by Nicole Snow
Then he’s gone, bolting for the door.
I manage to catch Baxter before she makes a break for it. Then with arms full of annoyed, squirmy black cat pushing at me, I maneuver her back into the carrier and shut the door. With the kitty secured, I race after Gray.
I should know better by now.
I should stop chasing after his secrets and myriad disasters.
But this time I’m chasing him, because whatever he’s facing, whatever Warren’s brought to his doorstep, I can’t just leave him alone to face it.
I catch up just as Warren and Blake come shouldering in, carrying something ungainly between them, draped in black and smelling like blood.
My heart stops, and my lungs seize. I don’t want to breath in and inhale that scent again.
I stop in the middle of the hallway, clapping my hands over my mouth and staring at something – someone – far too big to be an animal.
Oh, God.
It’s Fuchsia.
Unconscious, her skin white as chalk. And even though her clothes are black, it’s not hard to tell the dark liquid matting the fabric to her skin is blood.
Gray stares at her, his face twisted with conflict, torn. “Warren, what the fuck?”
“No fucking clue,” Warren snarls. “Maybe you can explain after you stop her from dying.”
“This isn’t a human hospital!” Doc fires back. “Dammit, War, I’m a veterinarian, not a–”
“Hospitals involve cops,” Blake interrupts, holding up Fuchsia’s feet, “and from the questions you’ve been asking, cops would be an awful bad idea. You’re a doctor, man. Former military. You know how to handle this. So let’s handle it.”
Doc stares for just a second longer, a conflicted line cutting through his handsome features. Then a transformation passes over him – a certain calm I’ve only seen in the operating room when he’s working over a critically injured animal. He nods and gestures toward the back examining room.
“This way. There’s a table large enough for her in there.” Then his gaze snaps to me: clear, cool green, yet not cold, not closed. Just composed, steady, focused. “Ember, will you assist?”
Holy hell. I’ve never worked on a human being before.
Never had to do a surgery where a person’s life hangs in the balance. But Gray needs me, and I won’t leave him to handle this alone.
Taking a shaky breath, I nod. “I’ll tell Pam to keep people in the front, scrub up, and meet you in surgery.”
“Thanks,” he says sharply, then turns to direct Warren and Blake down the hall.
I stand rooted for another minute, then gather myself up and sprint to the front.
There’s only a few people in the waiting room, but they stare at me as I lean out through the swinging doors and gasp to Pam, “We’re closed for now. Emergency surgery. Send everyone home and ask them to come back tomorrow. Stay up here.”
Pam doesn’t get a second to ask. In a flash, I’m diving into the back again, thrusting my hands under the sink to sterilize them and snapping on gloves and a cap.
Heading back into that exam room to do my job, I put my game face on. Even if this sure as heck wasn’t what I was hired for, it’s critical work. It could help Doc get to the bottom of the weirdness going on.
I walk in on Blake pacing, shaking his head, watching as Doc carefully cuts Fuchsia’s dress open. Her bloody fur-lined coat has been stripped off, cast aside to the floor.
“I don’t know, man,” Blake says. “I just don’t know. We were doing a fire drill up at the school with my crew, and I was checking out alternate escape routes and found her dumped in the alley behind the place. Literally with the trash. I thought she was fucking dead at first, you know? And I was like, how do I keep the kids from seeing this? What the hell do I do? And then she sat up like a damn corpse, lifted her head, and groaned one word. ‘Baxter.’ Who the fuck’s Baxter? So I called War, the smart one with shit like this.”
Gray lifts his head, giving me a heavy look.
Baxter.
No freaking way. How is that cat suddenly the center of all of this?
But he looks down again, studying what looks like a puckered, bloody hole punctured in the woman’s side.
