Pop-pop-pop.
Glass shatters. A bottle explodes on the pavement next to me.
"GET DOWN!" I roar.
I tackle Luke. We hit the concrete hard behind a parked delivery truck.
Pop-pop-pop.
The sound echoes off the brick buildings. For a second, I am not in New York. The smell of garbage turns into the smell of burning diesel. The neon sign flickering above me turns into the harsh glare of the Kandahar sun.
My breath hitches. My vision tunnels. I can’t breathe.
Incoming. Mass cal. Where’s my kit? Where’s my kit?
"Jax!"
The voice is distant. Warped.
"Jax! He’s hit! Jax!"
I blink. The desert fades. The neon returns. Luke is grabbing my shoulders, shaking me. He’s pale, terrified, but his ER Attending voice is on.
"Jax! Snap out of it! We have a victim!"
I look where he’s pointing. A man is lying on the sidewalk ten feet away. The car is gone. The shooter is gone.
But the blood is here.
Bright red. Pulsing. Arterial.
Femoral artery. Ninety seconds.
The switch flips. The PTSD lock snaps shut, and the Trauma Chief software loads.
"Belt," I bark. "Give me your belt."
"What?"
"BELT! NOW!"
Luke rips his belt off. I slide across the pavement on my knees. I jam my knee into the man’s groin, cutting off the flow. He screams.
"Sorry, buddy," I grunt. "This is gonna suck."
I loop the belt high and tight. I crank it down. The leather groans. I pull until the fountain slows to a trickle.
"Luke! Time?"
"03:12!" Luke yells, checking his watch.
"Call 911. GSW to the femoral. Tourniquet applied. Pressure is holding. Tell them O’Connell is on scene."
I look down at the man. He’s young. He’s wearing aGroom To Besash.
"You’re gonna make it," I tell him, wiping blood from my eyes. "You’re not dying on my stag night. It’s tacky."
Sirens wail. I keep the pressure. My tuxedo shirt is ruined. My hands are red. And I am perfectly calm.
