Raf — Helicopter
1335 Words
The rotors hammer the sky into fragments.
Raf sits braced on the narrow bench, boots planted wide on the vibrating floor, forearms resting on his knees like he’s holding himself together by habit alone. The helicopter smells like fuel, antiseptic, hot metal, and blood that no one’s bothered to wipe off yet. His blood. Theirs. It all smells the same once it dries.
Across from him, Teri lies strapped into the stretcher.
The medic has tucked a thermal blanket around her shoulders, silver crinkled tight like armor she doesn’t know she’s wearing. A thin oxygen line runs under her nose, taped gently to her cheek. Her skin is pale in a way that makes something in his chest cave inward. Fever-pale. Infection-pale. The kind of pale that turns people into statistics if you’re careless.
He counts her breaths.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
His hands shake.
Not from the fight. Not from the killing.
From the fact that there’s nothing left to do but sit and watch and wait.
He curls his fingers into his palms until his nails bite. The tremor subsides, converts itself into pressure. Pressure he understands. Pressure he can use.
A medic leans in, checking the monitor clipped to the stretcher. “Vitals are holding,” she shouts over the rotors. “Fever’s high but breaking. Infection’s localized. You got her out in time.”
Raf nods once.
He doesn’t trust his voice yet. If he opens his mouth, something unguarded might escape. Gratitude, maybe. Or rage. Or the truth.
Silas drops onto the bench beside him, the helicopter shifting slightly with the added weight. His helmet hangs loose from one hand, strap swinging. Wind claws at his hair through the open door like it’s trying to drag him back out.
Silas looks at Teri first.
Really looks.
Then he exhales, slow and long. “You know,” he says, raising his voice just enough to cut through the roar, “I’ve been shot, stabbed, chased through three countries, and poisoned once—don’t ask—and I have never in my life been as afraid of anything as I am of that woman.”
Raf doesn’t look away from Teri. “Which one.”
Silas huffs. “The blonde one. Your friend’s friend. The one currently terrorizing half a hospital in Palermo.”
That gets Raf’s attention.
“Lena?” he asks.
Silas nods solemnly. “Has not left my side. Not once. Not to eat. Not to sit. Not to sleep. She demanded answers like she was issuing subpoenas. She threatened me with bodily harm if I didn’t tell her exactly where Teresa was and who I was and why my boots were still dirty.”
Raf closes his eyes for a fraction of a second.
Of course she did.
“She told me,” Silas continues, “that if TerI dies, she will haunt me. Specifically. Not you. Me. She was very clear about that.”
Despite everything, a breath leaves Raf that might almost be a laugh. “That sounds accurate.”
Silas glances at Teri again, something softer threading through the humor. “She loves her.”
“Yes,” Raf says immediately. No hesitation. No qualification.
Silas shifts, elbow resting on his knee now, voice dropping. “You should’ve seen her when we told her TerI was alive. She just—collapsed. Right there. Full body. Then she got up and demanded to be brought here.”
Good, Raf thinks.
Good.
She won’t wake alone.
The helicopter banks slightly. The lights flicker. Raf’s gaze never leaves Teri’s face. He memorizes it like a man afraid he’ll be tested on it later.
Silas studies him from the corner of his eye. “You care.”
It’s not a question.
Raf doesn’t pretend to not hear it. He doesn’t dodge. He doesn’t deny.
“Yes,” he says.
The word feels heavy. Real. Irrevocable.
Silas doesn’t tease him. That’s how Raf knows this matters.
A minute passes. Maybe more. Time behaves strangely when you’re suspended between sky and consequence.
“When this is over,” Raf says quietly, “we disappear.”
Silas turns fully toward him now. “Both of us?”
“Yes.”
“And Lena?”
Raf finally looks at him. His expression is calm, but there’s something hard underneath it, something set.
Silas frowns. “She’s not going to like that.”
“That’s the point.”
Silas leans back, staring up at the helicopter’s ceiling like he might find a better argument written there. “You’re serious.”
“I was supposed to die,” Raf says.
The words settle between them, heavy and cold.
“The yacht wasn’t an attempt. It was a conclusion. Anyone still standing near me now is a liability.”
“Teri doesn’t know who you are,” Silas says carefully.
“She knows enough,” Raf replies. “And she will know more if I stay.”
Silas rubs a hand over his face. “You could tell her.”
Raf shakes his head once. “Not like this.”
Not while she’s weak.
Not while she’d try to stay.
Not while he’d let her.
Silas watches him for a long moment. Then, quieter: “You’re going to regret this.”
Raf doesn’t look away from Teri. “Every day.”
Teri stirs.
Just a small movement. A crease between her brows. A sound caught somewhere between breath and dream.
Raf is on his feet instantly, the bench scraping beneath him. He leans over her, hand hovering near her cheek without touching, like he’s afraid even contact might tip the balance.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “You’re safe.”
She doesn’t wake. Her lashes flutter once, then still.
Silas watches the way Raf stands there, bent toward her like gravity itself has rearranged. “She’s not going to forget you,” he says.
Raf swallows. “I know.”
The helicopter dips, beginning its descent. Lights bloom ahead — the hospital pad, bright and clinical and unforgiving.
Silas clips his helmet back on, business returning to his posture. “Lena’s waiting,” he says. “She’s going to see her before you do.”
“Good,” Raf says. “That’s how it should be.”
Silas pauses at the door. “You want me to tell her anything?”
Raf hesitates.
Tell her he’s alive.
Tell her he’s leaving.
Tell her he chose this.
“No,” he says finally. “Let her think whatever she needs to.”
The skids touch down hard. The doors slide open. Noise rushes in — shouting, orders, boots, urgency.
Medics swarm the stretcher. Hands take Teri from him, competent and careful and fast. Raf walks with them until the edge of the pad, until protocol and common sense stop him.
She disappears through the doors without waking.
Raf stands there longer than he should.
Silas comes up beside him, gaze following the same vanishing point. “We can stay,” he says. “Until you know she’s good.”
“Yes.”
“And then?”
Raf’s jaw tightens. “Then we vanish.”
Silas exhales through his nose. “Lena’s going to come for me.”
“That’s a risk you’ll survive,” Raf says.
Silas snorts, then sobers. “When Teresa wakes up and you’re gone, she’s going to be wrecked. Lena will see me as the man who helped you disappear.”
Raf doesn’t answer.
“You did the right thing back there.”
Raf doesn’t answer.
Right and wrong feel meaningless when measured against her pulse.
He turns away from the hospital doors at last, the echo of rotors still ringing in his bones.
Somewhere inside, something has been crossed.
Not a line.
A boundary.
And he knows — with the same certainty he uses to read a battlefield — that the world will come for her eventually because of him.
Which is exactly why he won’t be there when it does.
- Writer
