Mile High
Second Skin Book Two
Ophelia Bell
Contents
Blurb
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Epilogue
Read On
About Ophelia Bell
Also by Ophelia Bell
Blurb
Three years ago, J.J. Santos, Jr. got himself killed—at least that’s what it said on paper. The DEA resurrected me as Mason Black, forcing me to leave behind everyone I’ve ever card about, including an angel in blue scrubs I can’t seem to get out of my head.
Her name is Dr. Callie Nicolo, and when our paths cross again, I’m in more danger than ever before. But I’m not about to leave her behind this time. Not even if it compromises my identity and my mission.
I’m the kind of man who wants it all. I’ll find a way to pacify the warring cartels on my tail and make up for lost time with the woman of my dreams. Most importantly, I’ll protect what’s mine—the doc who saved my life in more ways than one, and the little girl waiting for me back in Mexico.
1 Callie
“Two GSWs incoming!”
The charge nurse’s announcement rises over the wail of the alarm signaling an ambulance’s arrival. A spike of adrenaline blasts through me. I’m not usually assigned to the pit, but when I am, some ghoulish part of my soul gets a thrill out of the true emergencies. Not just one, but two trauma patients are headed our way.
I tail Dr. Blanchard, UCLA’s trauma attending on duty, hyperfocused and ready to anticipate whatever she or the patients need when they arrive.
The doors sweep open and a pair of gurneys rush in, one after the other, flanked by the paramedics who rattle off the victims’ ages, vitals, and details of their injuries. Two men with gunshot wounds, one a lower abdominal wound, through and through, the other a chest wound with no exit.
All I see is blood-soaked gauze as my mind cycles through all the potential implications of both injuries.
Dr. B is on the abdominal, trotting toward the room they wheel the patient into. Behind her trails a gangbanger wearing nothing but purple silk boxers. His hands are covered in blood, a distraught look on his face. More blood is spattered across his tattooed torso. The sight is almost too surreal for me to catch Dr. B’s gift.
“Number two is a potential spinal injury, Nicolo. You’re welcome!” Then she disappears into the room with her patient while I jump into action on mine.
“Sir, are you injured?” I overhear a nurse ask the tattooed man who is staring through the glass into the room I’m in. I just barely make out his response before a nurse closes the door.
“I’m fine, just go help them. Maddox’ll never survive if his brother dies.”
The crack in his voice sends a twinge of pain through me, poking an old wound of my own. I do my best to ignore it as I jump into gear. I have no intention of letting anyone die, but I can’t fool myself; I saw the carnage as it blurred by and brace myself for the worst before I get a better look.
How the man is still breathing with a chest wound like this is nothing short of lucky, but a cardio attending needs to assess him, not a second-year neurosurgery resident like me. I order the nurses to page cardio and focus on the patient. The paramedics said there was no exit wound, so if the bullet managed to miss his heart, there’s a strong chance it hit a lung, then possibly lodged in his spine. I should page neuro too, but I am neuro for the moment. He doesn’t have a head injury, and if it’s his spine, it’s well within my wheelhouse to handle. I’ll order a CT scan and go from there once we’re sure his other wounds aren’t life-threatening.
My heart leaps into my throat when his steel-gray eyes lock onto me over his oxygen mask. How the hell is he still conscious? He didn’t just take a bullet; from the look of his shirtless, bloody chest, he must have been tortured too. His face is a battered, bruised mess, both eyes swollen and bloodshot, and his entire well-muscled torso from shoulders to waist is covered in what appear to be electrical burns.
Between the burns are numerous bruises, like he took a beating from someone with lead fists—brass knuckles, I’m guessing, based on the company he keeps. Not even his tattoos can obscure how grave the damage is.
“Maddox…” he wheezes. He reaches out and grips my wrist, squeezing hard enough to hurt.
I cover his hand with mine and smile, determined to comfort rather than alarm him. “Is that your brother? He’s in good hands, I promise. So are you, but I need you to try to relax. Can you do that for me?”
The rigid cervical collar around his neck prevents his attempt at a nod, so he just slow blinks, his grip easing. “You do your thing, Doc. I’m not going anywhere. Especially since I can’t feel my legs.” The words are strained, and I think I catch a bitter half-smile behind the mask. But his lips have a bluish tint and he’s struggling to breathe.
Cardio arrives and I step aside, moving to his bare, dirty feet to test his reflexes there. His lack of reaction confirms Dr. B’s statement, and the patient’s, but we still need more tests. Tests that will evidently have to wait, since he goes into cardiac arrest and is rushed to surgery a moment later.
I’m in a daze when Dr. Yao, the neuro attending and my supervisor, pops his head in a moment later. “Nicolo, what are you doing? Get your ass up to surgery, you’re scrubbing in on this one.”
“But I need to
