Second Time Lucky (Club Decadence Book 5)

by Maddie Taylor

  Broken glass lay everywhere and ceiling tiles had collapsed or were threatening to as they hung precariously overhead. Pandemonium surrounded her while screaming, crying patients rushed about trying to get to safety.

  “Bring the crash cart and get every available clinician up here.” The cry for help seemed to come from the lobby. Automatically, Mara had responded. Knocking off some debris from the top of the bright red cart, she grabbed the handle and steered it through the hall as quickly as she could, avoiding debris and people. The place was a wreck so it wasn’t easy.

  In the lobby, she stopped, staring in shock at the chaos before her. A car had crashed through the front windows and sat in a mangled heap where the lobby used to be. Injured patients were everywhere, bleeding, crying out in pain, one crushed beneath the car. Ironically, that wasn’t the most shocking sight. More so was the haggard looking Latino man who had a gun aimed at Lexie’s head while she worked on a bleeding boy.

  Seeing her, the man barked in heavily accented Spanish, “You help!”

  As she approached, she visually assessed the boy, noting his ashen face and blue lips. At a minimum, he was in respiratory distress. Automatically, her hand went to his neck. A pulse was present, but very weak. She stooped to get the Ambu hooked up to oxygen, because he definitely wasn’t breathing.

  When she stood, Lexie had inserted an airway and nodded at Mara to begin bagging. As she did, Lexie addressed the crazed gunman.

  “He needs surgery. He’ll have to go to the hospital.”

  The man stared blankly at her, shifting his gaze to Mara. They stared at each other for a moment, recognizing one another. Her breathing became heavy as dread swept through her. She started to feel her safe world crumble and wanted nothing more than to run screaming from the destroyed building and not stop until she’d reach someplace safe. Where that might be for her, she didn’t know. Vaguely, she listened through her shock to the frenetic Spanish spewing from the mouth of Benito Mendoza, Victor’s cousin.

  Damn! If this were a movie plot, she would have said, “yeah, right.”

  Another burst of Spanish shook her out of her stupor-like haze. She pieced some of his words together, missing many due to the speed, but got the gist.

  She considered the boy briefly, before she translated. “He said for you to fix him here, Lexie. No police or hospitals.”

  Mara barely recognized her own voice, sounding cool and detached despite the situation. Lexie glanced at her in surprise.

  “Mara! You speak Spanish?”

  “Some, not fluently, but enough to get by.”

  “Mara O’Brien?”

  At her name, Mara’s head whipped around to see another familiar face. It was Kyle, one of the Rossi men. She couldn’t remember his last name. It had been almost a year after all since they’d seen each other and then only a couple of times, at Rossi, a pool party and once at Decadence. More dread swept through her. This would definitely get back to Sean.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “That doesn’t matter right now,” Lexie insisted. “Explain the situation to him.”

  In her broken Spanish she implored Victor’s cousin—yes, his damn freaking cousin—to see reason. “You must know he’ll die without surgery.”

  “No,” he bit out. “Have the doctor fix him here. Now!”

  “She’s a nurse, not a surgeon.”

  “Fix him, or tell her I shoot her where she stands. No.” Suddenly, he rushed across the room and pressed the gun against Mara’s head. To Lexie, he threatened in halting English, “Fix or she dies.”

  Lexie nodded briefly, before ordering her to stop bagging while she checked his status. She shook her head, no respirations. “Keeping bagging, Mara. I need more hands. Where the hell is everyone?”

  “Scared off by the big bad man with the gun I’d imagine, Lex.” Her hands and voice shook. Funny how having a gun pressed against her temple couldn’t suppress her sass.

  Needing more hands, Lexie ordered Kyle over. “Put on gloves and hold pressure right here while I get some supplies.”

  Kyle shook his head, his gun fixed on his target. “Not happening, Lex.”

  “If this little boy dies, then most likely so do we.”

  It was hard to argue with that reasoning. After Kyle donned one glove, he applied pressure while keeping his weapon trained on the gunman. Mara stood by bagging one handed while passing Lexie supplies from the cart with the other.

