Page 43 of Night Shift

Suddenly, like a whirlwind of fury and power, Atticus’s youngest brother Conan appeared.

“Let her go!” he shouted, his voice ringing out through the parking lot as he charged toward us. With lightning reflexes, he tackled the guy I’d just kneed, throwing powerful punches that drove the man’s head into the ground. Conan wasted no time in engaging the other man, demonstrating his martial arts expertise with his swift, precise movements.

“Conan, he’s got a knife!” I cried out between labored breaths. Relief washed over me when I saw he was having no trouble holding his own.

“Stay back!” Conan warned me, his eyes filled with concern as he continued to battle the assailants.

The fight continued, with Conan at the center, a storm of fists and kicks. He moved with an almost superhuman speed, forcing the two men to stay on defense. One attacker finally lunged at him, swinging wildly, but Conan deftly sidestepped and delivered a sharp jab to the man’s ribs, followed by an uppercut that snapped the man’s head back.

The first assailant joined in, trying to flank Conan. But Conan was like a wild animal, cornered, dangerous, and unpredictable. He spun around, his leg sweeping out in a powerful hook kick. His foot connected with the guy’s jaw, catching him off guard and sending him crashing to the ground.

The other attacker, undeterred, rushed at Conan with the knife, slashing in a desperate frenzy. But Conan, with the agility of a seasoned fighter, caught the man’s wrist, twisting it until the knife clattered to the ground. Swiftly, he kneed the man in the gut, then delivered a crushing elbow strike to the back of his neck, sending him sprawling. With a kick to the face, the man was left unmoving.

Before I realized what was happening, the first man ran at me, grabbed me by my ponytail, and jerked my head back.

“Get in the car!” he snarled, punching me in the ribs. Before I could react, Conan had him in a chokehold. As they thrashed about, I stumbled and hit the ground hard, the asphalt biting into my knees. The attacker struggled for a few moments, then went limp as he lost consciousness. Conan threw him on the ground like a sack of garbage.

For a moment, everything was still. Conan stood over the two men, his chest heaving with exertion, his eyes scanning the parking lot for any further threat.

I stood there, dazed and bleeding, my mind racing to process what had just happened. Conan had been a maelstrom of protective energy, his every move calculated to incapacitate without causing fatal harm. In that chaotic moment, he was not just Atticus’s brother, but a hero who had emerged from the shadows to save me.

“Are you okay?” he asked, panting heavily as he helped me to my feet.

“Y-yeah,” I stammered, wincing at the pain from the cuts on my arm and the various punches I’d received. I was shaking and dizzy, and the fingers on my left hand were tingling as they grew numb. Bright red blood dripped from my hand onto the ground. My eyes snapped up at Conan as I smashed my other hand over the wound. Conan scooped me up in his powerful arms and carried me back into the ED, shouting for security to go after the men who had attacked me.

As soon as we’d entered the hospital through the trauma bay doors, a flurry of people rushed to help us. Conan bolted into a room and gently laid me on a bed. He grabbed a pair of scissors and sliced through the sleeves of my coat and shirt, his eyes filled with worry.

“Go get my brother,” he bellowed at the nurse who’d followed us in.

Conan swiftly assessed the wound on my inner forearm. His hands, although large, moved with surprising gentleness. He quickly grabbed a gauze pad from a nearby tray and pressed it firmly against the cut, attempting to stem the flow of blood as he applied pressure to the wound.

“Keep your hand elevated,” he instructed in a calm but authoritative tone. I nodded, raising my arm. He wrapped the gauze tightly around it, securing it with medical tape. The pressure was firm and slightly uncomfortable, but I knew this was the best way to slow the bleeding.

Conan turned his attention to the rest of my body, running his hands lightly over me to search for other injuries.

“Conan, thank you…for saving me,” I whispered, my voice trembling. The terror of the attack still coursed through my veins, but his presence provided me with a sense of safety.

“Sam, I’m just glad I was there in time,” he said, his green eyes darkened by his wide pupils. Pain throbbed beneath my battered skin, but his touch remained tender and careful.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Don’t you worry about me. It’s what I’ve trained for years to do. Whooping bad guy ass is my jam,” he said with a big grin on his face.

His words brought me comfort amidst the chaos that had just unfolded. Though I still couldn’t completely shake the fear and confusion of the attack, I knew I was going to be okay, at least for now.

“Sam, do you have any idea who those guys were?” Conan asked as he started cleaning the cut on my cheek. His worried eyes met mine.

“No. I have no idea. Do you think they were after me specifically, or was it just random?” I asked.

“Those guys looked like professionals. Their Denali had to have cost a mint.”

I shuddered at the thought of being targeted. No, that wasn’t possible. I was a nobody. I didn’t have anything anybody would want.

As I lay on the hospital bed, vulnerable and unnerved, I wondered what might have happened if Conan hadn’t been there. It was a bit surreal to be experiencing this side of the ED—to be the victim in need of care.

“I…I don’t know—” My voice hitched as I choked back tears.

“Shh, it’ll be okay. They probably thought you were someone else. A case of mistaken identity,” he whispered.

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