Kyle helped Josh free himself from beneath the unconscious Kip. “I've got a pulse. He's breathing. We need to roll him. Wait, hold it. He's got shrapnel in his left calf.”
Josh opened one of the pouches attached to his thigh and pulled out a roll of bandages. Carefully, he stabilized the hunk of steel in Kip’s calf.
The SWAT commander made it back to them. “We need to get you guys out of here. Shit.” He saw the unconscious Kip, lifted his radio and yelled for help forthwith. “The dogs are picking up devices in all the exit signs. We neutralized the cell IP, but it looks like this one blew on its own.”
Two police officers made it to them after crawling over rubble with a basket stretcher. Once they stabilized Kip’s head and neck, they slid him face down onto the backboard.
Carefully they made their way back, climbing over rubble. Josh maintained his hand protectively between Kip's shoulders. It was good he did because Kip's eyes flew open. Confused, he yelled, “Bomb!”
“Boss, we're good. Stay still. We're getting you out of here. You've got a chunk of shrapnel in your calf, and you took a short nap. We need to get you to medical,” Josh said.
“I’m fine,” Kip mumbled.
“You’re not fine,” Mike snapped.
Kip stopped fighting. “Fine.” He closed his eyes.
“Acrobat!” Kyle yelled.
Kip cracked open one eye. “I’m fine. I figure it’s going to be a long night. I’m napping. XO, you’re about to learn the biggest part of the job: paperwork. Call Mike. Wait, Mike, you’re here. Call O’Mara and Thorn.”
“Acrobat, shut up. Stone…” Mike said.
“Stop with the damn hand signals. He’s telling you I’m on concussion protocol until I’m cleared by medical. Who’s here to clear me?” Kip muttered.
Together, Kyle and Mike called, “Shut up.”
The two police officers, along with Josh, rolled Kip into the ER triage area. A male nurse asked, “What do we have?”
“Forty-one-year-old man, victim of a low-energy explosion—a pipe bomb. Pulse 70 and regular, respirations 20 and normal, BP 90/60. A piece of shrapnel embedded into his left calf. Positive LOC for five minutes.”
“Hey, I’m Mason. How are you feeling?” Mason inserted an IV lock in his right arm.
“I’m fine. Get the thing out of my leg so I can go back to work,” Kip groused.
“We need to get you to the ER, grab a scan of your head and get that thing out of your leg. How’s the pain?”
“Nothing Tylenol won’t fix,” Kip continued to grumble.
Andrew Coates walked toward the stretcher, a Chase Care ID tag hanging from around his neck. “Hey, Mr. Brennan. What do you have?”
Mason gave the report. “He’s a bit grumpy.”
Andrew’s expression changed. “Sir, how are you feeling?” He connected the face with the name. “Kip, how are you feeling?”
“If I have to tell one more person I’m fine, I’m going to take that thing out of my leg, bandage it and go home,” Kip snapped.
“Is this his usual temperament?” Andrew looked to the group around him.
Mike pressed his lips together. “No. Acrobat, cool it.”
“I’ve cooled it enough. Someone needs to do something.” Kip struggled to get up.
“Trauma Room 1, now,” Coates ordered.
* * *
Harper lookedup at the raised voices coming from triage. Her legs wobbled. The man lying on the stretcher was Kip. She made her way to him.