  After thirty minutes passed, Lexie had an IV going, the bullet was removed and she was stitching the wound.

  “Damn, Lex. You should have been a trauma surgeon,” Kyle said, impressed.

  “Mara, tell him I’ve done everything I can. He’s had morphine for pain, but he’ll need antibiotics, a blood transfusion, and a real surgeon. He’ll have to go to the hospital for that.”

  As she relayed the message, Benito, as she expected shook his head. Like his cousin, he was up to his ass in dirty deals and criminal activity. He probably had a warrant out for his arrest. Still, Mara tried to convince him, but it was a waste of breath and only made him more agitated.

  “He says no hospital, Lex. He also said for you to gather supplies because he wants you to go with him to take care of his son.”

  “Like hell she is,” Kyle growled.

  Gunfire out in the street shattered the remaining windows and sent a shower of glass into the lobby. What happened after that was a blur. Kyle jumped for Lexie and pulled her to cover, while she ducked behind the crash cart.

  Benito was screaming and cursing. Mara understood the one word he kept repeating. “Mierda!”

  Understandably, with bullets flying over their heads, he’d be upset, but the high-pitched scream sounded like more than fear. Peeking around the corner, she saw that she was right. Mierda meant more than shit, it meant that he’d been hit and it was bad. Near the top of his thigh, the blood gushed at regular intervals. Having worked trauma in the ER for the last few months, she knew the bullet had likely nicked an artery.

  Like a suicidal idiot, she started to go to him and help, but more gunshots sounded from outside, seconds later more came from close beside her. Returning fire, Kyle was obviously outgunned when an inbound spray of bullets as if from an automatic weapon riddled the front of the building with holes.

  Silence followed. Mara dared another peek around the corner finding Kyle slumped on the floor not far away. He was bleeding profusely from a head wound. She heard Lexie call his name at the same time she noticed blood spreading across the right side of his shirt. They rushed to his side simultaneously.

  “Don’t move!” The shout came from the man stepping through the obliterated doorway. Seeing him, Mara fell backwards in disbelief. It was Victor.

  His gun trained steadily on a motionless Kyle, she saw him swing his head toward Lexie, skim over her then turn her way. Surprise crossed his face for a split second, but as Lexie made a move towards Kyle, his gun shifted in her direction.

  Mara whispered, “Please, no. She saved him.”

  At her words, Victor’s eyes flashed to the boy on the stretcher. Moving over him briefly, a frown tipped his mouth before he looked back at her. He smiled almost sadly as he spoke, “Lo siento, mi Corazon.”

  Sorry. He was sorry? Suddenly, the gun changed angles to aim point blank at the vulnerable boy. Horrified, Mara watched as he prepared to shoot his own nephew.

  Instinctively, she leapt toward the boy, to pull him to safety or shield him with her body, she wasn’t sure, but either way she felt compelled to do something. Lexie, of the same thought, reached him first. Mara fell across her back as fire ripped through her body. Once. Twice. Searing pain followed the fire.

  Vaguely, she realized she’d been shot as blackness encompassed her.

  * * * * *

  Crack. Crack. Crack. Sean counted off seventeen shots in all before lowering his Ruger SR9. He flipped the switch and the target, a bullet riddled outline of a man, came zipping toward him on its track. Givi
ng it a once over, he counted ten headshots and seven to the heart, as he’d intended. Ejecting the empty clip, he inserted another full round, ready to go again.

  Target practice always relaxed him. In the last several hellish months, he could often be found at the Rossi firing range. He changed the target paper and flipped the switch again. As it flew back toward the far wall, he heard his name and turned. Dex was standing in the doorway a dire expression on his face.

  “Hell, you look like your dog got run over by a truck.” Sean took off his headgear and holstered his weapon as he walked toward him. “What the hell, man?”

  “There’s been a shooting downtown at the Women’s Clinic. Victor and Esteban Mendoza were identified leaving the scene with a small boy who witnesses say was either injured or sick.”

  “Lexie’s clinic,” he stated needlessly. “Anyone hurt?”

