The Survivor

“Arterial bleed,” Janie said, pushing the pistol into Nate’s hands. “I’ll stabilize him and be right back. A minute, tops.”

She started up, but Nate grabbed her shoulder. “Misha’s still out there.”

She pointed at Dr. Griffin. “He will die if I don’t go.”

The frantic look between them couldn’t have lasted a second, but it stretched to an eternity, one objection after another shuffling through Nate’s mind. The determination on Janie’s face told him he didn’t really have a say anyway. He removed his hand from her shoulder.

“Take the gun,” he said. “I can’t grip it.”

Pocketing the Beretta, she was up and into the hall, a quick glimpse bringing into view only a few knocked- over patients and a resident hiding behind a gurney. No Misha.

Tearing a manual blood-pressure cuff from a cart, she sprinted across to Dr. Griffin. The slick red of his hands was all the more pronounced against his skin, which had gone dusty gray. He applied feeble pressure, too stunned to bear down on the wound. Supplies rolled in the growing puddle; he’d knocked over a cart on his way down.

“I think I went out from the shock,” he was mumbling. “But I’m back now.”

Janie tugged off his loafer and worked the cuff over his sock, sliding it up along his saturated pant leg and over the gushing rupture above his knee to the proximal side of the wound. His body went rigid with pain, but she ignored his reaction. Her hand pumping furiously, she inflated the cuff to full pressure, the bleeding slowing, slowing, then stopping.

Grabbing at the scattered supplies, she came up with a cylindrical pack, which she ripped open with her teeth. Crouching over him, she plugged the gauze into the wound, readjusting the doctor’s hands. “Not outta the woods. Tamponade the bleed. Here. Hard. Harder.” With one hand she thumbed an edge of paper tape up off a roll.

He looked up at her, his expression of gratitude turning to alarm. She didn’t have time to turn around before a hand set down on her head, fisting her hair and ripping her straight back off her feet.

Chapter 50

Watching through the doorway in a state of suspended panic, Nate didn’t see Misha’s hand seize Janie’s hair so much as he anticipated it-the fear of each torturous second finally realized. Misha himself never came into view, just his arm reaching into frame, the fist clenching, the tendons of the wrist flexing powerfully.

Janie was gone so quickly she might have been whipped off by a truck, the Beretta tumbling from her pocket to spin listlessly on the floor. He heard her make a noise like a roar-part pain, part rage-and then Misha’s voice sang out to him. “Nate Overbay. I have your wife. Come out, please.”

His steps plodded slowly down the hall. The sirens sounded closer, but not close enough.

Nate leaped up too fast, his weak ankle giving out. His chest no sooner slapped the tile than he was moving to rise again, shuffling forward.

Dr. Griffin’s grunts of agony covered the noise of Nate stepping into the corridor. Facing away from Nate, Misha was literally towing Janie down the hall by her hair, dragging her slowly and calmly. She twisted and yelled, arcing with pain, the whites of her eyes impossibly big. Her hands, dark with the doctor’s blood, were fastened on Misha’s wrist, trying to relieve the pressure on her hair. In his free hand, Misha gripped one pistol; the handle of the second protruded from the back of his true-blue jeans.

He kept on, his heavy boots taking big strides, not noticing Nate stepping into the open behind them. The sirens were louder yet.

Ahead, an orderly opened a door, and, never slowing, Misha shot him in the shoulder. The man spun around, falling back and away, and the door wobbled closed behind him, a wet splotch marking the wood.

The Beretta was still, improbably, spinning on the tile where it had fallen. Nate stepped in front of Dr. Griffin and picked it up, his hand complaining against the weight of it. It wobbled severely in his grasp as he raised it, the tip jogging across the scene ahead like the sights on a video game with a broken control. No way he could take a shot.

Frustration rose inside him, driving him to a fury. He was about to cast the gun aside and limp in pursuit when something on the floor caught his eye.

A roll of paper tape with a short sticky length lifted from the end.

He stooped and picked it up. Digging a finger through the trigger guard, he wound tape around the pistol and his hand, fusing metal and flesh. The tape made a soft shushing sound as it peeled from the roll. He wrapped and wrapped.

“Nate Overbay! If I get to the elevator before you come out, I will shoot her through the top of her head.”

Nate exhaled evenly through pursed lips. Janie writhed beneath the clenched fist, sliding backward, away from Nate, the shot getting harder every second. With her eyes she implored him. The sirens screamed outside.

Nate lifted the pistol, willing his elbow steady, willing his muscles strong. The gun wavered, the sights trembling across Janie, Misha, Janie, Misha.

Misha reached the end of the corridor and slapped the elevator button. He started to turn.

Nate closed his eyes. Took a single breath. Opened them.

Misha stared down the corridor at him, across the wreckage of carts, tipped-over wheelchairs, the bodies of the wounded. A western standoff. The Ukrainian’s face was alight with surprise and something like amusement.

Nate watched him through the three elevated dots of white on the steel slide-the sights, perfectly aligned.

At Misha’s back the elevator dinged open.

Misha started to raise his gun hand, and Nate squeezed.

A puff of red rose from Misha’s shoulder. He released Janie, staggering back a step into the elevator, an instant of fear claiming his face before he regained his composure. He examined the tuft of raised fabric at his sleeve, flecked with blood. No more than a graze, but it had forced him to release Janie.

The wail of the sirens was matched by the roar of multiple engines, vehicle after vehicle screeching around a turn, maybe a block away. The elevator doors began to slide closed. Janie rolled to the side, out of Misha’s vantage before he could find his focus again.

The recoil had set Nate’s arm on fire, fatiguing the muscle; he struggled to keep the Beretta raised, but the tip lowered to aim at the floor fifteen feet in front of him.

A smirk firmed Misha’s features, and he lifted a hand and flicked the blood from his shoulder, a fuck-you gesture of carelessness, before the doors clamped shut, wiping him from view.

Janie scrambled up and peered over the counter to check on the nurse who’d been shot. Her face went limp- lost cause. Turning, she ran toward Nate and Dr. Griffin, stooping to swipe a bag of saline from the floor. Without slowing, she spiked the bag with a length of sterile tubing.

The doctor’s hands were now firm around the gauze, the blood-pressure cuff holding. “I got it,” Dr. Griffin said. “Get out of here.”

But she was on her knees, fighting a catheter needle from its packaging, thrusting it into his vein with a single swift gesture. She screwed the free end of the tubing into the IV and slapped the saline bag in the doctor’s palm. “Squeeze. Other hand stays on the wound. You understand?”

The sirens reached an earsplitting pitch. Dr. Griffin nodded briskly. “Good. Thanks.”

Janie ushered Nate toward the back corridor, helping shoulder some of his weight when his foot dragged. They reached the patient-transport elevator, and she swiped her ID card, then stabbed at the button repeatedly until the car arrived. As they started down to the ground floor, she dialed her cell phone.

“Meet us in the liquor-store parking lot, two storefronts south. Now. That means now.” She looked at the screen-it had cut out. Her hand, crusted with the doctor’s blood, swung at her side.