Mike stepped out of the elevator carrying two bottles of water and a wrapped sandwich the nurse insisted he grab. He walked toward the surgical wing, already planning how to coax Shannon into eating at least half. He turned the corner. There was no one there.
Maybe she went to the bathroom.
BANG!
“HELP!”
That was Shannon.
Mike dropped everything in his hands and ran. He reached the OR doors just as two orderlies pushed past him with a gurney. Blood smeared the floor and wall tiles. Hunt stood braced against the wall, one hand on his side. Roe stood at the sink, covered in blood, barking instructions at a trembling resident who looked ready to faint.
And inside—Shannon.
She stood beside the operating table, arms locked out, firearm in one hand, the barrel pointed straight down.
Mike scanned the room. Dante was under the lights, his chest and abdomen open, the retractors still in place. The monitors beeped loudly.
A body lay on the floor, blood pooling from its head.
As Mike stepped through the door, Roe took up position at the table, his left shoulder wrapped with a bulky dressing, barking for suction and more clamps. A nurse placed a mask on Shannon, who seemed not to notice him.
Mike moved on instinct and muscle memory, stepping forward to help. He caught Huntjust as he nearly crumpled. Blood covered Hunt’s scrubs. Blood on the floor. Too much blood. He lifted Hunt to the stretcher.
“Mike, I need?—”
“You need to be taken care of.”
A second body was slumped on the tile. A surgical sheet thrown over it was already soaked red.
Mike’s throat clenched hard as he made eye contact with Shannon standing ten feet away, staring at nothing. He crossed to her and wrapped his arms around her like the rest of the room didn’t exist. He held the back of her head against his chest, feeling the rapid hitch of her breathing. “You’re okay,” he whispered against her hair. “You did exactly what needed to be done.”
She didn’t cry. Her breath stayed shallow, one hand still curled tightly in the sheet on Dante’s stretcher. Behind them, Dr. Roe shouted for clearance at the OR doors, his voice snapping commands as they wheeled Hunt out.
Mike didn’t move, not until Shannon drew a slower breath. Then another. He pulled back just enough to look in her eyes. “You with me?”
She gave a small nod. Hollow, but steady.
“Good girl,” he said softly. “Stay right here.”
He turned as the lockdown alert triggered overhead steel barriers sealing the main exits of the surgical floor. Alarms echoed from the stairwells. Within sixty seconds, Bravo Team burst through the west corridor.
Sean Paulsen led the stack—armor on, sidearm drawn but lowered, scanning sharp. Bone, Rocket, Red Canal, Friend—all present, their entry fast and clean.
Mike raised his hand sharply. “Bravo, hold perimeter and contain this floor. We’ve had a breach, and this man didn’t walk in on his own. Lock every exit. That includes delivery bays, basement morgue access, laundry tunnels. Nobody leaves this building. I want every inch of this place checked.”
Sean nodded, already directing his team outward. Friend moved to sweep the hallway. Red Canal checked behind anesthesia carts and mobile units. Bone stayed near the elevator junction. Rocket covered the surgical wing’s rear access.
Mike stepped past the body by the door and caught up with the stretcher holding Hunt, who was fighting consciousness.
“How bad?” Mike asked one of the medical center’s doctors.
“He took a through-and-through to his right side. Bleeding is controlled. We’re taking him to CT scan to see if the bullet hit anything vital and then to the OR.”
Hunt grabbed Mike’s arm. “Check in with Roe. Then take a breath. You did your job.”
Mike stood again, jaw clenched. “Hunt, worry about yourself. Listen to the doctor. I’ll call Selma and let her know.”
Sean returned, stepping close enough to speak low. “We’ll stay until Dante is out of surgery. Then we’ll reconfigure to the ICU.”
