Page 6 of Doctor Hot Mess

“I’ll do everything I can,” he says calmly. “But I need to see what we’re dealing with first.”

“Don’t try anything,” the gunman growls, his eyes darting between Jonah and me.

Jonah nods once, dropping his hands to his sides as he approaches the bed. He snaps on gloves with practiced efficiency while his eyes drop to the wound. Blood seeps through the towel in steady pulses, and I can tell he’s already calculating how little time we have.

“Lower left quadrant,” I murmur, slipping into the rhythm of medical jargon. “Entry wound only. I slowed the bleeding, but the bullet’s still in there.”

Jonah gives a slight nod, his expression neutral but focused. “Good work,” he says, his tone clipped. “But we’re not doing this here.”

The gunman’s head snaps up, and the gun wavers dangerously. “What the hell does that mean?”

Jonah looks at him directly, calmly, and unflinchingly. “It means he needs surgery,” he says simply. “Right now, we’re stabilizing him, but that bullet is tearing him up inside. If I try to remove it here, he’ll bleed out. The OR is his only chance.”

“No!” The man’s voice rises, frantic. “No one else! You fix him here!”

Jonah’s jaw tightens, but his voice doesn’t lose its steady edge. “I understand you’re scared,” he says, carefully keeping his tone neutral. “But I’m telling you the truth. If we stay here, he dies. If you let us move him to the OR—just me and Harper—he has a shot.”

The gunman paces. His breaths are shallow and ragged as he processes Jonah’s words. Joey groans weakly, his body twitching on the table, and the man flinches like he’s been struck.

“Fine,” he says finally, his voice cracking. “But no one else. Just you two. And if you try anything—” He waves the gun toward Jonah, his hand trembling.

“No one else,” Jonah agrees. He glances at me, and I see the flicker of reassurance in his eyes before he turns back to Joey. “Let’s get him ready to move. Harper, I’ll need you to grab a portable monitor and fluids.”

I nod, already moving to the supply cabinet. My hands shake as I gather what we need, but I force myself to focus. One step at a time. Stabilize Joey, keep the gunman calm, and stay alive.

Jonah moves with quiet authority. His calm demeanor is a stark contrast to the chaos brewing around us. “Sir,” he says, glancing at the gunman, “if you want your brother to survive, you’re going to have to trust us.”

The man doesn’t respond, but he takes a step back, giving Jonah just enough space to roll the bed out of there.

THREE

Jonah

9:48 PM

The humof the surgical lights buzzes faintly in my ears, almost drowned out by the beeping monitor beside me.

My focus narrows to the sutures beneath my hands. The wound is gaping but clean. The bleeding is under control now, though it took far too long to get here.

Every second stretched out like a minute as we cauterized vessels, suctioned blood, and worked our way down to remove the bullet nestled dangerously close to the iliac artery. One wrong move, and this kid wouldn’t have made it off the table.

The last clamp goes in, and the bleeding slows to a faint trickle. I let out a quiet breath through my nose, though I don’t dare relax. The bullet’s out, the major vessels intact, but the wound is deep, raw, and unforgiving. I thread the suture needle and lean in, every movement deliberate. The curve of the needle dips into the flesh, pulling it together with steady precision.

“Steady,” I murmur to no one in particular, the habit automatic. The tissue resists slightly under the tension, but I ease it closed, stitch by stitch. The rhythm steadies my breathing, each loop and knot deliberate, efficient.

Patel, the anesthesiologist, glances at the monitors. “Pressure’s holding at 110 over 70. He’s stabilizing.”

“Good,” I reply, flicking my eyes to the monitors before focusing back on the wound. My hands don’t stop moving as the last suture slides into place with a satisfying finality.

“There,” I say, leaning back and stripping off my gloves. “He’s got a fighting chance now.”

“We’ll monitor for any signs of infection, but it’s looking clean so far,” I say, more for the benefit of the nurses than anyone else. It’s automatic, part of the rhythm of surgery, but I need them to know I’m not just stitching for the sake of it. Every move is deliberate, every choice purposeful.

“Clamp,” I say, holding my hand out without looking. A moment later, the cool steel is in my palm, and I use it to secure the last bleeder.

“Is he going to make it?” one of the younger nurses, Foster, asks, her voice tight with nerves. She’s good, but new enough to be rattled by the situation—the cops outside, the bloodshed, the tension that hasn’t fully lifted even though the immediate danger is gone.

“Let's hope so,” I say evenly. “More Chance than he had when he came in.”

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