  “Lexie was shot in the chest. It doesn’t look good.”

  “Fuck me.” He was floored. “Where is Jonas?”

  “In transit from Laredo with T. He’s having a hard time locking C4 down.”

  Sean imagined so. Usually calm and unflappable, when Jonas was riled, he was dangerous. An eighth degree black belt, even Lil T would have his hands full with an explosive Jonas Mitchell. Although it wasn’t how he’d gotten the nickname C4, Sean thought it appropriate for a 2-hour drive to get to his seriously injured, chest shot fiancée.

  “What about Kyle? He was on Lexie today.”

  “A head wound and a bullet to the chest,” Dex replied. “He’s critical too.”

  “Holy shit. It sounds like a blood bath. How many were killed and injured?”

  “Benito Mendoza was the only casualty and there was only one other victim.” Dex took a step closer and put his hand on Sean’s shoulder. “Brace for this, bud. It was Mara.”

  Sean stared at Dex, trying to process his words. “Say again?”

  “Mara was shot twice, once in the gut, the other in her leg. It wasn’t certain if it was her knee or her thigh, but the bullet hit the bone and it shattered.”

  “Fuck me!” Sean repeated, his head spinning. “She was with Mendoza?”

  “No, she was working. Evidently, she never left San Antonio. She’s been working at County for the past year going by the name of Mara Lewis.”

  He staggered back, catching himself on the partition behind him. Both hands dragged down his face. “I can’t think.”

  “You’re listed as next of kin, Sean. The hospital is asking for you to make some decisions.”

  His head flew up. “What kind of decisions? Hell, Dex. Is she dead?”

  “No, bud, although she’s listed as serious. She’s not as bad as Lexie, but she’s lost a lot of blood.”

  He nodded, his heart in his throat, his stomach in knots. “Take me to her.”

  A grim faced Dex turned and headed up the stairs. As Sean followed, dread like an oppressive fog encompassed him.

  * * * * *

  Pain as she’d never felt before assailed her as she swam up from the darkness.

  “She’s waking.” A woman spoke as she came to. A hand on her shoulder squeezed gently. “Can you open your eyes, honey?”

  Her lids fluttered open and she tried to focus. It was a young woman about her age, wearing scrubs and a surgical cap on her head.

  “I’m Dr. Kingsley. You’ve just came out of surgery, Mara. Your leg was broken in several places and you had a gunshot wound to your abdomen. We repaired everything except your spleen, which we had to remove. You’re a lucky girl. You lost a great deal of blood.”

  “The man and woman with me, and the little boy, how are they?”

  Her eyes darted away for a moment, then back. “The others are in surgery, don’t you worry about them. You concentrate on healing. It will be several weeks, but with rehab you should be back to your prior level of function in no time.”

  She stood and patted her kindly, then turned to leave.

  “How long before she goes home, doc?” The achingly familiar voice came from her other side. She turned her head and blinked. Her hand came up to rub her eyes, thinking they were playing tricks on her, but when she looked again, Sean was still standing there.

  “Five to seven days,” the doctor answered. “She’ll need therapy later. Until that external fixator comes off, however, she won’t be able to do much of anything.”

  Despite the news, Mara tried to move her injured leg, but it was excruciating and seemed weighted down. An external fixator, damn. She’d seen plenty of them at Walter Reed—the bone was stabilized and repaired from the outside in, the framework of metal attached with screws through the skin--it was as awful as it sounded. When she tried to sit up to see it, the pain in her stomach had her abandoning the idea.

  “Why?” she rasped. “Why not an open reduction?”

  “You’d lost too much blood. We needed to fix the leg quickly and get you off the table.”

  She nodded, closing her eyes against the pain. Her hands moved over her stomach, searching, but her IV alarmed as she did so making her jump. A stabbing ribbon of agony sliced through her.

  The doctor stepped closer and pressed a PCA controller into her hand. “It’s morphine. Use it these first few days, you’ll need it. I’ll check back in the morning.”

  She then sailed from the room.

  “Push the button, Mara.”

