Dom gripped the wheel with sweaty, blood-smeared hands.
“Won’t know for sure until we crack his chest,” Rojas continued, speaking quickly. “But suspect a cardiac temp. Yes, I’m serious. The jugular’s distended and his vitals are—thank you. We’ll be there…” He looked up. “Where are we?”
Dom gulped. “Less than ten minutes out.”
“Dom, I don’t know if we have ten minutes.”
Cold water rushed through Dom’s veins, and he stomped the gas pedal. “Make it seven minutes.”
They whipped past the accident scene on the other side. A cop had shown up, and it looked like someone had stopped to help. Thank God they hadn’t happened by while he and Rojas were pulling Sergei out, or they might’ve stalled them.
“Sergei, can you hear me?” Rojas asked, his voice calm, but with a frantic undercurrent. No response. “Sergei?”
Dom’s heart was ready to come right through his chest.
“We’re almost to the hospital. Just stay with me, okay?”
The faintest of moans both reassured and terrified Dom.
Please, please, Sergei…
The sign for the hospital came into view. Dom followed the red EMERGENCY signs, and pulled up in front of the ER.
Rojas flew out of the car. Before Dom had even gotten out himself, a team was rushing outside with a stretcher. They descended on the car like a special ops team, shouting in code and breaking out equipment left and right.
“Come on.” Rojas grabbed his arm and tried to drag him away. “We have to go.”
“I’m not leaving him! Are you—”
“The hospital is crawling with cops and your people,” Rojas hissed. “I’m taking you into a colleague’s office. When Sergei’s out of surgery, I’ll come give you an update.”
Dom couldn’t even process all of that, but he trusted Rojas, so he gave the car one last look—he couldn’t see Sergei, damn it—and followed the doc. They went in through another entrance and down a hall of benign-looking office doors. Rojas keyed him into one and closed the door behind him.
And for the first time, the world was quiet. Both men stood and caught their breath for a moment.
Finally, Dom swallowed. “Is he gonna make it?”
“I don’t know.” Rojas’s features pinched with palpable sympathy. “I know this team. He’s in good hands. But…”
“How bad is it?”
“He’s lost a lot of blood. My biggest concern is that I think he’s got blood pooling somewhere. Likely around his heart. If they can get his chest open fast enough, and get a transfusion going in time…”
If. If. God, if.
Dom was about to run a hand through his hair but realized it was covered in blood. He was covered in blood, still missing a shirt, and bloody all over. Some of it was probably his, too—he thought there was a steady trickle down the side of his face.
Rojas scowled. “Let me go get my kit. I’ll check you out in here and get you some scrubs to wear for the moment.”
Dom nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”
Rojas clapped his shoulder. “He’s in good hands, Dom. I promise.”
Dom just nodded again. What could he possibly say right then?
The doc guided him to a chair, and Dom’s legs buckled. He sank onto the seat, and Rojas kept a hand on him until he was fairly steady.
“Just hang tight.” Rojas squeezed his arm. “I’ll be right back.”
He hurried out of the office, and Dom was alone.
Completely alone.
Nothing but the beat of his heart and the buzz of fluorescents.
And nothing—nothing—he could do for Sergei.
He leaned on his elbows and, blood be damned, raked both hands through his hair. He’d never liked having authority over life and death. Not when it meant being able to decide whether to kill someone. Right now, though, he’d have given anything to be able to keep Sergei alive. For the power that came with the pull of a trigger, only in reverse. Why the fuck was it so easy to break bones and tear flesh, but mending it all was like bringing ashes back to life?
He was powerless now. All he could do was pray.
And hope someone was up there listening.
And wait.
Chapter 37
The light hurt. His eyes weren’t even open yet, and the light already hurt like a motherfucker.
He slowly pulled in a breath through his nose. The smell—solvents, alcohol, latex—brought to mind the place where Mama had died, but before that memory could settle in, pain tore through his chest, starting dead center and ripping toward his sides. He held his breath, eyes stinging. His right eye didn’t quite want to focus. It could focus, but the strain made his head hurt more, so he closed both eyes.