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Looking up at that face, those eyes, I felt the same cold dread that I had felt watching that Lincoln Town Car skid into the parking lot. The cold press of impending doom, the immense pressure of black destiny.
“What’s his name?” I whispered despite myself.
“What?”
“Your friend. What’s his name?”
“Johnny,” he gritted out. “His name’s Johnny.”
“Connor!” Redhead had caught up with us. “C’mon, man—give them some room to work.”
Murder-glare—Connor—just stood there, staring at me, oblivious to the way his friend was trying to pull him back. Saying nothing and everything in one look, those cold, cold eyes conveying the severity of the situation better than any words could. Another wave of recognition, and another wave of nausea. Not from the man himself, but from the words tattooed on the knuckles fisted in Connor’s jacket, trying to pull him back. Words I had last seen half a lifetime ago.
Fuil agus Onóir.
Blood and honor. A soldier’s vow of allegiance to the Irish mob.
Swallowing back a wave of revulsion, I looked back up. Connor was now staring at me with wary curiosity, obviously having noticed the look on my face.
“Dr. Brannigan, we need you.” Teresa poked her head out of Bay Three, the tension in her voice and the ringing alarms in the background yanking me back to reality.
“I need to be in there if you want me to save your friend,” I said.
Redhead started to pull him towards the exit. “C’mon, Connor, let her go. John’s in good hands.”
Connor released a huff of breath the same moment he released my arm, a muscle working in his jaw as he stepped back. Redhead steered him by both shoulders, propelling his friend into the waiting room seconds before security arrived.
Save him.
It wasn’t the first time I had been accosted by a victim’s family or friends in the chute, and it wouldn’t be the last. Still, the plea that had been delivered strangely like a command rang in my ears, and I spared one final look at the waiting room door as it swung shut.
Then I turned back towards the operating room doors and set about saving a life.
2
Connor
“Teagan’shere.”Alfielockedthe bathroom door firmly behind him and hopped up onto the counter next to me. The last few minutes alone had given me enough time to get myself back under control, but even still, I could almost hear the countertop’s cheap composite surface creak beneath my grip.
“He bring the boys with him?” I asked.
“Grady and Finn are running interference with the cops.”
“Good.” I turned my attention to the sink, scrubbing at the dried blood on my hands. “Get Teag working on admin, I don’t want any record of this slipping through the cracks…”
“He’s already on it.”
I looked over at him. “…and we need to get ahold of Johnny’s old lady. Have Sloane do it. She’s good at that sort of thing.”
“You don’t think we should wait to hear what the doc says? We don’t need to worry her more than we need to.” Good old Alfie, never fearing the worst despite everything he’d seen and done. Like there couldn’t be any other outcome besides Johnny living through surgery and making a full recovery.
I looked at my best friend, at those unruly auburn curls and freckles, the laugh lines earned from the perma-smile he wore. Alfie Doyle never took anything too seriously, not love, not work, certainly not himself—not even the fact that we were on the arse end of one of the most colossal cock-ups in recent memory could even get him down. But life had taught me better than to hope, because stories like ours rarely had happy endings.
“His Ma’s in the life,” I said, “she knows what the stakes are. She deserves to know now. Call her.” Never mind the fact that no matter what the outcome, Johnny’s Ma would box both our ears ‘til they bled if we waited to tell her, grown ass men or not.
“All right, I’ll let Sloane know.” Alfie paused, and I could feel the weight of his stare. “You good, man?”
“I’m fine.”
