Burn(33)

The source of all the blood is instantly visible. A gunshot wound, just below the underwire of her bra. I roll her toward me, craning over her to check the back—is there an exit wound? No. No exit wound. Shit. And she’s been shot in the worst place possible. These days, bullets are designed to shatter inside a person, breaking into pieces to cause maximum damage to internal organs. And the internal organs close to this wound are the most fragile and most important of them all: The heart. The lungs.

“We need to get her inside. On a table.” I look up to find a dozen strained faces watching my every move. On the outskirts, I see a familiar face; it’s Michael. He’s lost in the bustle as three of the men, members of the same biker gang as Cade, hurry forward to get the girl inside. I still haven’t ascertained whether the woman’s even alive; I grab hold of her lolling arm and walk with them as they take her inside. With my index and middle fingers, I search for a pulse, find it, weak and tachycardic but there, and then—

A strangled gasp slips free from my mouth.

Oh, no. Oh, no, no... The small star-shaped birthmark on the inside of her wrist is more than familiar to me. It’s engrained in nearly every childhood memory I have. I’ve seen it a thousand times before. I’d recognize it anywhere.

I never looked at the girl’s face, but I know it’s her.

I know it’s Alexis.





They’ve laid Alexis out on the massive kitchen table, and there are maids running everywhere squealing and crying and speaking in Spanish. The guy from before, the one who was performing CPR on her, stands beside the table, hands prepared and ready to begin compressing again.

“Get the fuck away from her!” I bulldoze my way through the people who have followed us in and shove the guy away. “She has a pulse, you idiot!”

“She isn’t breathing, though!”

“She is fucking breathing. She’s unconscious because she’s lost too much blood.”

The guy staggers back, running his hands through his hair, smearing blood all over his face. “Jamie’s gonna kill me. Jamie’s gonna murder me,” is all he says, over and over again. He’s distracting the shit out of me.

“I need….” Fuck, I have nothing that I need here. I left my medical bag at my parent’s place. I didn’t think for a second I was going to be doing any medical work here. In hindsight, that was really dumb, but there’s nothing to be done about it now.

“What? What do you need?” The guy’s gone ghostly white, his hands shaking like crazy. “Tell me and I’ll get it for you. Come on!” He’s panicking, just like me.

“I need a plastic bag, duct tape and a sewing kit. I need alcohol, prescription drugs, boiling water, towels, tweezers. The sharpest knife you can find. Go.”

Fucking back-alley surgery on my potentially dying sister… that’s what this is turning into. I’m struggling to breathe. There’s a reason why doctors never treat family members, and my racing heart is part of that reason. I’m losing my mind, and trauma surgery is an art form. Not many people can do it—it’s all about remaining calm in the face of extreme pressure, blocking out the chaos, the shouting and panic taking place around you. Your hand needs to be steady one hundred percent of the time. Right now, my hand is shaking so bad I don’t think I could pick up a pen.

“Tell me what happened. Tell me exactly what happened so I can visualise.” The guy that was here a moment ago has vanished, on a mission to find the items I asked for. Another guy steps forward, late twenties, wearing a smart shirt and a tie of all things. He’s wearing skinny jeans, which seem just as out of place as his tie. “Soph got shot,” he mumbles, scrubbing his palms against his jeans. His hands are covered in blood. I want to smash him in his face.

“I can fucking see that she’s been shot, asshole! What kind of gun was she shot with? From how far away? From what angle? ”

The guy just looks at me blankly. It’s a woman who provides the answers, a tall blonde with piercing green eyes. “We were at a meet. It went bad. We copped heat and had to run. Soph got hit with a Glock 22. A .40 calibre. The shot came from about twenty feet away, from the side, like this, but from high up.” She moves to my left, lifting her hand in the shape of gun, aiming it directly at my chest.

So she was shot from a distance, down and to the right. The bullet could be anywhere, could have torn absolutely anything apart. A sense of sheer hopelessness washes over me. If we were in a hospital, if I had a surgical team, if I had a sterile environment and life support machines and time, there might be a chance I could save Alexis. As it stands, in a domestic kitchen with none of those things…