Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92899 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92899 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
We arrived within moments at an accident scene that looked like a war zone. Emergency vehicles lined both sides of the highway, their lights painting the rain and smoke in shifting reds and blues. Steam rose from the wreckage of what had been a sedan, now upside down and accordioned against the concrete barrier. There were three other vehicles turned at bad angles and dented, doors hanging open but with now empty seats.
My throat tightened when I realized how bad it was. Tommy went very still beside me, and I saw his hands clench in his lap.
“Jesus,” he whispered, staring at the wreckage. For a moment, the professional mask slipped, and I saw the terrified brother again. “That’s Hazel’s car.”
I pulled up behind the fire truck and immediately noticed what was missing—no law enforcement vehicles. The scene was being managed entirely by fire and EMS, which explained the slightly chaotic feel to the whole operation.
“Tommy, stop,” I said before he could race out of the truck. “Disposable poncho in your gear bag. Put it on.”
He nodded and shot me a look of gratitude that made my chest ache. “Thanks, Foster.” As he raced away, I saw him pull out the poncho and yank it on.
“Sheriff Blake, Majestic County,” I called out to the guy who seemed to be in charge as I approached the scene, my badge now hanging over a rain slicker. “How can I help?”
“Chief Judd Kincaid, Legacy FD. Unfortunately, lightning strikes have caused all kinds of shit today. We’ve almost got an opening to get her out, but we’ve got our hands full trying to manage extraction and crowd control. The lookie-loos are going to get themselves killed, and we don’t have enough first responders for that.”
As I shook hands with him, I watched Tommy move past us toward a very young EMT. “Are you DJ?” he called out over the noise of engines and radios. “I’m Dr. Tommy Marian.”
The guy sagged in relief. “You made it.”
Tommy nodded, and I watched something settle over him like armor. “Who’s the most critical patient on scene?”
The EMT’s eyebrows shot up so quickly it was almost comical. “Definitely your sister, sir. She’s stable for now, but we’re still having trouble with the extraction. The angle’s all wrong, and—”
“Show me.”
Before they reached the vehicle, Tommy noticed a young woman with auburn hair and tearstained cheeks sitting in the back of an ambulance with an EMT taking her vitals.
“Avery!” Tommy hustled over and pulled her into a hug. “You still okay?”
The relief on her face was heartbreaking. “Hazel’s been asking for you. They won’t let me—”
“Just worry about you and the baby. Let these folks take care of you, okay? I’m going to get her out, I promise.” He gave her one last squeeze of reassurance, and I saw his hands shake slightly as he pulled away. Then he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and moved quickly toward the wreckage.
With each minute that passed, he seemed to grow more focused, more certain. This Dr. Marian was completely in charge and fearless—not the uncertain man from the cave, not even the ultra-capable instructor from SERA. This was someone who belonged in crisis, who thrived under pressure that would flatten most people.
When a news van tried to pull onto the shoulder for a better view, I intercepted them before they could get close enough to interfere.
“This is an active emergency scene,” I told the reporter firmly. “You need to stay back at least two hundred yards.”
“But we have a right to—”
“You have a right to report the news from a safe distance that doesn’t interfere with lifesaving operations,” I cut him off. “Move your vehicle, or I’ll have it towed.”
The authority in my voice brooked no argument. Several of my friends back in Majestic were famous or obscenely wealthy. I had more than enough experience keeping the media away from people who deserved privacy.
The van retreated, and I turned my attention back to Tommy, who was now coordinating with what looked like every emergency responder on scene, none of whom looked old enough to vote.
“Jesus Christ,” I heard one of the local EMTs mutter to his partner next to one of the other ambulances where they were treating other victims. “Who does that guy think he is?”
Something hot and protective flared in my chest. “He’s a top-tier trauma doc. If you can claim the same, I’m sure he’d appreciate an assist. Otherwise, get back to your patient.”
Both men turned to stare at me, then back at Tommy, who was now crouched beside the wreckage, talking to someone I couldn’t see.
“Where’d you guys even come from?” the other EMT asked.
“SERA,” I said simply. Everyone knew the program had a stellar reputation for training emergency responders, and chances were, these guys would never have the privilege of being part of it.