“No,” he murmurs absently, that cool, cultured tone back, subtly mocking. “I’m the smart one today with shit like this, Blake. I’ll thank you to be quiet while we work. Ember, we have a bullet wound that appears to be from a nine millimeter. Entry but no exit wound. I estimate from the bleeding that she’s nicked a major artery but avoided any internal organs. I’ll need your help to stop the bleeding and extract the bullet. We may have to cauterize to prevent her from bleeding out.”
I thought I’d be more panicked than this, staring at a savagely wounded human body.
But the second he describes the situation, I know what to do.
I know what tools we have on hand.
So I push past the two men watching helplessly to snag the prepped surgical cart and wheel it over to the table, looking down at the wound while Gray probes it gently with his gloved fingers.
“Anesthetic?” I ask, and he nods. His glasses start to slip down his nose, and I reach to push them up, settling them and carefully hooking the elastic band on the back of his cap to hold them in place.
“Thank you,” he says absently. “We’ll use a local anesthetic. The Zycortal should work just as well on her as it does on a dog. It’s not normally fit for human use, but since we’re improvising...”
“Understood.”
I’m hardly aware of the men in the room as I prep the syringe, upping the dosage a little for a human patient. Not too much.
He isn’t kidding, this stuff hasn’t been approved for clinical use in humans. I don’t want to kill her with any accidental side effects from being maybe the first human trial.
Gray moves aside, making room for me as I carefully slip the needle into her skin. She moans faintly but doesn’t wake. We wait a few moments, counting out the seconds, waiting for the anesthetic to take effect.
Fuchsia groans again and then goes limp. And that’s our cue. Now, the real work begins.
I’ve done a bullet extraction once, in vet school, during one of my apprenticeships. Some jerkface had been sport shooting out in the woods and thought it was cute to take aim at someone’s horse.
Later he said he thought the horse would hear the gunshot, startle, and run, figuring there was no chance he could’ve hit it.
Wrong. The bullet embedded solidly in the horse’s flank.
Without intervention, it would’ve had to be put down.
That was the most tense surgery of my career, and the bullet hadn’t even hit an artery. It was still hard to extract it from the sedated, drowsing horse without accidentally nicking any major veins and starting an irreparable bleed.
That, though, was nothing compared to this.
A woman is a lot smaller than a horse. Plus, the human body is far more delicate, and the location of this bullet wound – we’re working around her stomach, her pancreas, her kidneys, trying to avoid any major organs as we make careful incisions, clamping her open.
Sweat beads thick on my brow.
I’m the one on hemostat duty, controlling her bleeding and now and then inserting sponges and swabs of gauze to keep the surgical incision clear for Gray. I can see the nick in her artery, and keep it from draining her out while Gray goes after the bullet.
My body couldn’t be hotter or clammier right now.
But my mind is cool. Clear. Focused.
I’ll panic later, after I’m sure she’ll live.
After what feels like hours – and this time it may actually be hours – he finally comes up with a round golden slug covered in shimmering red and drops it into the specimen pan. There’s a deafening clang.
Then it’s the worst part of all.
The clamp and the cauterizing.
Old-school cauterizing involved a hot iron applied directly to flesh. At least we’re more modern than
that, but it’s still awful.
There’s a clamp. A tiny clamp that goes on the artery over the wound, and then an electrical current, and then the awful smell of burning flesh. When we’re done, she’s no longer pumping blood in the awful bright red spurts that indicate her life is bleeding out.
Just a little more cleanup, a little more work to make sure we’ve handled all the damage and haven’t left anything inside that might hurt her later. Then it’s time to close her up.
Just a line of stitches up her abdomen, so unassuming you’d never think the poor woman was lying here just a few minutes ago with her life pouring out of her, hovering between life and death.
I’m still not sure she’ll make it.
We’ve pulled her back from the brink, but I don’t know yet if she’s going to live.
She could still fall.
Crash.
And I don’t know if we’ll be able to bring her back next time, if she flatlines.
The heart monitors here aren’t made for humans any more than the other equipment, but it works. We get the table padded out to make it more comfortable, then cover her over with a sheet and hook her up to watch her vitals.
