“Why the fuck are you calling my number?” Hendrix barks after the third ring.
“Sending you a pin. Get here as fast as you can.” I disconnect, send it, then call Pyotr.
“Hey—”
“Meet me at Darlington Medical.”
“What’s going on?” Pyotr says, his tone clipped.
The distant wail of sirens gets louder. “They’re coming,” I tell Tristan, my gaze fixed on the shallow rise and swell of his chest.
“Who’s coming?” Pyotr shouts.
“Just get to DM.” I hang up on him, too. I can’t deal with everyone’s questions right now.
Tristan’s hand covers mine holding the shirt to his head. “Aleks…what…happened?”
I replay the seconds right before we hit the guardrail.
It wasn’t a deer. Someone shot at us.
It’s too similar to what happened on Christmas Eve. Payback, maybe? But we took out Michael and everyone who supported him or had a hand in Katalina’s death. So who?
Thirty-Two
Hendrix and Constantinehaven’t answered me back, and I’m about to call Syn when Pyotr’s text comes in.
Pyotr: Just parked. Which room are you in?
Me: Third to the right.
Me: I haven’t been able to get hold of Dierdre.
My worry has been at level ten since I got into the ambulance with Tristan, and no one will tell me anything.
Pyotr: On it.
I pace the small, whitewashed room, its walls feeling like they’re closing in on all sides. I fucking hate hospitals. The sterile smell of disinfectant and rubbing alcohol do little to mask the stench of blood soaked into my skin and trousers.
I stop when a doctor walks in. “I want to see my brother.”
She writes her name on the whiteboard hanging on the wall next to the door. “I’m Dr. Samuelson, and I’ll be your attending?—”
“I want to see my brother.” They wouldn’t let me go with him when they brought him inside. I was swiftly escorted through triage and into this room.
She gestures for me to sit down on the narrow ER bed. “I need to assess your injuries.”
“I’m fine.”
Her half smile is all business. “That’s for me to determine.” She adjusts the stethoscope draped around the back of her neck and pulls two nitrile gloves from a box.
“I want to see my brother.”
Quicker than her small stature implies, Dr. Samuelson blocks me when I try to go around her to get to the door. “He’s in surgery. I promise he’s in good hands.”
Surgery?
“What’s wrong with him?” I only noticed the bleeder on his head. Did he have internal injuries? Did I mess up the chest compressions?
