Izzie felt so damned small in his arms. She was slightly below average height, he thought, but…that felt so small right now. Allen placed her on the gurney inside the ER as people swarmed them both, yelling for the help he needed.
People came running.
Wanda was there, terror on her face. She loved her third-shift nurses. Everyone knew that.
“I’ve got her!” Wanda helped guide Izzie’s legs onto the gurney. Izzie was limp now, not moving, completely unresponsive. “It’s ok, baby. It’s going to be ok. Izzie, baby girl, can you hear me? Allen, who did this to her?”
Allen doubted Izzie could hear. She looked gone. He’d seen enough deceased patients in his time.
He shoved back the panic. He’d been trained not to panic. “Get her upstairs. He shot her at least three times that I know of. Looked like a .38, felt like a damned cannon. I don’t know if the bullets are still inside her body.”
Every gunshot victim he’d ever treated rushed through his head. He’d seen quite a few, from hunting accidents and even some gang activity from Boethe Street.
Some, he’d saved; so many, he’d lost.
It didn’t look good.
“Who did this to her?” Cherise demanded, already cutting through the bloody scrubs. The fear in her eyes was something he’d never forget.
“Wallace Henedy. Get prepared,” Allen said harshly. “He still has Nikkie Jean across the street. I don’t know what’s happening now. He shot Izzie and kept Nikkie Jean.”
Everyone knew what that could mean.
“We’ll get our Izzie upstairs to Virat,” Wanda said determinedly. She pulled in a harsh breath and pulled herself together. Wanda had a habit of mothering the younger nurses and doctors. Especially the ones on second and third shifts. Cherise was almost as bad. “We’ll be ready for our Nikkie Jean. Someone needs to take care of your arm, too, Allen. Everyone, pull yourselves together right now and let’s do what needs to be done. If you don’t think you can do it, then step aside and let someone else in who can.”
Allen had almost forgotten his own wound. It burned like the blazes, but he’d live. There was no such guarantee for the woman on the gurney. “Just take care of her, Wanda.”
“Will do.”
They had her prepped within heartbeats. They worked fast at the Finley Creek Gen ER.
His last sight of Izzie was two of the male nurses wheeling her toward the elevators. Allen was damned convinced he’d never see the woman alive again. Allen bit back the fear—for her and for Nikkie Jean.
Layla Kaur, an obstetrician who seemed to always be around the hospital of the evenings, treated his shoulder. The bullet had passed straight through, nicking his collarbone. He’d live.
All it required was a handful of stitches and maybe a few days in a sling.
It was going to take more than a few stitches for Izzie.
It would be a miracle if she pulled through. He knew all of the ways something could go wrong.
Allen couldn’t stand it any longer. As soon as Layla was finished, he nodded. He saw the fear in her brown eyes, too.
They were too much like Izzie’s. Like Jess’s. He’d always loved brown eyes. Far too many women were being hurt in this damned hospital. Women he cared about.
Nikkie Jean…was still over there.
He couldn’t help her now. Allen stood and pulled his shirt off. Right there on the light-blue cloth was a brick-red stain.
Fingers. A small handprint.
Izzie’s handprint in her own damned blood. Right over where Allen’s heart had been. Allen covered it with his own, much larger hand. “I’m going upstairs. I’ll be there when they get Nikkie Jean out.”