“Amber Sullivan, seventeen years old, restrained. BP 90/50. I suspect she’s bleeding, but I’m unable to see anything because the car is so crushed. Says she can’t feel her legs.”
I didn’t need to tell Gifford what that meant. He nodded. “We’ll get her out as quickly and carefully as possible and use a long board.”
“I’ll keep checking in with her every?—”
“Hey!” someone called out. “Stop!”
I looked over my shoulder. The truck driver was storming at me, a gun in his right hand, with a cop in pursuit.
“Gun!” Gifford yelled. “Everybody down!”
All around me, people dove to the ground, but I narrowed my eyes, focusing on the gun, and stayed standing. Christ on a bike, the dude was wildly waving a Desert Eagle. That was a show-off gun that people liked for its intimidating look. No one would ever seriously consider it for self-defense since it was way too heavy and unyielding. And the way he held it made me wonder if he’d ever even fired it.
No way in hell would he be able to fire that with one hand while running. The kickback alone would knock him on his ass.
He was close to me now, appearing shocked by the fact that I wasn’t moving out of his way. That in itself was somehow funny, but his heavy panting breaths and the bobbing belly popping out from under his T-shirt gave it even more of a slapstick effect. All that was missing was a banana peel for him to slip on.
Alas, I didn’t have one of those ready, but what I did have was twenty years of training and experience. I stepped out of his way and ducked, pretending to dive to the ground like everyone else, then jumped back up when he’d stomped past me. I tackled him from behind, my hand clamping around the wrist that held the gun, and we went to the ground hard. It took me all of two seconds to overpower him and get the gun, which I then slid out of the way. With a knee between his shoulder blades, I kept him down with my weight.
Problem solved.
“Let me go, asshole!” he screamed, and a waft of alcohol drifted my way.
Drunk driver indeed, and I didn’t even bother responding.
The cop arrived, and to his credit, he wasn’t even remotely out of breath. What he was, however, was annoyed. “That was a risky move,” he snapped at me. “The gun could’ve gone off.”
“I served in the Army for over twenty years as an explosives and ordnance specialist. Some things never leave ya.”
His anger evaporated. “So you knew what you were doing.”
“No way in hell would he ever have been able to fire that thing with one hand.”
His female colleague had now secured the gun, picking it up with a tissue, and all three of us looked at it. “Desert Eagle,” she said with a sigh. “Jesus fucking Christ, talk about compensating.”
She wasn’t wrong there.
“Anyway, thanks for the help,” the cop said, then yanked the guy’s arms back and slapped wrist cuffs on him.
“Make sure to get his BAC as soon as possible,” I said.
The cop nodded. “I was about to do a Breathalyzer when he made a run for it.”
“Good.”
The cop hauled the guy up with a little assistance from me because getting three hundred pounds of dead weight up wasn’t easy, and I turned my attention back to the blue car. Engine 3 had put hydraulic pumps in place to make sure the car wouldn’t collapse on top of Amber when they dragged her out, and they were now cutting the remains of the driver’s door away.
“Nash,” Gifford called out, and I came over.
“You were right. Her legs are bad,” he said softly enough so she couldn’t hear it. “Especially the right one. You need to get in.”
My heart sank as I knelt next to the car again. “Hi, Amber. How are you doing?”
“O-kay.”
Her voice sounded weaker. “I’m gonna stick my head in real quick to take a look at your legs, okay?” This time, I didn’t wait for her response because time was of the essence. One look at her legs confirmed what Gifford had predicted. She needed tourniquets. Now. But more importantly, I needed her to stay calm.
“You were right. You do have bleeding on both of your legs. I’m gonna stop the bleeding with a tourniquet. That may hurt when I put it on. I’m sorry.”
