Page 2 of Trapped with the Undercover Prince

“No,” she shouted, then pointed at the bloody debris on the floor. “But someone is.”

He glanced down, saw the bloody wreckage, then yelled over his shoulder at someone else in French.

“Please, move away from the scene, Miss,” he ordered and gestured in the direction she’d come from.

She held up her gloved hands. “I’m a trauma surgeon. Let me help.”

His eyebrows went up, but only for a moment, then he nodded and let her go to shout something at another member of his group.

Anna focused on the blood, waving her hands to clear the roiling, hot curtain of smoke obscuring the floor, but found nothing more than more blood.

Wait... It was smeared in a straight line, pointing in one direction. She followed it, noting absently that her new friend stuck with her despite carrying on multiple conversations with other people.

After about six feet, she found the source of the blood, but the man, dressed in business casual, was dead. His eyes were open and fixed in place, and he had a hole the size of her fist in his chest. The piece of metal she’d stepped on must have been thrown by the explosion like a missile, and it had impaled him. He’d have died almost instantly.

Her companion swore in French.

A woman’s screams caught their attention, and they hurried toward the sound. A man ran past her and disappeared into the smoke. Two others followed him. They all wore uniforms and safety vests. Not police. Train station employees? Three wasn’t near enough.

She leaned closer to the man next to her and shouted, “Firemen and paramedics?”

“They’re coming.”

She glanced behind her and found a small crowd of people approached the train, all in uniforms of varying types. Good.

Anna turned her attention back to the train and strode through the veil of smoke.

A group of four people surged toward her, bunched together in a bloodstained knot—holding each other up. She let them pass. If they were on their feet, others could triage them. She was looking for those whose injuries were much, much worse.

Heat, a billowing, invisible bubble, urged her and her companion away from the edge of the platform just before a sheet of flames shot haphazardly up from below.

She hadn’t realized how loud the fire was until she passed it and was assaulted by screams and shouts from multiple sources.

A man ran up to them, pleading in French for help.

Her new friend translated, saying, “His wife is pregnant, injured, and trapped.”

“Where?” she asked.

Her companion fired off a couple of questions, and the terrified man turned, pointed, and hurried back to the train.

They followed.

“I’m Anna,” she said to the man next to her. “What’s your name?”

“Zar.”

“Are you a policeman, Zar?”

“Something like that,” he replied. “You’re American?”

“Yes, from Boston. Will you be able to call for help to get this lady to a hospital?”

“Yes. My team is already in contact with medical personnel.”

She nodded.

“Help is on the way.”

---