PART 3
“Bay One!” I ordered. “Cut the uniform. Two large-bore IVs. Type and cross six units. Hang O-neg now. Get me ultrasound. Chest tray. Suction. Crash cart. No one touches the airway until I say.”
Nobody moved for half a second.
Then the lead operator roared, “You heard her!”
The ER exploded into motion.
Doctors obeyed.
Nurses ran.
The stretcher slammed into Trauma Bay One.
Rainwater and blood streaked across the tile.
Nancy stood outside the door, pale with humiliation.
“Dr. Patel is the attending,” she snapped.
Dr. Arjun Patel, a calm trauma surgeon who had once watched me quietly diagnose an aortic tear from across the room, looked at me.
Then he asked the question that saved Eli’s life.
“Harper, what am I missing?”
Because a proud doctor would have wasted time proving rank.
A good doctor asked the person who knew.
“Delayed blast injury,” I said. “Internal bleed, left thoracic cavity, possible pericardial tamponade. He’s compensating until he isn’t. The blood pressure is lying.”
Patel nodded instantly.
“Ultrasound.”
The probe touched Eli’s chest.
The screen bloomed black.
Too much fluid.
Too little time.
Patel’s jaw tightened.
“She’s right.”
Nancy whispered from the doorway, “How could she know that?”
I heard her.
I ignored her.
“Eli,” I said, leaning close. “Stay with me.”
His eyes opened just enough to find mine.
“They said you were dead,” he whispered.
I swallowed hard.
“They were supposed to.”
His blood pressure crashed.
The monitor shrieked again.
Patel looked at me.
“We need to open his chest.”
“Do it.”
Nancy stepped forward.
“She cannot authorize—”
The lead operator turned on her so sharply she stopped.
“Lady,” he said, voice shaking, “I have watched Harper Vale keep men alive with one hand inside their chest and incoming fire over her head. You do not get to tell me who she is.”
May you like
The room went still for one heartbeat.
Then Dr. Patel made the cut.