  Her eyes tipped up, drinking in every gorgeous inch of his face. She read concern as well as other things too, distance and mistrust foremost. She turned her head, unwilling to see the cold emotions where once there had only been love. Memories assailed her, of them in a similar place, a comparable situation, then, it had been her urging him to use the drugs to ease the pain. A sob escaped her.

  “Push the damn button, Mara,” he repeated.

  He misunderstood. She had pain, although the ache in her heart far eclipsed the pain in her traumatized body. It was raw and deep-seated. Wanting only to escape, her thumb found the red button and depressed it. The pump beeped as expected.

  “Sleep,” he urged. Before he would have touched her, held her hand, given her a gentle kiss, yet she’d destroyed all that and got nothing but words. “I’ll be here when you wake.”

  She welcomed the opiate haze that lulled her to sleep, making her oblivious to everything around her, including the man standing at her bedside, the one she missed as she would her right arm, every second of every hour of every day for an interminable year. On that dismal thought, she succumbed to the morphine-induced blankness.

  * * * * *

  Sean followed the stretcher as the ambulance attendants carried it up the stairs and rolled it down the hall.

  “Last room on the right,” he directed.

  In one of his guest rooms, one man lifted her shoulders, the other guiding her injured leg, as they transferred her onto the bed. Despite taking care, she hissed in pain as they settled her on the mattress.

  “Sorry, darlin’,” one murmured as the other held a clipboard out for Sean to sign.

  They were gone the next instant, banging the stretcher down the stairs and out the front door. Sean watched the woman on the bed, an arm flung over her face blocking out everything.

  It had been this way for the entire twelve days she’d been hospitalized, or at least the ten she’d been lucid. She asked him to stay away, making it very clear when he tried to help in any way whether to rearrange a pillow or assisting her with the god-awful contraption bolted to her leg. At every turn, she politely, but firmly rejected his help. Every day when he showed up, she told him to leave and when he didn’t, she tuned him out, often feigning sleep. When he tried to talk to her, she’d claim to be tired. Once when he asked how she was feeling, her mask slipped a little and she demanded to know why he still cared, but afterward, she’d gone back to her cool indifference. By the end of the twelve days, he wanted to throttle her, but only after he shook her or turned her over his knee. Whatever it took to get answers. Naturally, he didn’t do any of that and she re
mained tight lipped and stubborn.

  Then came time for her discharge. Her social worker was there discussing options when Sean walked in uninvited as he had every day since she’d been shot. He could tell immediately Mara was being difficult.

  “You can’t go home without someone to help you, Mara. You can’t walk, care for yourself or get to the bathroom alone, not with the hardware affixed to your leg. The doctor says you have to have help 24/7.”

  “I don’t have any family. What about the rehab hospital?”

  “Therapy can’t start until you get the fixator off, which is at least six weeks away, so a rehabilitation hospital is out for now. Here are the names of three local nursing homes covered by your insurance.”

  “Nursing homes? You’re joking. She’s twenty-nine, not ninety.” They both started, unaware of his arrival. Mara quickly looked away, but not before he saw her distress.

  “She can’t go home alone, Mr. O’Brien.”

  “It’s fine. I’ll go to the nursing home.” Mara’s tone was quiet, but the strain was obvious, and she appeared defeated.

  The thought of her in a nursing home for even a day was inconceivable. That’s when he made the decision. “You’ll come home with me.”

  Her eyes flew to his. A tiny glimmer of emotion sparked in their depths before the damned mask of indifference fell over her features. Today, she hadn’t locked it down quickly enough and he saw something there. Relief, gratitude—maybe—or was it hope?

  Her reply, when it came, was low and without inflection. “That isn’t a good idea.”

  “It’s settled and not up for further discussion, Mara. Let me make a few calls. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  As he left, he heard the social worker comment, almost wistfully, “Your husband is very take charge. He was in the Army wasn’t he? An officer I’m guessing.”

  Sean paused, waiting to hear Mara’s response.

  “He was a Master Sergeant, a non-commissioned officer, and yes, he is very take charge which can be extremely annoying, trust me. And he’s my ex-husband.”