Page 52 of Anchor
The double doors banged open as the gurney barreled through, wheels shrieking on tile. Fluorescent lights seared the blood already darkening Reid’s hands. He didn’t let go. Couldn’t.
“Status!”
Flint fired back, “GSW, right flank, no exit wound. Sniper. Likely a large-caliber round. QuikClot applied, IV saline running wide, direct pressure held. Pulse 140. BP unstable. Last reading was 60-palp.”
“Bay 3!” Casey Moynihan snapped. He arrived at her side, lab coat ditched, wearing black Chase Medical scrubs. He dragged a pair of black nitrile gloves on. His face was calm and steady with the eyes of someone who’d patched holes on dirt floors under fire. He was a former Night Stalker. He’d done this too many times.
A second figure cut in fast. He was taller, crisp white coat thrown over navy-blue scrubs, mask already tugged into place. Trevor Foley. Trauma surgeon. Navy first, Bellevue after. His presence hit the room like a command.
“Move,” Foley barked. “Get her under the lights. Casey, you’ve got fluid control. I’ll cut.”
Reid stayed pressed to Claire’s side, his palm still firm against the QuikClot packing.
“Hanlon,” Casey said, low and direct, “you’ve got to give me that hand.”
Reid’s jaw locked. “Not leaving her.”
Foley glanced up from the monitor, eyes sharp as a scalpel. “Then stay out of what will soon be a sterile field.”
Casey’s gloved hand replaced Reid’s in one swift motion, taking over pressure like a vise. Blood seeped hot around the seal. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away.
Foley leaned over Claire, mask fogging as he checked her airway and pulse. “She’s bradycardic. BP fifty and falling.” He snapped to a nurse, “Two units O-neg, crossmatch on deck for eight. Prep for a laparotomy. Now.”
Claire’s eyes fluttered under the light, barely finding Reid. “Anchor…” Her voice was a thread, weaker than he’d ever heard it.
Reid bent low, close enough that she’d hear him no matter how far under she slipped. “I’m here. Don’t let go.”
Casey muttered, half to Foley, half to himself, “She’s fighting.”
Foley’s tone sharpened. “Bay isn’t going to cut it. Bullet’s buried. Something’s leaking in deep. OR 2, now.” The whole team moved forward as they circled the stretcher.
The doors banged open, and the sterile corridor swallowed them whole. The air shifted—colder, sharper, humming withfiltered vents. A team, already scrubbed, stood waiting, masks up, gloves snapping into place.
“Clear this hallway,” Foley snapped. “Unstable patient. We can’t waste seconds.”
They wheeled her over the threshold. Bright lights. Stainless steel. The sharp tang of antiseptic and heat seared the air.
Reid pushed forward with them, still at her side. But a surgical nurse stepped squarely into his path, both hands up. “You can’t go past this point.”
Reid’s chest heaved, blood smeared across his shirt. Claire’s blood. “I’m not leaving her.”
Foley’s head lifted, eyes locking with his through the sterile mask. Authority cut sharp in his voice. “You don’t get a choice, Hanlon. We need a clean field. We need space. You want her alive? Let us do our job.”
Claire’s hand twitched weakly on the gurney rail as though reaching for him, even in half-consciousness. Reid caught it for a heartbeat, wrapped his fingers around hers and bent low. “I’m here. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
Her fingers slipped from his as they wheeled her inside. The doors shut hard, sterile glass cutting her away from him.
Reid stood there, breathing rough, palms slick with her blood, and the silence of helplessness roaring in his ears. For the first time in years, the battlefield was on the other side of a door, and he couldn’t breach it.
SURGICAL WAITING – 1235 HOURS
The hall outside the OR was a sterile box. It was too still. Reid sat forward on the hard plastic chair, elbows braced on his knees. Claire’s blood had dried, dark and stiff across his hands and shirt.
Every second dragged. He could track gunfire by instinct, chaos by feel, but this silence was worse. It left him with nothing to fight.
The sound of footsteps broke through his concentration. Two sets. Steady, sure.
Reid looked up as Tuck came into view, suit jacket open, tie pulled loose like he’d run all the way here. Pete moved with him, his pace clipped, sharp, already sizing up the surgical board.
