I turn my back on the man. The patient always comes first. “Alvarez, the Narcan. Push it. Prep epi.”
Alvarez freezes.
She stares past me at the second man. The younger suit. Built like a linebacker, a thick neck straining against his collar. He steps into the room and opens his suit jacket.
He doesn’t draw a weapon. He doesn’t have to.
Tanned leather flashes, a shoulder holster over a crisp white shirt. The black matte grip of the weapon screams function.
Unsafe scene. Retreat.The mantra flashes through my brain.
But I can’t retreat. My patient is on the table.
“Leave the room, Nurse.” Mercer folds his hands. His words carry the weight of a command from a king to a peasant.
“Stay right where you are, Alvarez.” I line the needle up with the patient’s IV. My hand shakes. “If you interfere with patient care, I’ll have you arrested. Security is seconds away.”
“Security has been relieved.” Mercer crosses the linoleum toward me, silent on the tile. “You’re relieved, Doctor Kincaid.”
The patient on the table arches his back. A sound rips from his throat, despite the endotracheal tube, a gurgling, wet rattle every doctor knows. The death rattle. He seizes.
“He’s coding.” Adrenaline slams into my system. “Charging paddles. Clear.”
I reach for the defibrillator handles. I know the algorithm. I can bring him back.
A hand clamps around my wrist.
It belongs to the younger suit. Cold, dry, immovable, a grip like a mechanical clamp. A vise of sinew and malice.
“Let go.” I stare up at him.
I search his face. Nothing. No empathy. A dead void.
“He’s dying!”
“Let him go, Doctor.” Mercer stands right beside me now, close enough that the scent of sandalwood and mint invades my space. “This is mercy. He’s been in pain a long time.”
“This is murder.” Tears of frustration sting. “You’re killing him.”
Mercer looks down at the boy on the table. For a second, his expression shifts to something like disappointment, the face of a man whose expensive toy broke before he finished playing with it.
“He made his choices, Doctor.”
“You can’t do this.” I twist against the joint, digging my nails into the suit’s tendon.
He doesn’t flinch. He squeezes harder.
The bones in my wrist grind together. Pain shoots up my arm, sharp and white-hot, radiating into my shoulder.
“Stop.” My knees buckle under the pressure.
“Step back, doctor.” Mercer motions to the guard. “Know when it’s time to quit.”
On the monitor, the chaotic squiggles flatten. The peaks and valleys of life smooth into a single flat line. The alarm triggers a piercing wail that signals the end.
A long, flat beep echoes off the tile.
The sound of death fills the room, drowning out my ragged breathing, drowning out the hum of the lights.
