Page 119 of Bloom: Part 1

But it was too late, wasn’t it?

Crowe, forgive me.

Logan…

For you, I’d do it all again.

33

LOGAN

Since the police found and released me, my sole focus was to find Bloom. I’d convinced them to let me tag along because I knew the hospital and could show them every turn and how to avoid the bad guys. They’d reluctantly agreed if I stayed out of the way.

As we made our way along the corridors, we passed several men, discarded like a rag doll. And each time, I swayed like I would pass out. Until the cops rolled them over and confirmed that not only were they dead but also that none was Bloom.

“What the hell happened?” one of the cops mused aloud. “They’re all dead.”

My tongue was too heavy to mention Bloom. They didn’t need to know he was responsible. If anyone knew he’d killed so many men, wouldn’t he come under scrutiny? Which would be even worse because he didn’t have any record of his birth. He had nothing to prove he was an American citizen.

Some of the men died from bullet wounds. One had their neck slit. Another had been found with his head in the doorway,his skull split open. Whatever was needed to get the job done, Bloom had done it.

The gruesome sight should have been a red flag about the kind of guy I’d become involved with, but I didn’t care. As long as he was alive.

We finally arrived on the first floor to an explosion of bullets. The cops rushed to stand on either side of the doorway. They signaled to each other, and on the count of three, one burst into the room, crouching. Another covered him, gun at the ready.

“I see one!”

The cop fired as a cry rose, “Nooo! He’s not the bad guy!”

Wait… what? I tried to burst into the room, but one of the cops pulled me back. My chest rose and fell. “What happened? Who did you shoot?”

“You shot the wrong man.” The voice was familiar, but I couldn’t place who it belonged to.

Wild horses couldn’t drag me away. I forced my way in, ignoring their shouts that I couldn’t interfere with their investigation. A gruesome sight greeted me: three men covered in blood lying on the floor and one masked man kneeling in the center of the room, blood pouring from a bullet wound to the chest. Like the others, he was dressed in black, but something was different about him.

Oh god, no.

Dr. McAdams—the voice I’d recognized—eased him to lie on the floor and removed the mask. Bloom’s ashen face twisted in pain. A nurse cut open Bloom’s shirt. My heart plummeted at the blood seeping profusely from the hole where the bullet had penetrated. His chest rose and fell rapidly, and his hand twitched.

You’re one of the best goddamn trauma surgeons in this country.

My brain screamed at me to go to Bloom, to shove everyone aside and take over, but I was paralyzed. My hands, coated in cold perspiration, clenched into fists at my sides. An icy panic spread through my veins, causing the edges of my vision to blur.

“Stay back,” Dr. McAdams snapped when a cop approached. His eyes were ablaze with urgency, his hand expertly pressing on the wound while he gave orders my brain couldn’t comprehend.

Bloom opened his eyes, and they found mine. He stared back at me with an intensity that snapped me out of my stupor. I had to save him.

I moved swiftly to Bloom’s side, professional instincts finally kicking in. I had a dying man who needed my attention. I barked orders of what I needed stat, but the others had already acted while I was still in shock. In little time, a nurse wheeled a gurney in to transport Bloom to the OR.

Fuck. This was not how I wanted to return to the OR. Bloom tried to clutch my hand, but I placed it gently at his side. “Don’t move. You’re going to be all right. I won’t let you die.”

Dr. McAdams hovered close by, his face set in grim lines as I checked Bloom’s vitals. “You shouldn’t be doing this, Dr. Collier. Let one of us handle it. You’re too close to him.”

His words stung, but I couldn’t afford the luxury of a reaction. “Back off, McAdams. You don’t tell me how and when to do my job.” My voice was sharper than I’d intended, but I was allowed to be on edge.

As we transferred Bloom to the OR, his body writhed weakly, his face contorting in pain. The wheels of the gurney clattered as we rushed him along the hall. Each step was a calculated effort to keep my hands steady, to keep my mind focused on the clinical details and not on the fact that it was Bloom lying there, bleeding out, his pained groans piercing my heart.

Why weren’t we there yet?

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