Page 23 of Resuscitation
The leader looked at her for a second as if in contemplation, then slung the rifle over his shoulder and nodded. “Good.” He stood aside as if inviting her to join a party. “Guess we shouldn’t waste any time, then.”
Sara and Nick wheeled the gurney to the SUV, and two of the armed men helped load the wounded patient onto it while the others watched, hands on their weapons.
“What’s his name?” Sara asked.
“Con…Officer Connor,” came the leader’s reply.
“Wayne, we need to alert any patients who are waiting that we’re treating a Code Black,” Sara said, making deliberate eye contact with the dispatcher, who nodded and hurried ahead of them through the double doors into the hospital. If Angie could get the remaining patients through the waiting room exit and out of harm’s way, that would be a load off Sara’s mind.
“What the hell’s a ‘Code Black’?” the man asked suspiciously.
She looked at the man she assumed was the ringleader, as he had been doing all the talking and threatening. Did he know? Why would he if he wasn’t a real police officer?
She inhaled, kept her voice steady. “It means we’re treating a wounded police officer, and less urgent patients will have to wait or come back another time.”
“Right. We take priority.” He turned to one of his crew. “Hey, er, Officer Tyson, go help Wayne out, will ya? Make sure everyone stays calm and out of the doc’s way.”
Sara hid a grimace of disappointment. Her plan was toast already. But, on the plus side, they fell for her explanation of Code Black. It actually referred to an active shooter or hostage-taker.
As they began to wheel her patient, Connor, through the double doors, the ringleader ordered another one of his men to stay with their van. She overheard his quiet reply.
“Sure, Mercer.”
The remaining four men followed Sara, Nick, and Kelly as they wheeled the gurney into the former trauma bay. Most of its equipment had been stripped out. However, there were still items useful for minor emergencies, plus the crash cart, which contained emergency medication and equipment for advanced life support protocols.
But there was no banked blood, no ultrasound, and no ventilator, which was going to make treatment a challenge, to say the least. Sara and her tiny team scrambled into action.
“Monitor, and let’s get these clothes off,” Sara ordered as she moved to the head of the gurney, ignoring her armed audience. “Get me two large bore IVs going.”
As Nick moved to cut off Connor’s layers of clothing and Kelly grabbed the monitor and leads, Sara placed a non-rebreather mask over his face. She leaned over him—god, he looked so young—and brushed the hair away from his face. “Can you open your eyes? Tell me your name?”
His eyelids fluttered open, then shut tight against the bright exam light shining above him. “C-Connor,” he whispered.
“Good job, Connor. Tell me what hurts.”
The leader, Mercer, suddenly grabbed Nick and wrenched him away. “Leave it!” he ordered, grabbing the pistol Nick had taken from Connor’s belt. Then Mercer turned to Sara. “He’s been shot in the belly. What the hell are you playing at?”
“ABCs,” she said in a quiet tone, meeting his gaze easily. “Bullets don’t stop once they’re inside the body, they can go anywhere. I need to assess everything, starting with his airway, breathing, circulation, mental status…Want me to recite the full advanced trauma resuscitation guidelines, or shall I return to saving my patient’s life?”
Without waiting for an answer, she turned back to Connor.
Mercer grabbed her arm, leaning next to her ear, whispering, “Yourpatient,mybrother. Don’t forget that.” He nudged her between the ribs with his gun.
“You want me to save your brother, you need to give us room to work.”
He stepped away and waved his men back, the guy with the ugly mohawk bending down to remove the weapons and ammunition Connor had carried along with his ballistic vest.
Nick cut away Connor’s shirt, allowing Kelly to apply the monitor leads. One eye on the display, Sara palpated his cervical spine, then ran her hands down both sides of his chest, assessing for possible rib fractures and crepitus—signs that the bullet damaged a lung.
“You’re doing great, Connor,” she continued in a soothing tone. “Anything hurt up here?”
Connor shook his head.
“How about here?” She pressed on his belly, starting with the upper left quadrant. Connor winced, and again when she moved lower, then gave out a loud groan when she pressed in the area near the bullet wound.
“Christ,” Mercer shouted, “give him something for the pain.”
She wished she could, but there was nothing she had here to give him—the clinic didn’t keep any injectable narcotics on site. “Kelly, how we doing with those IVs?”
