Ivy was nearly unrecognizable. Her face was swollen and already every shade of black and blue with lacerations to match. There was a tube in her mouth, maybe to breathe, and a constant chirp let him know her heart was still beating. Her head was wrapped in a blood-soaked bandage while her arm was held in a splint, and who knew what else was ailing her under the blankets where he couldn’t see. But she was alive, and that was enough for Dace.
“She’s been prepped for surgery,” the doctor said in a somber voice, sympathy now laced in his words. “Her arm is shattered, and plastics will take care of the lacerations on her face. This will all heal,” he said.
“Is that…all?” Dace asked.
The doctor hesitated – his war with ethics and humanity visible. It wasn’t his place to tell Dace anything about his patient. Legally, he was bound to silence and obligated to protect the patient’s privacy. He didn’t know Dace from the next guy, but something about Dace’s reaction must’ve softened the man’s mood – like he felt the pain coursing through Dace’s veins and knew she was someone special to him.
“She’s badly bruised and battered head to toe, son,” he said. “Even though there is substantial bruising, she has no broken ribs. We didn’t see any internal injuries, but we’ll continue to monitor her in case there’s a small bleed somewhere. We haven’t seen any brain swelling, despite the evident head trauma. She’s actually quite lucky.”
“Lucky?” Dace asked with disgust. “This hardly looks lucky.”
C.T. stepped in. “She fought, Dace. We could tell she ran and fought – there was evidence at the scene that told us she didn’t go down easy. Whoever did this underestimated their target. Look at her hands. Those are defensive wounds. We’ll be able to get DNA from under her nails too. Well, of the nails she has left, several are busted down to the quick…she left marks on someone.”
“Was she, uh…?” Dace swallowed hard. “Was she…?”
“No.” The doctor interjected as if he could read Dace’s darkest worry and wanted to spare him the painful words. “We don’t believe she was sexually assaulted. There isn’t any evidence of that. Obviously, we’ll carefully address that with her when she wakes up.”
Dace closed his eyes in a silent prayer, thankful he had one less thing to worry about. As it was, he would make whoever did this to her pay dearly, but thinking up retribution for that type of violation would take him to a dark place he didn’t care to visit often. He was grateful for the doctor’s optimism by choosing to say when, not if. He’d cling to that and hold everyone charged with her care to a standard that would ensure that when was sooner, rather than later.
“We believe there was more than one assailant. Forensics identified multiple rounds, indicating more than one person fired a weapon at her, given the trajectory and early analysis,” C.T. noted for the group he was enlisting for help since he knew the victim and knew at least Dace was somehow a part of the picture given his name was scrawled on her arm.
“That’s consistent with our findings as well, Detective,” the doctor said. “She has multiple wounds consistent with your theory. Oddly, none were actual hits, just deep grazes. One to her face just under the cheekbone that plastics will take care of and one on the opposite temple area. Her shoulder took a bullet, and one that hit her neck but missed the carotid. She took one to her leg too, and it appears to have been made by a different caliber. She’s lucky. Either they meant to miss, or they’re lousy shots. I’ve never seen such a thing in twenty-plus years in the ED, and we see a lot of GSWs.”
“Jesus,” C.T. said, making a note of what the doctor was sharing. “Really fucking lucky.”
“Probably a prostitute who made one too many bad decisions,” the doctor replied.
Dace’s fury at the doctor's comment took over as he shoved the man against the wall, holding him by the collar. “Are you fucking kidding me? You think she’s a whore? Only whores get beat up and shot at?”
“Whoa!” The doctor panicked. “I’m just saying, those types of injuries…they don’t happen to regular people. Just the riffraff.”
“Her name is Ivy Kimble, Doc, and she’s a fucking saint. Remember that name, Ivy Kimble. She’s good, kind, wanted to be a teacher, and volunteered for every goddamn cause this city had. The only bad thing about her is she’d forgive you for being such an asshole right now, but I won’t.”
“Hey! What’s going on?” Dr. Rick Mendoza, a friend of the O’Reillys, stepped in and pulled Dace off the ER doc. “Jesus, Dace. Calm down. Take a breather, man.”
With his guard still up, Mendoza quickly scanned the room, noting each of the brothers as well as C.T., before his eyes rested on Ivy.
“I don’t think I need to remind any of you where we are,” Mendoza said, eyes still fixed on the hospital bed. “Got your text, Dec. Anyone want to fill me in?”
Rick Mendoza was more than a friend. He’d served with a few of the brothers in their early years. They went on to serve in the private sector with their security firm, and Mendoza served as an oncologist. He was also the doctor who cared for Liam’s first wife, Cass, when she battled cancer not once but twice. She ultimately lost her battle, which was as hard on Mendoza as it was on the rest of the family.
He’d do anything for them and with them. Together, they shared a past of unimaginable and dangerous escapades all in the name of the greater good, and he’d do it again if asked, just as they would for him. Like many of their close comrades, C.T. included, Mendoza ended up in Portland, close to the O’Reillys. They were like family, and they stuck together.
“It’s Ivy,” Wylie said, nodding in Ivy’s direction.
“Oh, shit,” Mendoza said, putting a hand on Dace’s shoulder. “What the hell happened? How’d she end up here…like this?” Mendoza paused, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath to calm his newly heightened nerves. “What can I do to help?”
“How about you start with getting G.I. Joe out of my damn ER?”
“Whoa, James. I’m sure we can sort this out,” Mendoza said to the ER doctor. “What I walked in on was a little heated, but I’m sure we can settle this calmly. Tell me what happened.”
“Dr. James called Ivy a whore,” Dace said bluntly.
“What? Is that true, James?” Mendoza questioned with disgust.
“Not exactly.”
Dace took a large step forward, forcing James, the ER doctor, to press his back against the wall. “We have a room full of witnesses who heard you say exactly that, asshole. Oh! And you referred to her as riffraff. I have to wonder, James…do your patients get the care they deserve in here, or are they all judged first, then treated accordingly second?”
Offended, James puffed out his chest. “I took an oath. How dare you make such accusations?”
“Well, they aren’t accusations if they really happened. So which is it?”
“C’mon. This isn’t helping anyone,” Mendoza mediated.
A team of two men in hospital scrubs walked in the room and paused before one finally said, “We’re here to take the patient up.”