He laid his palms over Roch’s chest. He was shirtless, his body shivering uncontrollably. They had been fortunate that Draden had gone with them as protection. He could find a vein on anyone in the worst of circumstances, and he’d gotten a line into Roch.
We’ll need blood fast. Get Bellisia. Hopefully, Chandler has blood on hand for the others. Get Trap working on finding that out. Diego, get behind me. Stay right behind me. This one was going to be bad. Joe, you’re going to have to be on the other side of him.
For the first time, Joe looked helpless. “This is beyond my experience, Rubin.”
“I’ll tell you what to do. Get over there.” Jonquille? He poured urgency into his voice. Listen to me, Lightning Bug. I know you think you can’t do that operation, but you have it down. Follow the map in your head. I need you here as quickly as possible. If I don’t have you, I’ll lose this patient, and I’m telling you, honey, we can’t afford to lose him. He’s too important to people we love. I need you to get that SEAL clear and then get to me. We clear?
We’re clear. No hesitation. She was a miracle, his lightning bug. He took a breath and began to unravel the mess that was the insides of Roch’s body. He was a big man, built like his brothers, a lot of muscle with that same thick black hair and strong heart. That was what had saved him. That strong heart.
He was confident Jonquille could perform the actual surgeries without repercussions to her body or mind other than being exhausted. Roch was a different story. He needed actual surgery and he also had trauma to his body. There would be an exchange, which he would never allow Jonquille to do with him, not that part, but this surgery would take hours, if—and it was a big if—he could save this man.
No one talked much about the absent Fontenot brothers. They were gone. They’d left home and they were gone. One thing Rubin was certain of—they were intelligent. You had to be if you were a Fontenot. And they were strong. Very few men would have lasted with the kind of torture Chandler had inflicted on this man.
He’d been enhanced more than once. Rubin could see evidence of a recent operation. Chandler had “practiced” on Roch. He hadn’t had an operating team to work with and he hadn’t cared because he assumed Roch would die. The man was experimenting, determined to have his own soldiers, not understanding what was going wrong with the enhancements. Chandler was a butcher, not a doctor.
Chandler had brought in two different teams of genetic doctors to operate on soldiers and then arranged accidents so they would die before they could take home what they knew about the highly secretive GhostWalker program. He hadn’t done it because he was a patriot and he was protecting his country’s assets, he’d done it because he coveted his own soldiers to use as mercenaries.
Rubin knew Major General had already gathered the information on Chandler before the GhostWalkers had been sent to terminate him and anyone else deemed a threat to the United States. Any of the men Chandler had enhanced were to be saved if at all possible.
Fortunately, all the men in Rubin’s unit were skilled doctors and gifted healers, whether they wanted to admit it or not. He had the feeling they would need every one of them. Rubin moved through Roch’s body slowly, closing himself off to his surroundings and the sense of urgency telling him he had to move fast or he’d not only lose this patient but others as well. He would have to trust the others to do their jobs. His only concern was Roch, keeping him breathing, keeping his heart and brain functioning. This man was a Fontenot. He was Nonny’s. He was Wyatt’s.
He found himself breathing in and out slowly, willing Roch to breathe with him, even though a machine was breathing for his patient. Chandler had done so much damage by trying to create a modern-day Frankenstein. He had left a list of the traits he most coveted in a soldier and then tried to splice them all into Roch, ignoring what had already been done to him.
A small computer was set up in the room, presumably to show Chandler what to do. He must have filmed the original operation and thought he could just follow along with the already complicated and errant map. Rubin was no genetics surgeon. He didn’t have a clue what he was doing in that department, nor could he undo what Whitney or anyone else had done to these men or women, as Jonquille had hoped he could. For one moment he had thought it a possibility, but looking at the mess inside Roch’s body, he knew his gift was this—putting back together those torn apart on battlefields or by ruthless scientists. Maybe someone else had a talent yet undiscovered that would help them all psychically, but he knew it wasn’t him.
Twice he found himself staggering and dizzy. Both times, Diego caught him and lowered him into a chair, wiping his face and giving him water to drink. He kept his mind firmly in Roch’s, not looking around him, not knowing who was in the room or who wasn’t. He had no idea of time passing. He only knew he wasn’t nearly done.
He would never have gotten as far as he had without Joe or Bellisia. The woman kept giving blood as if she had endless amounts when he knew she was very small and her little body really couldn’t possibly have that much in it. And Joe, he just kept stepping up. He was an extremely talented healer, well on his way to becoming a surgeon, whether he knew it or not. He had the gift, he just hadn’t unlocked it, probably with all the other gifts he had blocking it. He was the commander of their unit and had so many other problems weighing him down, it was little surprise that his talent was easing its way out of him rather than pouring out.
The second time Rubin staggered to his feet, Jonquille had joined them. She not only looked exhausted, but she felt it as well. He gave her the smaller jobs he’d been having Joe do and pushed Joe to help him with the intricate surgery that would hopefully put Roch back together. Rubin had no idea what he would turn out like, but Zara had come in and managed to get the computer on and the video to work so he could see what the first set of surgeons had done to the pilot and how. He had Chandler’s notes, his wish list of traits he wanted to endow Fontenot with. He also had the list of Roch’s actual strongest psychic and physical attributes.
Sorting out the DNA was impossible, although Trap was working on that as fast as he could, but Rubin had to figure out how to make everything fit together inside the body like a giant puzzle. It all not only had to fit, but it had to work smoothly and efficiently. Once he was out of there, he didn’t want it to suddenly break down, especially if he wasn’t around.
Sweat trickled down his face, and he was aware of Diego wiping it away. It was annoying to be human and weak. Twice he snapped at Joe. Once at Jonquille. Neither said anything back to him, but he felt pretty low and apologized when he could force words through his dry throat. They had to be as tired as he was. They had to be thinking of Wyatt. Of Nonny. The longer this took, the less likely Roch would pull through. He was taking too long. And if he didn’t sit down again soon, he was going to fall on the floor face-first.
Diego caught his swaying body and dragged him to the chair again. This time, he wasn’t alone. Wyatt was on the other side of him, holding him up as well, his face a mask of emotion when Wyatt normally didn’t show anything at all.
“Can’t,” Rubin muttered, but his throat was rebelling, closing on him. He couldn’t see for some strange reason. He kept wiping his eyes, and his ears were ringing. He coughed, turning his face away.