Page 3 of Eight Years Gone

Jagger gave him a jostle. “Hey.”

Still nothing.

“Don’t you die on me, man. You’ll break her heart.” Even as Logan’s life hung in the balance, he thought of Grace. It was always Grace.

He set Logan down with little choice, watching as his friend’s head lolled back. “Hey!” he yelled as he gave his clammy cheek a slap.

Logan moaned. “I’m not going… to make it.”

“Yes, you are.” Using fear as his momentum, he charged forward, slamming his powerful body into the metal, bending and widening the space for them to get through. Looking over his shoulder at Logan, he ran at the metal again. “Stay awake.”

Logan said nothing—did nothing.

Jagger rushed back to his friend, touching the barely there pulse in his neck. “Hang in there. Please hang in there.”

Struggling not to panic, he hoisted Logan again, pushing them through the opening. “Hang on. Just hang on,” he panted out in a frantic chant as he fought to open the car door, then get Logan inside.

He didn’t take the time to feel for a pulse again as he scrambled around the fender to get behind the wheel.

His phone vibrated again. Grace. He sent her to voicemail as he peeled out and dialed 911.

“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

“My friend’s been shot. I’m driving him to Parkland Hospital right now. I’m about three miles out. They need to be waiting for us outside. He’s in bad shape. He’s lost a lot of blood.”

“Where was your friend shot?”

“In the stomach. Lower right side.”

“Can I get your name?”

“Jagger Tennyson. Just tell them to be outside waiting for us. The patient’s name is Logan Evans. His father is Doctor Steven Evans—”

“Sir—”

“Tell them that in the emergency department. Steven Evans. They’ll know who he is. He’s the big-time orthopedic surgeon in Philadelphia. He has privileges at Parkland.”

“Sir—”

He looked at Logan slumped in the seat, his head bobbing with each bump and turn. “Just tell them!”

Because Steve Evans was a big fucking deal—the go-to surgeon for all the pro athletes and even a couple of retired United States presidents. Everyone treated the guy like a damn king. They would do everything they could to save his son.

“We’re sending the information to Parkland Hospital right now. They know you’ll be arriving.”

“I don’t know if— I can’t tell if— Logan! Open your eyes, dammit! Open your eyes!”

Nothing.

He shook his head as the bright glow of Parkland’s lights blazed in the distance. “We’re here,” he said into the speaker, skidding into the emergency lane.

Then he dropped his phone as he screeched to a stop, relieved beyond measure when doctors and several nurses waited.

“Logan Evans. He needs help!” Jagger yelled as he got out. “Help him!”

A nurse and doctor opened Logan’s door and immediately pulled him out, settling him on the stretcher.

Jagger hurried up next to him as they wheeled him inside. “Be okay. For Grace. For me. Please be okay.”

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