“His parents are on their way,” Christian said.
“Good, c’mon, let’s get coffee.”
* * *
Duncan Mulligan ran into the trauma room. The smell told him his victim was shot in the abdomen, and her intestines were torn.
The ER attending had her hands buried in her chest. “I cross-clamped her aorta. We’re on the fourth unit of blood.”
Duncan gloved and approached the woman on the bed. “Pack her off. Let’s go.” They popped the wheels and ran the stretcher to the OR.
After the victim was transferred to the OR table, the floating nurse announced, “Time 1735, thirty-year-old female, name Eleanor West, repair abdominal wound from a gunshot.”
“Say that name again,” Duncan said. He walked around and stared at his patient’s face.
“Duncan, you know her?” the circulating nurse asked.
“Um, not sure. Could you dial a number for me?” He gave the number for the clinic.
“Health. Operator Cohen speaking.” Andi’s voice was bright.
“Hey, Andi, it’s Duncan. Is Pete or Sam there?” Duncan asked as he worked. “Hemostat.”
“Both are with a patient. Do you need a health provider? Or Mr. Wentworth and Mr. Clarke are here?” she asked.
“Either will do. Andi, is the patient in Room 2 still there?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. Hold, I’ll connect you with Mr. Wentworth.”
“Allis clamp.” Duncan cut free a large piece of Belinda’s intestine. “Irrigation and suction. Let’s see if we can get a better look.”
“Her blood pressure is in the can. You need to move, Duncan,” the anesthesiologist said.
“I hear you.” Duncan stared into the field. “How long since the aorta was clamped?”
“Going on eleven minutes,” a surgical technician said.
“Get ready to run blood. Releasing the clamp on three, two, one.” Blood spurted like a sprinkler. “Lap pads.”
In the middle of the chaos, Zach’s voice filled the OR. “Wentworth.”
Alarms fired as Duncan tried to stem the bleeding. “Wentworth, I’m in the OR with a gunshot victim named Eleanor West.”
“Confirm, Eleanor West,” Zach’s voice was emotionless.
“Affirmative.” Duncan’s voice grew stressed.
“Authorities will be notified. She is wanted on a Department of Homeland Security warrant,” Zach advised. “The bullet is evidence.”
“More lap pads, hemostat. Come on, honey,” Duncan continued fighting for her.
* * *
The group of Chase Executives sat in silence. All dressed professionally, they were garnering the attention of other waiting families. Every time someone stepped into the room, all heads turned to the door. This time, Ian Chase joined the group. The entire group stood to greet the boss.
“I flew down with Montgomery. He’ll run Wes’s care. As soon as Wes is stable, we will deal with the woman pretending to be Eleanor,” he whispered.
The door opened again, and a petite woman dressed in scrubs entered. “I’m looking for Wes Crockett’s family.”
Ian stood. “We all are.”
The neurosurgeon’s eyes opened wide. “Step out with me.” Inside the corridor, she looked up at the group. “Mr. Crockett came in unresponsive and unable to breathe on his own. At this time, he remains so. He suffered a subdural hematoma, a pooling of blood beneath the brain lining. I performed a keyhole occipital craniotomy, removed the clot and relieved the pressure. He’s on a ventilator. When the anesthesia wears off, we will see where he’s at. He also suffered severe bruising to his upper and mid-back, likely from a baseball bat. Considering the severity of the injury, finding him as timely as you did may have saved him debilitation if he survives.”
“If,” Ian said.
“I wish I could offer a better prognosis. One of you can sit with him. A nurse will be out when we get him settled in the ICU.”
