She wasn’t here to be a hero. She was here to be invisible. The military psychologists at Fort Bragg had been very clear after her medical discharge following “Operation Cinder”—the classified mission in Syria that no one was allowed to talk about. “You need reintegration, Major Bennett. A low-stress environment. Learn how to be a civilian again.”
So, she cleaned up vomit and let an arrogant surgeon use her as a verbal punching bag. It was the mission. Blend in. Do not engage. Survive the day.
The double doors of the ambulance bay exploded open.
The sound ripped Harper out of the closet. The paramedics were sprinting, pushing a gurney that was already soaked in crimson.
“Talk to me!” Preston bellowed, puffing out his chest and stepping into the center of Trauma Bay 1. He lived for the adrenaline of incoming traumas, mostly because it gave him an audience.
“Jane Doe? No, John Doe, male, roughly fifty,” the lead paramedic shouted, sweat dripping down his face. “Multiple gunshot wounds to the chest and abdomen. BP is crashing, 70 over 40. Tachycardic. We lost his pulse twice on the rig.”
“Transfer on three!” David yelled, moving to the head of the bed. “One, two, three!”
Harper moved to the side of the bed to attach the suction catheter. Her eyes scanned the patient with clinical detachment—until she saw the tactical vest the paramedics had cut away. It wasn’t standard police issue. It was high-grade Kevlar.
She looked at the man’s massive, blood-slicked shoulder. There, partially obscured by a fresh bullet wound, was a tattoo: a dagger with wings.
Harper’s breath hitched. The air left the room.
She looked at the man’s face. It was swollen, beaten, and covered in soot, but the bone structure, the broken nose, the graying beard—she knew him.
It was Master Sergeant Thomas Knox. Fort Knox. He had been her training officer. He was the man who taught her how to apply a tourniquet in pitch darkness. He was supposed to be retired. What the hell was he doing shot up in Seattle?
“He’s crashing!” David screamed, his voice cracking. The monitor began to wail.
“V-Fib!” Preston shouted, his eyes wild. He grabbed the defibrillator paddles. “Charge to 200! Clear!”
The master sergeant’s body convulsed on the table.