A minute later, it’s nothing but me and Doc, stripping our gloves off to clasp hands desperately, leaning against each other while out in the hall, Warren and Blake talk in low, urgent murmurs.
It feels like they’re in another world.
Outside are the questions of what’s going on, who she is, how Doc knows her.
In here, it’s just the question of whether or not she’ll live?
Who shot her?
And the long, steady beep of the heart monitor, telling us she’s hanging on.
If we’re willing to wait for our answers, if we can stay here as an anchor to keep her alive, she might just hang on.
20
In the Doghouse (Doc)
Eight Years Ago: One Day Before Hell
I can’t make Leo listen to reason.
I never should’ve told him anything.
Not about SP-73. Not about the field testing plan. Not about the doom waiting for Heart’s Edge.
Except I’m not his only source. He heard it from Clarissa, somehow or other, info she must’ve gotten from her father, Mayor Bell.
He’s pacing my room in the Paradise Hotel, furious. Who could blame him?
This is his hometown, after all. As fond as I’ve become of the little place, to him it’s more personal. It’s like threatening his very own flesh and blood. He’s willing to die to defend this place.
It’s not until tomorrow that I’ll realize he’s willing to kill, as well, when he steps into the lab and accidentally unleashes hell.
For now, there’s only the faintest sense of foreboding prickling down my spine as he smacks his fist into his palm, stops, and glares out the window. “I’ll fucking talk to him,” he says. “Make his greedy ass listen to reason. Right after I get Clarissa and her sister the hell out of town.”
I frown, shaking my head. “Talk to who?”
“Mayor Fuckface,” Leo says grimly. “Whether he damn well likes it or not. Clarissa wasn’t meant to know about any of this, Gray. It just happened. Her old man’s as twisted as they come, but still...I can’t believe he’d condone something like this knowingly. Human fucking testing.”
He gives me a fierce look. I stand up, raking a hand through my hair, gut churning because I know there’s no way any of this ends well.
“He wants money, prestige. Can’t believe he’d take a deal that’d end in his whole fucking town burning.” He growls deep in the back of his throat. “I’d never have come to town working for this outfit if I’d thought they’d hurt anyone here. This was just supposed to be a classified lab gig. Not...not live–”
“Biological warfare,” I finish. The words taste sick, hollow, unbelievable. I’m cold inside. I shake my head, watching him helplessly. “I don’t think it’s a good idea, Leo. If people know about this, if we just put it out there, it could cause a panic. There’s got to be a way to stop it without turning the town into a stampede. People will get hurt.”
“And they won’t get hurt if that virus gets out? You told me what it does,” he snarls. “As if they won’t die?”
“They won’t,” I promise. “I won’t let it happen.”
I’m telling him the truth. I just don’t know how to stop it yet.
How the fuck do I stop a massive multinational corporation with billions of dollars and half of congress in their pockets?
How can one man stand in the path of a freight train hurtling toward destruction and hope to stop it?
I don’t know. But I have to do something, before Leo does.
All Leo has is passion, fury, and secondhand information.
I’m the only one who knows how deadly the virus truly is, how it behaves, how to handle it to prevent lost lives. I can’t let him go charging off to do something reckless.
If I can’t stand between Heart’s Edge and disaster, I can at least stand between Leo Regis and tragedy.
Stop him from bringing this all down on our heads, so we can work together to find a real answer in the chaos.
Soon. Very, very soon.
Because the clock is ticking down by the hour.
Galentron keeps getting reinforcements for something big, and time’s running out.
It’s a little strange to be dreaming about Leo – about Nine – when there’s a soft mouth pressed to mine, coaxing me out of the nightmare, the savage world of memories, and toward the light of day.
Or more like the light of my exam room, technically. It’s dark through the window, and I’m slumped in a chair against the wall, having dozed off after hours of watching Fuchsia in silence and waiting for her to wake up.
