Outside the dical center.
"What's your na?"
The bomb squad leader shouted at the female paradic, who was on the verge of losing it.
"Hannah Davis," she replied, her voice shaking.
"Okay, Hannah," the bomb squad leader said. "If we're gonna save Mr. Carlson, we need to get that bomb out now, and you're the only one who can do it."
"I can't!" Hannah cried out, tears streaming down her face.
"Yes, you can!" the leader yelled back. "You just need to be super careful and super slow when you pull it out. Keep it level, then hand it to , got it?"
"No, I can't do it! I'm outta here!" Hannah's fear was spiraling out of control.
Pressing down on the bomb was terrifying enough—now they wanted her to remove it from the patient's body? Even with all the care in the world, that was a huge move. Just thinking about the danger made her stomach drop.
"No! You're a paradic—you have to save my husband!" shouted Mindy, the patient's wife, her voice booming.
That did it.
But not in the way Mindy hoped.
Hannah's mind raced. She'd worked so hard to save this guy—breaking protocol by shoving her hand into his chest—and for what? To save soone who'd brought this on himself and nearly got everyone else killed too? And now his wife was screaming at her to risk her life?
She was only 22, fresh out of school, just starting her career—her life had barely begun! If this patient were a hero, or even just an innocent bystander, maybe she'd grit her teeth and take the chance. But this guy? He'd ssed around with so World War II weapons ga, and even his so-called "comrades" wouldn't co save him. Why should she?
Screw it. If this was the job, soone else could have it! She had a family—parents who adored her. How devastated would they be if she died?
The second Mindy finished yelling, these thoughts hit Hannah like a freight train. She yanked her hand back, jumped off the ambulance, and bolted into the distance.
"Nooo!!!" Mindy scread again, her voice echoing.
But that was it. She didn't move an inch—just like the awkward French-Italian guy standing there sheepishly.
"Damn it!"
Everyone ducked behind walls. The bomb squad leader, being closest, hit the deck hard. It was pure instinct.
A few seconds passed.
No explosion.
Everyone let out a collective sigh of relief and peeked out. The bomb squad leader stood up, glanced at the patient, then back at the group. Gritting his teeth, he said, "I'm going in to get the bomb. Be ready to save him the second I do."
Adam frowned. The sense of danger hadn't faded—it was getting worse. That could only an one thing. He was about to warn the leader to stay back when—
Boom!
A cloud of pink mist erupted.
The bomb's power and timing weren't enough to blow everyone away. Only the bomb squad leader, being so close, got knocked down by the blast.
"Save him!"
The danger finally lifted, and Adam was the first to sprint over. He checked the leader—out cold, back shredded with tal shards, bleeding like crazy.
"Stretcher!" Dr. Burke, the second to snap out of it, yelled through the ringing in his ears.
No one responded. The hospital nurses weren't used to this chaos—ears buzzing, they couldn't even process what was being said.
Adam didn't wait. He scooped the leader up with both arms, rushed him into the hospital, and laid him on a stretcher Dr. Burke had personally wheeled over. They pushed him toward the ER, checking vitals on the fly.
"Captain!"
A few bomb squad mbers crowded around. They were pros at dealing with the ringing ears and snapped into action.
"Go get the nurses," Adam ordered.
"Danger's over—get oxygen back to the ER now!"
"Prep the OR!"
"Get Dr. Sandy over here!"
Dr. Burke grabbed the ER's internal phone and called Richard, the surgical chief who'd been waiting for updates, telling him to restore oxygen.
The bomb squad leader was a ss. Before surgery, they'd need to stabilize him in the ER—oxygen masks and breathing aids were a must. The OR would take a bit to prep too.
With Adam and Dr. Burke working together, they got him stable enough to roll into Operating Room 3. Dr. Sandy, the plastic surgeon, was already waiting.
The leader had been so close to the blast—his back was full of shrapnel, and the explosion's heat had burned huge patches of skin. Plastic surgery was definitely in his future.
The one silver lining? He'd been facing away from the bomb. If he hadn't, his face would've been toast.
Back surgery versus facial reconstruction? In a world obsessed with looks, those are two totally different beasts. Modern plastic surgery isn't magic—fixing a ruined face just ans going from "terrifying" to "less terrifying." Dreaming of a full recovery—or even an upgrade? Yeah, good luck with that. The back, though? Way easier to handle.
While Adam and the team fought to save the leader in the OR, all hell broke loose outside.
Mindy, the dead patient's wife, was sobbing and screaming her head off. The French-Italian guy in an Allied uniform was busy blaming the doctors and paradics for being useless. It was a total ss—until the FBI showed up, hauled them off, and finally gave the hospital so peace.
Sure, Arica's the land of "guns every day"—the Second Andnt says you can carry, and no one's taking that away. But there's a line, and it doesn't include anti-tank rockets. Mindy could scream all she wanted about her husband "just making a big gun," but the FBI wasn't buying it.
It's 1999—no 9/11 yet—but Aricans are already jumpy about bombs and attacks. Can't bla them. When your country's stirring up trouble worldwide and making enemies left and right, you know retaliation's a risk. They won't say it out loud, but they're scared.
This is New York, the economic and cultural heart of the U.S., and a top-tier hospital almost got blown sky-high. The FBI wasn't ssing around—they were digging deep.
You can whip up a rocket in the suburbs today and fire it off your shoulder. What's stopping you from a full-on terrorist attack tomorrow? Even if you don't, what if that stuff falls into the wrong hands?
When the feds get serious, no one's off the hook.
Adam stepped out of the OR, exhausted, only to find a young, stunning woman in a sharp suit waiting for him. She stood up, flashing a dimple he couldn't resist, and held up her badge.
"Dr. Adam Duncan, I'm Jessie Paige, FBI. Got a minute? I've got so questions for you…" 😏
belamy20
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