“Got that IV in yet?”
“Yes, I’ve opened it up wide.”
“Heart rate is low but steady. BP is one hundred over fifty and thready.”
I opened my eyes. Men wearing headlamps and harness gear worked around me.
One of them leaned over me, his features obscured by his headlamp. “Hang in there, buddy. We’re getting you out of here.”
“Blaire.” It took all my effort, but I managed to say her name.
“We have no idea how she fit through that air shaft, but she did, and she led us to you. This means you have to fight as hard as she did, okay?”
“Okay,” I mumbled.
“She’s waiting to see you—you need to fight for this. Stay with me.”
I was on the back of a stretcher. Neon lights glowed above me as people wearing medical scrubs ran alongside the stretcher. I was in a hospital.
“Take him to trauma room two.”
A woman in pink scrubs said, “What’s your name, sir?”
“Which way?”
“Room two is next to three, that way.”
“Which way?”
“Around that corner at the far end, room on the far right. Last door on the right.”
I felt the stretcher bump around the corner. We lost the nurse momentarily before her face reappeared. “What’s your name? Can you tell me your name?”
They wheeled me into some sort of green-tiled room with machines and big dim lights. Everyone, with their masks, caps and blue scrubs, looked the same to me.
“Okay, people, let’s bring him in. All the way.”
“And on my count, on three. One, two, three.”
I felt myself being lifted, and then I was on a higher bed. The lights on the bed were so bright, shining right in my face.
The room was frigid, but they were cutting off my clothes.
“Let’s see what we have here. I need a CBC type and crossmatch.”
“We have a pre-op here, with a gunshot to the lower abdomen, entry but no exit wound. Someone needs to call the OR and get us a room.”
“Give me an EKG and an X-ray of his chest, pelvis area and lower right quadrant.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Bipedal pulses are good.”
“Get me two bags of O neg; someone get me some chem labs.”
“BP is holding steady.”
“I see only the single-entry gunshot wound to the lower extremities. It looks like the bullet chipped off the bottom of his plates, which saved his life, but we have a lot of shrapnel damage. Does anyone else see any other trauma?”
“Pupils are alert and responsive.”
“No other trauma noted over here, legs seem fine.”
“So are his arms and shoulders.”
“Scrapes on his arms, face and chest.”
I needed to see Blaire. I sat up. The surrounding people freaked out, and so many arms and hands worked to pull me back down.
“Holy shit, how strong is this guy?”
“Someone get restraints on this guy. Now!”
“Easy, buddy.” Someone pushed me back on the table. “Just lie back and relax. We got you.”
“How is this guy still conscious?”
“I have no idea.”
I woke up in the same room to the sound of two men talking. I was awake, but I couldn’t seem to open my eyes or move any part of my body. I was freezing cold.
“Why isn’t this guy in surgery? I thought he came in ten minutes ago.”
“Trauma surgeon on call is busy with a car crash. They are trying to save some kid’s leg.”
“He has a gunshot wound.”
“I don’t know. Sometimes the prognosis is bad and doctors make the calls they make, right? Could also be because of who this guy is.”
“Why? Who is he?”
His voice lowered. “I heard he’s old-money Russian mob. Police came in, and they are practically having a party in the lobby. They keep bugging the nurses for the cause of death.”
“That’s harsh.”
“Well, they have to deal with these guys. They’re the ones that we fix up so they can head back into the street and shoot someone else. Maybe the next time they shoot a cop. You have to see it from the cop’s point of view.”
“I guess.”
“Call me if the trauma surgeon ever gets here. Otherwise call time of death.”
