Page 114 of Only the Devil
“Yes, but—” Jake’s eyes roll back, and he goes limp. “Oh god, he just lost consciousness!”
“Ma’am, I need you to check his pulse. Can you do that?”
I press my fingers to his neck like in the movies. “I feel it, but it’s really fast and then it stops and then it’s fast again.”
“That’s important information. EMS is en route; they should be there in four minutes. Is anyone else injured?”
I look toward the Jeep’s headlights. “Yes — one man shot in the head. He’s…” I swallow hard. “He’s dead.”
“Okay, I need you to stay on the line until help arrives. Don’t touch anything except to help the injured man. What’s your name?”
“Daisy Jonas. The injured man is Jake Ryder. He’s former military.”
“Daisy, you’re doing great. Can you tell me what happened?”
I give her a quick rundown while kneeling beside Jake, one hand on his chest to monitor his breathing. The dispatcher keeps me talking, asking about weapons, about whether I feel safe, about Jake’s condition. Her calm voice anchors me when my hands start shaking again. In the distance, sirens wail.
“I can hear the sirens,” I tell her.
“Good. They’ll be there any moment. Stay on the line until they reach you.”
Jake stirs slightly, mumbling something I can’t make out. Relief floods through me.
“He’s moving again,” I report.
“That’s a good sign. Here they come.”
Red and blue lights wash over the hangar. A police officer exits his car, gun drawn.
“Over here!” I shout.
The officer kneels by Phillip, then heads toward me. “We need a medic.”
An ambulance screeches to a halt outside the hangar. Two paramedics leap out, their equipment bags thumping against their sides.
“Ma’am, we need you to step back,” the first paramedic says — a woman with gray-streaked hair in a tight bun. Her partner, a younger man, is already kneeling beside Jake.
“Chest pain,” I say, my voice cracking. “He was conscious. But he fainted again. Head wound,” I say, fingering his matted hair. “He was hit by a hard object…I think.” It can’t be a bullet wound. “And tased.”
The male paramedic runs his hands along Jake’s chest. “No visible GSW.” He pulls out a stethoscope. “Heart rate’s all over the place.”
“Does he have any medical conditions?” the woman asks, attaching leads for an EKG.
“He has Long QT syndrome,” I blurt, remembering Jake’s explanation for leaving the Navy. “He takes medication. And he was tased.”
The paramedics exchange a hard look. The woman studies the EKG. “Edge of Torsades. We need to move now.”
“What does that mean?” My voice cracks.
“His rhythm is dangerously irregular,” she says, while her partner prepares an IV. “With Long QT, extreme stress or exertion can trigger a fatal arrhythmia. Has he been taking his meds?”
I try to remember the past week. “I… I don’t know. Maybe. I guess so.” Please, Jake. Please tell us you’ve been taking them.
Jake’s eyelids flutter, and he groans softly.
“Jake!” I reach for his hand, but the paramedic gently stops me.
“Sir, can you hear me?” The male paramedic shines a penlight in Jake’s eyes. “You’re okay. The taser may have triggered a syncopal episode—you fainted. We’re taking you to the hospital.”
