Page 98 of Bloom: Part 1

“So that’s why you were so insistent on helping Bloom? Looking to make some money on the side?”

“Not solely, but the stakes were high, so I went hard. No need to thank me for all the orgasms you’ll be having in the future. The sex is good, right?”

I shot to my feet. Laughing, James ran out of my office, slamming the door behind him. I resumed my seat, opened an incognito browser computer, and did a search on the Internet. When nothing came up with my face, I let out a breath, but to be on the safe side, I opened the secure messaging system on my phone and updated my contact on what was going on. They could scour the Internet far better than me and remove any trace of my face.

Time flew as I immersed myself in reports and charts. When Bloom didn’t come to see me as he’d said, I worried, but I had no time to dwell on it because I had to make my first round. I left a message for him with the nurse. The hospital intercom buzzed, announcing an incoming trauma case.

I rushed out into the hall, where chaos had erupted. EMTs wheeled a stretcher in at breakneck speed, followed by two cops. On the stretcher was an unconscious man covered in blood, his chest riddled with bullet holes. Even in his bloody state and the ventilated mask, I recognized the familiar face of the head of one of Smoky Vale’s notorious street gangs, the Blue Boys. The world around me narrowed to the man on that stretcher, every sound fading into a distant murmur.

We rushed him into the OR, where I donned my surgical gown and gloves, the familiar ritual grounding me, even as my mind raced ahead. The cops were stationed outside the OR as we worked to save the patient’s life. Was it worth it? That wasn’t my judgment call to make. I had made an oath to preserve life without discrimination.

As the room buzzed with activity, I grabbed a scalpel, its cold handle firm in my hand. The patient’s chest was already prepped and draped, and I made the initial incision. Blood gushed from the wound, but I worked swiftly, suctioning it out of the way. My hands moved on their own accord, practiced from years of experience.

Pop! Pop! Pop!

“What the hell was that?” Manny, the anesthesiologist, whispered.

More gunshots echoed outside. My hands trembled slightly, but then I steeled my nerves. What was happening outside wasn’t any of our business.

“Those were gunshots,” Nurse Hatchett cried, her eyes wild with panic.

“Stay calm,” I ordered sternly, not tearing my gaze away from the wound. “We have a patient’s life to save, or have you forgotten?”

Pounding footsteps got closer and louder. The doors to the operating room burst open, and two men armed with assault rifles barreled inside. They were dressed in all black and wearing face masks that only showed their eyes.

The OR, a sanctuary of healing, had suddenly become a battleground.

“Nobody moves!” one of the intruders shouted. His command was met with a stunned silence, a collective holding of breaths.

“Are you sure that’s what you want?” I asked calmly. Scumbags like these were nothing new to me. It might have been years since I’d been in this position, but time was stripped away. “If we don’t move, we can’t save his life.”

It took a moment for my words to sink in, but then he looked at the gang leader lying on the operating table.

“Are you the one in charge?”

“Yes, I’m Dr. Collier.”

“I’ve heard of you. Save him. But none of you even think about leaving this room. If he dies, you all die.”

“Not a problem. I wasn’t planning on going anywhere.” I shifted my focus back to the man whose life was hanging by a thread.

Time seemed suspended as we worked, ignoring the presence of our unwelcome guests. We tackled the bleeding vessels, clamping and sewing them first. There was so much blood. The nurse handed me a rib retractor, and I proceeded to spread open the incision, revealing a hemorrhaging lung.

“Sponge.” I held out my hand. The nurse complied, her fingers shaking slightly. Placing the sponge, I assessed the damage, working skillfully to stop bleeding vessels and remove fragments of shattered ribs.

With each passing minute, we were making progress, but his dropping blood pressure worried me. We were squeezing blood into him but the rate at which he was losing it was another concern.

A gunshot echoed outside, and everyone in the room tensed. The armed men exchanged glances before one rushed out the door.

“Try anything funny, and one of you will get fucked!” He pointed his gun at us and disappeared.

Nurse Hatchett started to cry. “Focus,” I demanded. “What we do here is more important than what’s happening outside.”

The room was silent except for the sounds of our patient’s draining life, amplified by machines keeping him in the realm of the living. Tension clawed at each of us, but we worked with determined focus, refusing to let fear grip us.

“Get that blood in faster!” I growled.

The masked gunman moved closer to the operating table. “Is he going to make it?”

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