Chapter 20: The Hospital Run
Monday Morning, June 25, 2018 - Convenience Store Robbery, 9:47 AM
The call came in as robbery in progress. Tim drove fast but controlled, lights and sirens clearing traffic.
"Suspect reportedly armed," dispatch crackled. "Multiple witnesses, one hostage."
My danger sense activated immediately. Sharp, insistent, building with every block.
"This is going to be bad," I said.
Tim glanced over. "Your instinct?"
"Yeah."
"Then we go tactical. By the book. No heroes."
We arrived as the suspect fled the store, hostage released. He saw our shop, panicked, raised his weapon.
My danger sense screamed. Tim's training kicked in automatically—I was moving before conscious thought, positioning behind the engine block for cover.
The suspect fired. Rounds sparked off pavement. Tim returned fire from his position, controlled shots, professional execution.
The suspect went down.
Tim Bradford's POV
The suspect was hit—shoulder and leg, non-lethal but serious. He'd dropped his weapon, wasn't a threat anymore. But he was bleeding out fast.
"Mercer, first aid!" I cleared the scene, secured the weapon, called for ambulance. "Keep him alive!"
The boot moved. No hesitation. Gloved hands applying pressure to the shoulder wound—arterial bleed, most serious. He'd remembered the protocols, prioritized correctly.
"Stay with me," Mercer told the suspect. Calm voice despite the blood. "Ambulance is coming. You're going to be okay."
Dispatch: "Ambulance is twenty minutes out. Heavy traffic."
Twenty minutes. The suspect didn't have twenty minutes.
"We're transporting," I decided. "Mercer, backseat, maintain pressure. I'll drive."
Ethan's POV
The shop car's backseat wasn't designed for emergency medical care. I wedged myself against the suspect, both hands pressing gauze to his shoulder, my recall accessing every first aid protocol I'd ever learned.
Maintain pressure. Keep them talking. Monitor consciousness.
"What's your name?" I asked.
"Marcus." His voice was weak.
"I'm Ethan. You're going to be fine, Marcus. Just stay with me."
My danger sense screamed warnings about his fading vitals. Not external threat—internal. His body shutting down.
"Tell me about yourself. Where you from?"
"South LA." He coughed. "Stupid. So stupid. Just needed money for rent."
"We'll figure that out later. Right now, focus on staying conscious."
Tim drove like he was in a high-speed chase, but controlled. Every turn calculated to minimize jostling. We hit St. Vincent Medical Center in eight minutes.
I stumbled out covered in blood. Marcus was still conscious. Barely.
Dr. Emma Shaw's POV
"GSW incoming, officer transport, ETA thirty seconds!"
I scrubbed fast, prepped the trauma bay. When the doors burst open, Officer Mercer stumbled in covered in blood, maintaining pressure on a suspect's shoulder while another officer—older, harder-looking—guided them to the gurney.
"Arterial bleed, shoulder wound," Mercer reported. Voice steady despite obvious stress. "Additional wound to left thigh, less serious. Patient conscious but fading. Maintained pressure for nine minutes during transport."
Professional report. Good information. He stepped back, let my team work.
We stabilized Marcus—two hours of surgery, but he'd live. When I emerged, Officer Mercer was still in the waiting area. His uniform was soaked with blood, hands shaking despite obvious efforts to control them.
"Officer Mercer."
He looked up. Recognized me. "Dr. Shaw."
"Patient's stable. He'll make it." I sat beside him. "You did good work. Pressure on the wound, kept him talking. That's why he's alive."
"Didn't feel like enough."
"It never does." I'd said similar words to a hundred medical students. "But you made the difference between life and death. That's everything."
He stared at his bloody hands. "I keep thinking if we'd gotten there sooner, if I'd—"
"Stop." I kept my tone gentle. "You responded to a call. You did your job. You kept someone alive under impossible conditions. That's what matters."
His partner—the older officer—appeared. "Mercer, you okay?"
"Yeah. Just processing."
"Come on. Let's get you cleaned up."
I stood. Pulled out my card. "Officer Mercer, you'll need to follow up on patient status for your report. Call the hospital, ask for me directly. I'll give you updates."
Professional. Standard procedure. But I made sure our eyes met when I handed over the card.
His smile was small but genuine. First real smile I'd seen from him. "Thanks, Dr. Shaw."
"Emma. Off the record."
"Ethan."
His partner watched the exchange, expression unreadable. When they left, he muttered something that sounded like "case follow-up, sure."
Tuesday Evening, June 26, 2018 - Ethan's Mansion
I sat on my couch—the ridiculous Italian leather one—staring at Emma's card. Her number. Direct line.
For case follow-up, I told myself.
But my recall played the conversation on loop. Her hand brushing mine when she'd given me the card. The way she'd said "Emma, off the record." The smile.
My phone buzzed. Text from Tim: Good work today. You kept your head under pressure. That's what makes a good cop.
Another from Nolan: Heard about the shooting. You okay, neighbor?
Jackson: Dude. You saved a life. That's huge.
Lucy: Bradford says you didn't freeze. High praise from him.
I responded to each, then stared at Emma's card again.
The powers had helped today. Danger sense warned me before shots fired. Copy ability executed Tim's tactical training automatically. Recall accessed medical protocols under extreme stress.
But Emma had helped more. Her calm presence. Her acknowledgment that doing good work didn't erase the fear or doubt.
This is what normal people do. They meet someone. They like someone. They call them.
I set the card on the coffee table. Tomorrow. I'd call tomorrow about the patient's status.
Professional. Legitimate. And maybe, if I was lucky, something more.
Outside, the city hummed. Ten weeks into my rookie year. Powers developing. Armstrong being watched. Jackson alive. Andersen alive.
And now, maybe, something good just for me.
The card sat on the table, promising possibility.
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