees beside him, and pushed her hand inside his jeans pocket. Coming up empty, she moved to the other where she found his pocket knife and Mickey’s phone. She tossed the knife out of Shaw’s reach, her interest solely on the phone. But when she tried to turn it on and realized it was dead, she turned it over and removed the back as she’d watched him do several times. Seeing that it was empty, she turned frantic. “Where is the battery?”

He shook his head.

“Are you crazy? Tell me. I have to call 911.”

Shaking his head had only made him more lightheaded and dizzy, so he didn’t respond at all.

“If you don’t get help, you could die.”

“Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“No! I didn’t want to kill you. I only wanted to stop you from killing me.”

“I wished you’d just asked pretty please instead of shoving…ah, shit, it hurts.”

She caught his chin in her hand and forced his head around to look at her. “Tell me where you hid the phone battery.”

He jerked his chin out of her grasp. “Bring me a bottle of water and the rest of those bandanas.”

She looked at him with consternation but got up, went back to the car, and in under a minute returned with the requested articles. He managed to remain sitting, although at a slant, as he took the water from her, removed the cap, then poured it over the piece of metal that had his shirttail pinned to his torso. She watched with alarm as he grasped it with thumbs and fingers of both hands.

“What are you doing?”

He blinked sweat from his eyes. “Move back. If you sliced an artery, you’re gonna get squirted.”

“You’re going to pull it out?”

“Have a couple of those bandanas handy. Soon as the blade is out—”

“You can’t do that!”

“I’m not looking forward to it.”

It was a toss-up whether or not to remove it. It could be acting as a plug to prevent serious bleeding. But if the damn thing was as rusty and dirty as the rest of that outboard, and he left it in there, he’d die of infection or tetanus, and neither would be easy or quick. If he died in a geyser of arterial blood, at least it wouldn’t take too long.

“Please,” she said, her voice ragged. “Let me call—”

Before she talked him out of it, he pulled on the portion of the propeller sticking out of him, testing how firmly and deeply it was embedded. Just that tug almost caused him to black out. He inhaled deeply several times, braced himself mentally, then pulled as hard as he could. The jagged metal tore through his flesh as it came free. Blood spilled warmly down his belly.

A thousand noisy flapping wings swarmed toward him, obscuring his vision. Bells tolled inside his head. His skin became slick with sweat. His stomach heaved, filling the back of his throat with stinging bile. He gave up his fight with gravity and collapsed onto his back, favoring his left side.

He was vaguely aware of Jordie popping open the buttons of his shirt, then of her bending over him, packing the wound with the squares of camo print.

“Jordie?”

He wasn’t sure if he spoke her name or merely thought it.

But he must’ve said it because, she snapped, “What?”

“Why—”

“Shut up, I’m busy.”

“Why—”

“Don’t talk to me!”

“Why aren’t you running for the road?”

She stopped what she was doing and looked into his face. He could tell from her expression that the idea hadn’t even occurred to her.

Her naked bewilderment lasted for several heartbeats before she set her jaw and said, hoarsely, “It’s raining,” then bent back over him and resumed her effort to stanch the wound.

She found several batteries in the sunken compartment of the trunk where the spare tire was stored. When she put them in the spotlight, it came on. She used it to search the car thoroughly—glove compartment, under the seats, even under the hood. But the search didn’t yield anything.

Since the dome light was growing steadily weaker as the car battery drained, she shut the doors and the trunk, but not before collecting a whole bottle of Advil and anything else she thought would be useful toward saving Shaw’s life.

She carried the tarp over to where he lay. He was conscious, because when she shone the spotlight on him, he snarled and told her to turn the effing thing off.

“I’ve got to see what I’m doing.”

She set the spotlight on the floor beside him but out of his reach and made two other trips to the car, carrying back with her items she’d taken from the trunk. When she’d assembled everything, she spread the tarp out on the floor near him. “Do you think you can move onto this?”

He looked at it, then at her, and shook his head.

“This floor is filthy.”

“So’s that tarp.”

“I made sure the clean side is up.”

He harumphed. “Like that matters.” Weakly he gestured toward the bloody piece of metal she’d stabbed him with, now lying on the floor a few feet away. “That thing has enough bacteria on it to kill an elephant.”

“Then let me call 911.”

“No.”

“Do you want to die?”

He gave her a hard look, then made an effort to scoot onto the tarp. He clenched his teeth and growled in pain.

“Here, let me help.” She moved to his side and slid one arm beneath his shoulders, the other beneath his waist. “I’ll support your upper body while you use your feet—”

“Just do it.”

It took three tries, which must have been agonizing for him, but she got him onto the tarp. By the time he went limp, he was sweating from every pore, and his lips were compressed so tightly they were rimmed with white.

As gently as possible, she began removing the blood-soaked bandanas from the wound and when the last one came away, she had to swallow her gorge. The open gash was four inches long and about three-quarters of an inch wide at its widest point. The flesh inside was an angry red.