Page 55 of Anchor
Casey peeled off his mask, sweat plastering hair against his forehead. “She’s tougher than she looks,” he said quietly, as if speaking it aloud would help anchor it in truth.
Foley wiped his brow with his forearm, his voice low but carrying steel. “Tough buys you seconds. We gave her the rest. Now let’s not waste it.”
They moved together again, the rhythm slower now, heavier. As the surgical lights dimmed and the gurney was readied, none of them looked away from her. The immediate danger was over. Claire Bowman was alive. But barely. And every man in that room knew what it cost to keep her here.
OUTSIDE OR – 1535 HOURS
Reid stood in the corridor in his uniform, arms folded tight across his chest, boots planted. But nothing about him felt steady. Tuck sat two chairs down, suit coat off, sleeves rolled. He hadn’t said much. He stayed there, quiet support in Reid’s orbit.
The doors swung open with a soft hiss. Trevor Foley stepped out alone, stripping his cap from his head. His expression was practiced calm, but his eyes betrayed the hours inside.
Reid moved forward instantly. “Talk to me.”
Foley exhaled through his nose. “She made it.” His voice was even, clipped but not cold. “The bullet tore a branch in her inferior vena cava. It’s one of the biggest veins in the body. She lost a lot of blood. Pressure dropped too low. We had to work fast.”
Reid’s throat tightened. He swallowed hard. “You fixed it?”
Foley nodded once. “We found the tear and repaired it. It held under pressure. She’s stable for now.”
Reid’s jaw clenched, the words catching somewhere between relief and rage.Stable. For now.Not good enough. Never good enough.
“When can I see her?”
“Not yet.” Foley’s tone was firm but not unkind. “They’re cleaning her up, prepping the lines for ICU. We can’t risk infection. Give them a little time.”
Reid dragged a hand down his face, steadying himself, his other hand clamped so tight against his thigh, the knuckles whitened.
Tuck rose from the chair, moving closer. “You heard him. She’s alive. That’s the ground we’ve got under us right now.”
Foley gave Reid a long look. “I’ll be helping with the move. You’ll see her once she’s in ICU.”
“She won’t wake alone, not if I have anything to say about it.” For the first time since the gunshot, Reid’s chest expanded fully with air. Not with relief but with something harder: resolve.
Foley gave one more nod, then turned back through the doors, leaving Reid and Tuck in the hall. Reid didn’t sit again. He stood, arms folded, eyes locked on the doors like he could will them to open faster.
Tuck stayed beside him, steady. “She’s still here, Reid. You keep yourself upright for her now. That’s the job.”
Reid didn’t answer. The job had never been clearer.
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN – COMMAND TENT – 1442 HOURS
The portable monitors hummed, harsh against the thin walls of the field tent pitched on the campus quad. Ian Chase stood at the center, arms braced on the edge of the folding table, watching the body cam feed in silence.
Claire’s face filled the screen—bloodied, pale, her breath ragged. Reid was cradling her against his chest as if he was the only thing tethering her to this world.
Killian Moynihan stood beside Ian, arms crossed, his voice like gravel. “Exposure window was under two minutes. Media swarmed her. Then NSA moved to take her. And right on top of that, a sniper shot. That’s not random.”
Ian didn’t answer at first. His eyes stayed fixed on the image. One moment burned in his mind: Reid leaning close, refusing to move, refusing to let go.
“Where’s her mother?” Ian asked finally.
Killian’s jaw flexed. “Heather’s been briefed. She’s on a State line, demanding to speak to Claire. She’s also telling anyone with a mic that the NSA should have her in custody. Do you want to speak to her?”
“She can wait,” Ian said, his tone flat and immovable.
Killian turned toward him. “What do we do when the NSA actually sets foot here?”
Ian tapped a finger once on the table. “We hold the line.”
