Anya screeches to a stop outside the emergency entrance behind the car carrying their father. Suddenly we're swarmed. Nurses. Orderlies. Someone shouts about gunshot wounds and smoke inhalation.
Kira hops out of the backseat and grabs one of the nurses. I can hear her yelling and gesturing to me.
The door opens and Kira is there pulling me out of the back.
They try to separate me from Kira immediately. A doctor grabs my arm, attempting to steer me toward a trauma room.
"No." I pull away, stumbling slightly. "I stay with her."
"Sir, you're bleeding—"
"I'm fine." The lie tastes bitter, but I need to stay with Kira. Need to make sure she and the baby are okay. "The bleeding stopped. I'm not dying."
The doctor looks like he wants to argue, but another stretcher crashes through the doors. Kira's father. He looks worse than I remember. I think he’s dead.
Fuck.
All of that for nothing.
"Critical patient!" someone shouts pushing in another gurney. "GSW to the abdomen, possible internal bleeding!"
I recognize the guy as one Roman’s little soldiers.
He’s not going to make it.
The staff knows it. I see it in their faces as they turn their attention to Nikolai.
Medical staff converge on him like ants. Kira and Anya try to follow, but a nurse blocks their path.
"We’re taking him into the trauma room," she says firmly.
"We’re family!" Anya's voice rises. "That's our father!"
"I understand, but you need to wait here. The doctors need space to work."
Kira looks ready to fight. I see her hands curl into fists, that familiar stubborn set to her jaw.
"Let them do their job," I tell her quietly. "They'll save him if they can."
She turns those blue eyes on me. I see the war playing out behind them. The need to control versus the need to trust.
Finally, she nods. "Fine. But the second they're done; I want to see him."
"Of course." The nurse's expression softens. "There's a waiting area just down the hall. We'll update you as soon as we know anything."
They wheel Kira's father through swinging doors that slam shut with finality. The sudden absence of crisis leaves us standing in the harsh fluorescent light, covered in blood and soot.
"You should sit down," Kira says, studying my face. "You look pale."
"I'm fine."
"You're bleeding through your pants."
I glance down. She's right. Blood stains my thigh where Roman's bullet tore through muscle. The makeshift tourniquet helped, but it's not a permanent solution.
"It can wait," I say stubbornly.
"Maksim—"
