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That couldn’t be good. And in fact, Ethan wasn’t at all sure the man was alive.

He was reluctant to take his hand off the steering wheel to see if Clem was still breathing. And Ethan wasn’t sure what he’d do if he found out Clem wasn’t.

How long might he have been dead? The window for CPR could well be shut.

Nobody wanted to be brought back only to live their life severely brain-impaired.

And if Clem weren’t breathing, Ethan would have to pull over, stop, get the guy out to start life-saving maneuvers.

If he did that, would he be trading Mrs. Harcourt for Clem?

Ethan fished his phone from his leg pocket and laid it on his thigh, glancing in the rearview mirror to see if Mrs. Harcourt would be helpful.

She had curled into a tight ball on the back seat.

“Mrs. Harcourt, sit up, move to the middle of the back seat, put on your safety belt,” Ethan commanded in a voice that was both calm and carried the gravitas needed to get people moving in the right direction.

He’d used it a little while ago on the Tifton guests who all stood mouths agape and unmoving. So maybe it only got some people moving. Maybe there was a class of people who had only ever given orders, and their brains short-circuited when they were the recipient of a directive.

The bridal shower revelers were on their own.

So, hopefully they were like cattle. Once one person figured things out and got moving, the rest tended to follow. It was herd mentality, for better or for worse.

Ethan glanced down at the phone—no bars.

He pressed 9-1-1 without much hope and got the out-of-range readout.

Ethan decided he couldn’t check for Clem’s pulse, but at least he could check for air. Licking his palm, Ethan leaned sideways until his hand hovered over the man’s face. As soon as the exhale tickled cool air over his palm, Ethan grabbed back at the steering wheel to stop the tires from squirreling all over the road.

The last thing they needed right now was to slide into another ditch and lose their only exit plan.

Comparatively convenient, Ethan modified.

Tango watched Ethan’s move carefully, then turned to sniff Clem’s hair. She lapped his face with her long wet tongue.

Maybe that would work—dog magic.

Ethan pulled up the mental map he’d memorized of the area.

If he could drive faster than the fifty miles an hour the limo could handle, help would be closer.

He wasn’t sure about stopping by someone’s house. Old folks, young kids—if he had bad actors on his trail, he didn’t want to bring that to anyone’s doorstep.

He’d seen too many atrocities over the years.

Tango had planted her feet on Clem’s chest to get a better angle for her licking. And while it might be the stimulation that would bring Clem to, it might also impede his breathing or circulation. Ethan had no experience or training with darts.

Human meds to make folks go lights out for an operation?

Yeah, he’d trained that.

Animal sedation?

Nope.

Ethan reached over and wrapped his hand around Tango’s collar to get her to move.

That was when he remembered her collar.