Page 121 of Reaper
"You two riding with us?" the younger paramedic asks Tank and me as they wheel the gurney toward the ambulance.
"Yes," I say without hesitation. Tank nods his agreement.
We climb into the back of the ambulance. Through the small window to the front, I can see Diesel settling into the passenger seat while Mayhem takes the wheel with that manic grin still plastered on his face.
The older paramedic immediately goes to work, cutting away what's left of Reaper's bloody shirt. The wounds are worse than I thought — deep, deliberate cuts across his chest and abdomen. Some are still bleeding sluggishly.
"I'm Marcus," the older paramedic says as he works, his hands moving with practiced precision. "Former Army surgeon. Lost my license a few years back, thanks to losing myself inthe bottle, but I’m clean now and I still know my way around trauma." He glances at his partner. "This is Jake. He’s new."
“Three years. Not new. Though maybe compared to you, old man,” Jake says with a grin. Jake hands Marcus supplies without being asked while the old man gets to work.
"These are surgical," Marcus observes, examining the wounds. "Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing. Meant to cause maximum pain without hitting anything immediately fatal."
My hands clench into fists. Ruslan Volkov. The death he received was so much better than he deserved.
Marcus works quickly, cleaning and suturing the worst of the wounds while Jake monitors Reaper's vitals. The ambulance lurches as Mayhem takes a corner too fast, and Marcus steadies himself without missing a stitch.
"Pulse is weak and thready," Jake reports. "Blood pressure's dropping."
Marcus pauses in his stitching, his face grave. "He's lost too much blood. We've stopped the bleeding, but..." He looks up at Tank and me. "He needs a transfusion. Immediately. Do either of you know his blood type?"
Tank shakes his head. "Hell, I don't even know his middle name."
My heart hammers against my ribs as Marcus continues, "Without blood, I don't know if we can save him. His body's shutting down from the blood loss."
The words hit me like a physical blow. After everything — after learning Tank's revelation, after discovering Reaper might actually be innocent — I can't lose him. Not now. Not when there might be a chance for us.
"I can help," I say, my voice cutting through the tension in the cramped ambulance. Both paramedics look at me. "I'm O-negative. Universal donor."
Marcus's eyes widen with something that might be hope. "You're sure?"
"Yes, I’m fucking sure. I donate regularly — used to, anyway, when I had a normal life." My voice gets stronger, more determined. "Take my blood. Take whatever you need to save him."
"Adriana…" Tank starts, but I cut him off.
"Do it. Now." I roll up my sleeve, exposing my arm. "I don't care how much you need. Take it."
Marcus is already moving, pulling supplies from a cabinet. "Jake, get me the portable transfusion kit. We'll do a direct transfer."
"Are you sure about this?" Jake asks me as he hands Marcus the equipment. "Direct transfusion can be risky for the donor, especially in a moving vehicle."
I look down at Reaper's pale, still face. His breathing is so shallow I can barely see his chest rise and fall. "I'm sure."
Marcus swabs my arm with alcohol, the sharp scent cutting through the metallic smell of blood that fills the ambulance. "This is going to hurt, and you might feel weak afterward. We'll monitor you both, but…"
"Just do it," I snap. The needle slides into my vein, and I watch my blood flow through the clear tubing toward Reaper. It's such a simple thing — my blood becoming his blood — but it feels like I'm giving him pieces of my soul. I pray it’s enough.
Tank watches grimly as Marcus connects the other end to an IV in Reaper's arm. "Kid's got more fight in her than sense," he mutters, but there's approval in his voice.
"Sometimes that's what it takes," Marcus says, monitoring the flow. His experienced hands adjust the equipment with the smooth confidence of someone who's done this in far worse conditions than the back of a hijacked ambulance.
The ambulance swerves again, and I brace myself against the wall. Through the small window, I can see Mayhem's wild driving style hasn't improved, but somehow we're still moving in the right direction. Towards freedom. Towards safety. Towards hope.
"How long?" I ask.
Marcus answers with a shrug and a grunt. “No idea. Never made it a habit to do direct blood transfusions to victims of knife torture in the back of a moving ambulance. The best advice I can give you is: pray to whatever god you believe in.”
I shut my eyes, feel more of my blood — more of my soul — leave my body, and, for the first time since I was a little girl, I pray.
