Page 45 of Titan

Screams erupt from the other patrons, me included, and I duck down beside the table where I was waiting, my hands over my ears.

The bank is being robbed.

I squeeze my eyes shut, afraid to see the robbers faces in case I have to ID them. I don’t want to become involved in the least way.

I feel a tap on my nose and have to open my eyes. I think it might be another bank patron, but it isn’t.

It’s one of the robbers.

He’s wearing a black mask, aviator sunglasses and Mets ball cap. When he speaks to me, adrenaline rushes through me. I glance at his dog tags, which hang out of his t-shirt, and realized that, whoever he is now, he’s former military.

What’s he doing robbing a bank?

He has hold of my ID and is examining it. Then, he drops it back into my lab coat pocket.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I don’t hurt civilians. We’re only after the bad guys.”

I frown. “Youarethe bad guys.”

He laughs, his voice deep.

“This is a Mafia bank in case you didn’t know,” he hisses. “They launder Russian money here, obtained through sex trafficking and drugs. They’re the real bad guys. Stay quiet. It’ll be over soon.”

I do what he says, not wanting to cause any problems or draw attention to myself.

I want to get out of this with my life.

I remain where I’m crouched, listening as the robbers issue orders to the tellers to open up the drawers and put money into bags. I peer over the counter and see the robber who spoke to me, and another man have what looks like the bank manager over by the vault, the bank manager’s hands in the air. Then, out of the blue, another shot rings out.

I duck behind the counter, my heart racing.

Someone’s been shot.

I know at that moment that I have a job to do. If someone’s been shot, I have the skills to help — even in the middle of a bank robbery.

I stand up and glance over the counter and see that one of the robbers is lying on the floor. He’s been shot, and blood is almost spraying out of his thigh.

That’s definitely a bad sign. It means the bullet may have struck an artery, and with each pump of his heart, the blood will be pushed out through the wound.

He could be dead in less than a few moments if nothing is done to stop the blood flow.

I drop my backpack and run to where he lies, holding up my hands and pointing to my lanyard and hospital ID.

“I’m a doctor,” I say. “Let me help.”

They let me by, and I push the robber out of the way who spoke to me, taking over. I examine the wound. I need a tourniquet to stop the flow, or the robber will die.

“Call 9-1-1. He needs an ambulance! Get something to make a tourniquet.”

“We gotta hurry,” one of the robbers says. “We’ll take him with us.”

“He needs to go to an ER,” I say, frowning. “Now.”

“We have to leave,” the injured robber says. “Let’s get this over with. I’m fine.”

The robber who spoke to me ties a rope from one of the burlap sacks around the injured man’s thigh, and then two of them pick him up.

They leave out the back of the bank.

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