Page 46 of Resuscitation
Blake kept his grip firm, watching as consciousness slowly slipped away from the man beneath him. When Psycho’s body finally went limp, Blake cautiously released his hold.
He checked for a pulse, finding none.
It was over.
Blake pushed himself to his feet, breathing heavily, wincing at the pain in his back. He stumbled over to where the gunman’s pistol had fallen, scooping it up and checking the magazine. Half full.
Better than nothing. He trudged back to Alyssa.
“Blake,” Alyssa whispered weakly, her voice barely audible.
“Yeah, still here.” He checked her vitals—oxygen too low, pulse too high, despite her needle decompression. Jeezit, no way in hell he’d ever have the guts to do that to himself. “Shit, Alyssa. You’re one tough bi?—”
“Boss,” she finished for him. She gestured to the O2 tank, and he realized that was part of the problem. Easy enough fix. With well-practiced moves, he grabbed one of the spare tanks and the wrench and had her switched over in a matter of seconds. The pulse ox began to climb up, although still was nowhere near where he’d like it.
“Where’s Thomas?”
She moved her head slightly from side to side. “Don’t…know. Left.”
Blake cursed under his breath. The last thing he needed was Thomas getting himself into trouble. Where could he have gone? The old man couldn’t see enough to make it out the construction exit much less drive anywhere. Which meant…
No. Oh, no.
Blake glanced at his watch. The five minutes weren’t up yet. He was pretty sure the hostage takers wouldn’t kill their only bargaining chips, but after meeting Psycho.…And if Thomas heard the announcement…
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
He grabbed his pistol from the floor. It had a full mag, so he gave Alyssa Psycho’s weapon. “Just in case,” he told her.
“Get Thomas.”
“Aim to.”
He had a plan. Well, half of a plan. But he had to go big if he was going to provide enough of a diversion to pull the gunmen away from the hostages and Thomas. If only Thomas didn’t get himself killed before Blake could reach him.
He grabbed the eight-ounce bottles of hand sanitizer from both the trauma bag and the med kit. “I’ll be back,” he told Alyssa.
It only took a few seconds to position Psycho in the wheelchair. Thankfully, the wheels worked fine even if the leather seat was torn. Blake sped the dead man down the hall toward the ER, dousing Psycho in the alcohol-based sanitizing solution as they went.
He paused at the double doors, tucking his pistol in his belt—his drill sergeant would have howled at that—and slipping his knife back in its sheath. Then he dug his old Zippo from his inside jacket pocket. Blake didn’t smoke. It was a good luck charm he always carried with him, had seen his grandfather through Vietnam.
And now it was about to save a bunch of innocent civilian’s lives.
If Blake could pull this off.
ChapterTwenty-Four
Friday,February 13th, 9:26 P.M.
Sara sat with Connor,doing what she could to make him comfortable but keep him lucid enough to convince his brother not to kill everyone. The nitrous had run out, so she switched him back to a non-rebreather mask. He said he wasn’t in pain, didn’t want her to give him any sedation—she could have used the lorazepam in the crash cart, kept there for seizures—so she was reduced to sitting beside him, holding his hand.
She’d just turned the monitor alarms off—his heart rate alarm kept blaring—when the intercom sounded with Mercer’s voice. Sara listened to his threat, her own heart rate speeding much too fast.
“Five minutes. Starting now,” Mercer finished.
“He can’t—he wouldn’t—” she said.
“He would,” Connor said with a sigh.