My eyes drift open not on her, though, but on the warm, worried blue eyes watching me, hovering so close.
Ember.
Firefly kissing me, touching my cheek, coaxing me awake.
Her lips part for the sweetness that’s like a cool drink of water in a burning desert oasis.
But it’s not her voice, but Fuchsia’s, that echoes over the room in a disgusted groan. “Please get a room, you two,” she slurs out, pain edging every word. “I already feel enough like vomiting.”
I sigh, reaching up to tuck Ember’s hair back. “I take it she’s awake.”
“She is,” Ember answers wryly, lips quirking. “But I almost wish she wasn’t.”
Behind her, Fuchsia lets out another groan before biting off sardonically, “I’m more likely to thank you for saving my life if the peanut gallery can keep its commentary to itself.”
Ember looks over her shoulder. “Were you born this crabby, lady, or was that part of your military training?”
“CIA,” Fuchsia hisses, almost offended. “As if I’d ever associate myself with meat for the grinder.”
I sigh, raising a hand.
“Enough,” I snap wearily. “Fuchsia, if you’re well enough to be a sarcastic bitch, then you’re well enough to tell me who shot you.”
“Who do you think?” She lolls her head against the makeshift pillow we’d made of folded blankets, her tired, hollow eyes drifting toward me. Even exhausted and hurting, her gaze bristles with intelligence. “Peters.”
I arch a brow. “Everett Peters shot you? Him, personally?”
“Oh, you know he didn’t get his own hands dirty.” Her voice is hoarse, raspy, and Ember gets up quickly, fills a cup from the sink, and presses it to Fuchsia’s lips. Fuchsia sips weakly at the water, then says more clearly, “One of his hired suits, I mean. Silencer and a Beretta in the back alley. Left me for dead. As if anyone would believe I was a victim of a common mugging in this town. So tasteless and bland. No art for deception at all.”
“You can criticize their technique when you’re in a more stable condition,” I mutter. “But first, since we did save your life, you can repay our kindness by being honest for once in your life and telling me the truth about what’s
going on. Directly. No more games.”
“Forgive me if old habits die hard,” she growls irritably, but then sighs. “Fine.” Her gaze flicks to Ember. “Your puppy, too?”
Ember glares, plopping herself down fearlessly into the seat next to me, folding her arms over her chest and lifting her chin stubbornly, bravely, a little petulantly. “Woof.”
Fuchsia wrinkles her nose. “My God, Gray, your tastes have worsened in your old age.”
“Shut your yap. You never knew what my tastes were to start with,” I growl.
“To be fair, I thought you were a sexless eunuch, and preferred to think of you that way,” she retorts, then closes her eyes, slumping back against the pillow. It’s obvious this is wearing her out, and as much as I despise her, I don’t want to kill her with conversation. So when she asks, “Where do you want to start?”
I answer, “At the beginning. Facts only. No more bullshit.”
She waves a hand weakly – or tries to – one hand twitching against her hip before falling still. “Whatever. Okay...”
Her eyes open once more. She looks wearily up at the ceiling.
It’s the first time I’ve ever seen her appear anything but perfectly put together, polished and lethal. She just looks like a woman now, rather than a force of nature, human and frail, pale and exhausted.
We wait, letting her gather herself, before she begins. “Look, you were right. I came back here for Nine and his miraculous blood. I’m not here on behalf of Galentron, though. I’m here for a few rather secretive government contacts who no longer trust Peters or Galentron to be reliable in the event of an outbreak. Let’s just say that certain...foreign interests with mighty deep pockets may be swaying Galentron’s loyalty.”
Ember sucks in a breath. “Oh, God. Are you saying a foreign country could bribe Galentron into handing over a sample of SP-73? Or even unleashing it?”
That disgusted look crosses Fuchsia’s face once more, but this time it’s most definitely aimed at me. “Just how much did you tell this little girl?”
