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Marcus called Annie, but she didn’t answer.

He called the command center lines but got busy signals.

By the time the DSS van he was riding in reached the west parking lot of the stadium, the place was filled with fire trucks, ambulances, and hazmat units. To their left, two Coast Guard MH-60 Jayhawk helicopters were landing side by side. That drew his eye, and as he looked in that direction, Marcus spotted paramedics rushing two stretchers over to the choppers. Then he spotted Annie, Maya, and Mr. Garcia. Fearing the worst, he ordered the driver to head that way. He jumped out of the van before it stopped and reached the first chopper in time to see Mrs. Garcia, drenched in blood, being loaded inside.

“Marcus,” Annie shouted over the roar of the rotors. “Thank God you’re safe,” she said, wrapping her arms around him.

He held her tightly, grateful she, too, was alive. Then he saw his mom being loaded into the second chopper. He raced to her side, but she told him she was fine. Cut up, but fine.

“Go with Louisa,” she insisted. “Maya will come with me, and we’ll see you there.”

Marcus was going to protest, but Javier grabbed him.

“Marcus, please come with us.”

Marcus nodded and followed the older man and Annie into the first chopper with two paramedics. They lifted off and headed south.

Minutes later they were landing on the roof of the University of Chicago’s level-one trauma center. A team of doctors was waiting for them. Mrs. Garcia was rushed inside while Annie, holding her hand, did her best to answer their many questions.

Marcus helped his former father-in-law into a wheelchair and then into an exam room. Javier was pleading to stay with his wife, and the nurse promised she would take him to her soon. First, however, she needed to treat him.

“I’m fine,” he protested. “It’s my wife who needs help.”

“And she’s getting the best care in the city,” the young woman replied. “But right now, Mr. Garcia, I need you to lie down. I’m going to give you oxygen, and I need to take your blood pressure.”

He continued to protest until Marcus took his hand, looked him in the eye, and told him everything was going to be fine.

Finally Javier lay back on the examining table as a doctor and a second nurse entered the room.

“Agent Ryker, I’d like you to lie down as well,” the doctor said.

“No, really, I’m fine,” he protested. “I just—”

“Agent Ryker, you’re not fine,” the doctor said calmly. “You’ve lost quite a bit of blood, and you’ve got third-degree burns on your hands and forearms.”

Marcus just stared at the man.

“How do you know who I am?” he asked.

The doctor said nothing but nodded toward a television mounted on the wall. It was tuned to one of the local TV stations, replaying the events of the past hour, including footage from far away of Marcus firing the rocket at the 737 and helping people off the roof of the Willis Tower.

Glancing from the TV set to the doctor’s name badge, Marcus realized that this man was the head of the trauma center, and he was still insisting that Marcus lie down. Marcus looked down at his shirt. It was soaked in blood. He looked at his hands and arms. They really were burned. In the surge of adrenaline back in the tower, he hadn’t realized he’d been shot. He hadn’t felt the effect of the rocket exhaust or the rest of the flames. Now, as the adrenaline wore off, he did.

Obeying the doctor, Marcus climbed onto an examining table as a nurse helped him lie back. And the last thing he remembered was hearing Mr. Garcia say, “Please, Doctor, take good care of this boy. He’s a son to me.”