The room was frigid, but they were cutting off my clothes.
“Let’s see what we have here. I need a CBC type and crossmatch.”
“We have a pre-op here, with a gunshot to the lower abdomen, entry but no exit wound. Someone needs to call the OR and get us a room.”
“Give me an EKG and an X-ray of his chest, pelvis area and lower right quadrant.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Bipedal pulses are good.”
“Get me two bags of O neg; someone get me some chem labs.”
“BP is holding steady.”
“I see only the single-entry gunshot wound to the lower extremities. It looks like the bullet chipped off the bottom of his plates, which saved his life, but we have a lot of shrapnel damage. Does anyone else see any other trauma?”
“Pupils are alert and responsive.”
“No other trauma noted over here, legs seem fine.”
“So are his arms and shoulders.”
“Scrapes on his arms, face and chest.”
I needed to see Blaire. I sat up. The surrounding people freaked out, and so many arms and hands worked to pull me back down.
“Holy shit, how strong is this guy?”
“Someone get restraints on this guy. Now!”
“Easy, buddy.” Someone pushed me back on the table. “Just lie back and relax. We got you.”
“How is this guy still conscious?”
“I have no idea.”
I woke up in the same room to the sound of two men talking. I was awake, but I couldn’t seem to open my eyes or move any part of my body. I was freezing cold.
“Why isn’t this guy in surgery? I thought he came in ten minutes ago.”
“Trauma surgeon on call is busy with a car crash. They are trying to save some kid’s leg.”
“He has a gunshot wound.”
“I don’t know. Sometimes the prognosis is bad and doctors make the calls they make, right? Could also be because of who this guy is.”
“Why? Who is he?”
His voice lowered. “I heard he’s old-money Russian mob. Police came in, and they are practically having a party in the lobby. They keep bugging the nurses for the cause of death.”
“That’s harsh.”
“Well, they have to deal with these guys. They’re the ones that we fix up so they can head back into the street and shoot someone else. Maybe the next time they shoot a cop. You have to see it from the cop’s point of view.”
“I guess.”
“Call me if the trauma surgeon ever gets here. Otherwise call time of death.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
BLAIRE
I was sitting in a curtained bed in Emergency. I had a blanket wrapped around me, and a nurse was cleaning my scratches.
A cop stood a few feet away and fired questions at me.
“You said you were meeting Viktor Mikhailov at the aquarium?”
“No. I thought I was meeting him at the aquarium, but it wasn’t Viktor who texted me. Do you know where he is? Did he come to this hospital?”
He ignored my questions. “Who texted you?”
“The guy who put a needle into my neck. I need to find out where Viktor is.”
“When we’re done here. Did you get a good look at this guy?”
“No, he was wearing paint on his face and it was very dark.”
I could hear shouting in the background. “Why aren’t you helping him? Where are the fucking doctors? Someone needs to talk to me…”
The detective started to talk over the yelling. “How did you guys get to the mine?”
I put up my hand, silencing the detective.
I realized it was Andrusha yelling. I slid off the bed and opened the curtain.
He was standing in the middle of the waiting room, and he looked livid.
“Andrusha.” I rushed toward him. “What’s going on?”
He looked down at me with so much emotion, so much rage and pain, that for a second I thought he might cry. But his voice was icy with fury. “They aren’t helping him. They’re going to let him die.”
“What do you mean?”
“No one helping Viktor. He’s lying in that room alone.”
Holy fucking hell. “Why aren’t they helping him?”
My mind raced. Was he beyond help? Were they waiting for him to die? How bad were his injuries?
Andrusha looked like he was going to hit someone. “It’s because of who he is.” He started to yell at everyone working in the area. “He’s a human being—he deserves the same treatment as everyone else.”
“What do you mean, because of who he is?” I rushed to the desk. “Why aren’t they helping Viktor?”
The person at the desk was on the phone. They shrugged and turned their back on me.
I stood there, breathing hard, thinking. Then I turned back to Andrusha. “I can fix this. I need my phone.”
He looked nonplussed. “Excuse me?”
I escalated my tone. “It has all my contacts in it. I can help him. Where is my phone?”
I looked around the room and saw the cop who had bagged all my items for evidence. “He’s the one who took my phone and keys.”
“That cop?”
“Yes, him.”
Andrusha strode up to the guy. “Where is her phone?”
The cop looked between us, obviously caught off guard. “I’m taking it all to evidence.”
Andrusha grabbed the cop by the upper arm. “Her phone. Now.”
“You can’t have something back once it’s in evidence.”
Andrusha’s tone became something to fear. “I’m only going to ask you once.”
Without speaking, the cop nodded toward the gray plastic bin on the desk. Andrusha reached over the counter and started carelessly tossing out bags of evidence until he found the plastic bag that held my phone.
He ripped off the bag and handed it to me.
The cop sounded scared. “You know I can have you arrested for that.”
“Piss. Off.”
People—not just that cop—seemed to scatter.
I scrolled through my contacts, finding Jason Blakely, the president and CEO of British Columbia Health.
I hit dial, and the phone rang once.
“Hello?”
“Jason, hi. This is Blaire Asterdam. Remember me? My family is making a twenty-million-dollar donation to your new cardiac wing.”
“Yes, Blaire, of course I know who you are.” Jason tripped over his words.
“You have a dying patient in your general hospital emergency ward by the name of Viktor Mikhailov. This man is the love of my life. Your staff are neglectful. No one is helping him, and no one is listening to us. If he dies, I will rescind our entire family donation and will also stop all future donations to your organization, which will amount to tens of millions of dollars.”
Jason didn’t even pause. “Viktor Mikhailov? Give me one minute.”
I hung up, breathing hard. I spoke to Andrusha. “He said one minute.”
He gave me a sharp nod. We stood there waiting, both of us staring at the clock. It was the longest minute of my life.
And then… nothing happened.