An instant mental inventory of causes for his imbalance, from illegal substances to head injuries, quickened CJ’s pulse. “Call nine-one-one,” she instructed the taxi driver, who was still cursing and stomping his feet.
“Are either of you having difficulty breathing? In pain? Lightheaded? Nauseous?” Moving toward the passenger, CJ visually assessed the car’s driver, who looked a little dazed and confused himself, as if he wasn’t sure if this was real or just a bad dream. No apparent injuries. “Any head or neck pain?”
The passenger wore a black Bob Marley T-shirt. Now that she was closer, CJ could see that the T-shirt and his hands were bloody as hell. Her pulse accelerated. His inability to regain his equilibrium persisted.
“Is he calling the cops?”
CJ ignored the driver’s question. “Where’d the blood come from?” she asked the Bob Marley fan, who appeared focused on her blue scrubs. The guy had no visible signs of injury. Eyes were glassy. His long dark hair was stringy but not wet or sticky. Where the hell had the blood come from?
“My brother.” He grabbed her arm, tugged her around the open passenger door. “He needs help.”
There was another passenger?
CJ pushed the guy aside and maneuvered her way into the back seat.
Damn.
Blood. Lots of blood.
The third passenger was a kid, not more than nine or ten. His pajama top was saturated in crimson. She tugged the top up and out of the way to get a look at his torso. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t moan.
Penetrating chest wound.
Shit.
She needed more light. Bracing her hand on the seat, she leaned closer. Something wet oozed up between her fingers. Blood.Shit. Shit. Shit. The seat ... She checked the knees of her scrubs, the damned floorboard—blood was everywhere.
Instinct kicked in and training overrode emotion.
Patient had no other visible injuries.
Not breathing.
Oh, hell.
No pulse.
Adrenaline detonated in CJ’s veins, sharpening her senses. “Help me get him out of here!”
The older brother stuck his upper body into the car. “What?”
“You and your friend,” CJ commanded, “help me get him out of the car and on the ground. Hurry!”
The two men scrambled into unsteady action. CJ cradled the boy’s head and neck as the brother and his friend lifted him out of the back seat.
“Put him down over there.” She jerked her head toward the front of the taxi. The headlights would help her see what she was doing. Streetlights weren’t enough.
“You! Taxi guy!” CJ shouted at the man still on his cell phone. He stopped explaining their circumstances and stared at her in question. “Tell them I need an ALS unit. We have full trauma arrest.” She turned back to the boy. The battle was very nearly over. “Tell them to hurry!”
“You can help him, right?” The older brother dropped to his knees on the pavement next to her.
“We have to control the bleeding.” CJ needed this guy focused on his little brother, not distracting her.
“You know what this means?” his friend yelled as he paced back and forth in the middle of the street. “The cops are coming. We gotta get outta here.”
“Shut up!” the brother screamed.
“Give me your hand.” CJ reached out to him. His eyes were wild with fear and whatever had him buzzed. His hand shook as she gripped his wrist and covered the wound with his palm. “Keep pressure there. It slows the bleeding.”
