A.N. And on we go! You all are wonderful!
A quick note, I am not a medical professional, nor do I work in a hospital, nor do I have direct experience/knowledge of hospital procedures. I have researched protocol, for both paramedics and hospitals, and done my best to keep things as realistic as possible, but this is a work of fiction and you may have to suspend disbelief. Please forgive any glaring medical errors.
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Ed and Wordy burst through the doors of the command center, immediately locating officers to take custody of the subject. Ed could not suppress a feeling of relief as he was able to put distance between himself and the obviously deranged man.
"Troy!" he called. The Sergeant turned to look at him. "First subject's in custody but not talking. What's the status?"
"Rivers is bringing the second subject in as we speak. The second subject has been a little more talkative, or rather, should we say 'verbally explosive.' Seems even after that long wait, he missed his intended target."
Small mercies, Ed mentally sighed in relief, unaware that in moments, he would realize just how wrong he was.
"Rivers is fairly confident given the subject's speech that there is not a third shooter, but until we know that for sure, we can't finish clearing the square," Troy explained, voice laced with something Ed couldn't quite pin down.
Ed frowned. He'd known there must have been one or two people left in the square for the second subject to target—why else would he have shot?—and he'd known the risk of another shooter might slow things down, but the true consequences of that hadn't yet clicked… That whoever was still in the square was basically back in a hostage situation. "Who's left in the square? What's their condition? With this heat, Troy, I'm not sure how much longer people can last…" he trailed off, unsettled by Troy's expression, and he suddenly realized that Troy's voice had been apologetic. There was only one reason Troy would feel he owed Ed and Wordy any sort of personal apology, beyond just general regret for the situation itself. No… No!
Ed's dawning comprehension must have shown on his face, because Troy nodded and grimaced. "There are only a few people left, and it's not the heat I'm worried about." He hesitated, before confirming the horrible conclusion Ed had already leapt to. "Ed, it's Braddock," he admitted. "He's still out there, along with Libby Riles, Ben Gaskill and his daughter, and Scarlatti."
Ed could only stare at Troy. "Sam? Sam is still out there? And Spike?" he demanded in disbelief. "Why the hell wasn't he one of the first ones out?! He was critically injured!"
Wordy jerked in surprise beside him, and Ed belatedly realized that Wordy probably hadn't known Sam was injured until that moment. He regretted Wordy finding out that way, but currently had more pressing issues at hand.
"I had to keep the paramedics well back from the front lines," Troy tried to explain. "It's protocol. It took them time to make it up here, while everyone else was able bodied enough to make it out of the square."
"And Spike's out there?" Wordy queried softly.
Troy nodded. "After you two apprehended the first subject, Spike requested he be permitted to go out there, and thinking that it was over, I let him. But not before he passed along the information regarding the victim you followed up on, Ed. Ben Gaskill. We're confident he was the intended target."
Ed connected the dots.
"And you said Gaskill is still out there. But the second shot didn't hit him?"
Troy shook his head slowly. "No… but from what we can piece together, it was meant to, except Braddock intervened. I have no idea how he knew, but it appears he did, and he pulled Gaskill out of the line of fire. Only thing is, he was hit in the process."
"What?" a new voice queried from behind Ed.
Turning quickly, he spotted Jules, who had just returned from her Sierra perch.
"Sam was shot?" she demanded.
Troy nodded.
Shot a second time, Ed added silently, since apparently Jules also did not know about Sam's initial injury. Ed swung his eyes out to the square, though he could see nothing from here. "And now the paramedics can't get him out until you clear all of the surrounding buildings. Troy, that will take hours," he finished quietly.
"I know."
Ed stood in silent disbelief, unable to come to terms with the fact that after all this, they still could do nothing to help Sam.
"To hell with that," he growled, turning to the pair of paramedics he'd noticed standing back of the group. "If we get him to you, can you be prepared to get him to the hospital as soon as humanly possible?"
"Of course," one of them nodded vigorously. "We'll be waiting right out there with our rig and gurney," she gestured to a side alley that ran between buildings, "and you'll need the backboard we dropped on our way into the square," she pointed it out to him.
Ed moved towards the doors that would take him into the square, feeling Wordy and Jules fall into place beside him without question.
"Ed, what are you doing," Troy demanded. "I can't let you all go in there!"
Ed had already let Sam down too many times in the past thirty-six hours; he'd be damned if he would do it again. Sam had undoubtedly saved his life yesterday, and he'd done nothing but yell at him. The least he could do now was try… try to save the life of one of the best men he had ever known.
"Just try and stop us," Ed challenged, as he pushed the door open.
Ed had broken protocol to try to save a life yesterday, the life of someone he didn't even know. He was damn well going to do the same to save his friend.
(…Flashpoint…Flashpoint…Flashpoint…Flashpoint…)
When Spike heard multiple sets of rapid footsteps approach, he thought his ears were deceiving him. But when he looked up, his eyes were met with the glorious sight of Ed, Wordy and Jules rounding the corner with a backboard in hand. The only sight that would have been more glorious would have been EMTs, but beggars couldn't be choosers, and Spike was not ashamed to say that he'd been mentally begging, pleading for someone, anyone to help them.
"Oh thank god," he whispered as his team approached.
He could tell the moment they got their first look at Sam, for he could see in their eyes the shock and horror that had been reflected in his own, was probably still reflected in his own. To their credit, they did not freeze, they continued forward to kneel beside him, around their fallen team member, but their faces were stricken.
"Oh god, Sam," Wordy murmured, hands trembling as he laid the backboard down, eyes drawn to the bloody mess that was formerly Spike's shirt, pressed desperately against the side of Sam's head. "Is he—"
"He's alive," Spike snapped—for now, he couldn't stop himself from adding silently—unable to let Wordy complete his query. "But he is not good." Wow, Spike, way to understate it… "Where are the EMTs?" he asked—though he thought already knew the answer—because Sam needed medical assistance yesterday.
"They're waiting for us at the edge of the square; they can't come in to an active scene, we're not even supposed to be here, but like hell were we going to leave you two on your own, not after everything…" Wordy trailed off. He didn't need to finish the sentence, as everyone knew what he was referencing.
"All right, Spike, you keep your hold on Sam," Ed ordered, resuming his usual role of authority, trying to infuse some form of normality into a situation that was so far beyond normal, "the rest of us are going to shift him on three, and then we're getting the hell out of here. And you three," he turned to the three civilians, "we're fairly confident the scene is safe, but cannot guarantee it. You can take your chances and come with us, or wait until you get the go ahead, which may not come for hours." He turned away without waiting for a response, knowing everything they were doing was so far beyond protocol. "Okay, one, two, three!"
And then they were up and running, no thought for their own safety. Spike was unsurprised to find Libby running just behind him and to his right, but he wasn't sure if Ben Gaskill and his daughter had also decided to risk it.
When they reached the edge of the square and took a few more steps into an alley, they found an ambulance and two paramedics waiting for them, gurney at the ready.
As gently but quickly as possible, Team One placed Sam on the waiting gurney.
"He has a GSW to the chest and head," Spike explained breathlessly, trying to give them as much information as possible. "The one to the chest occurred at the beginning of the incident, but the one to the head only just happened. He's lost a lot of blood, and has been unresponsive since the second shot, but I don't know if he lost consciousness before then. Libby?" he prompted.
"He was conscious and with it until a few minutes before the head wound. Maybe what, 10 minutes ago? Then he started to slur his words, but he didn't lose consciousness until the bullet—until the bullet hit him in the head."
Spike did not let go of his grip on Sam's head as one paramedic began examining Sam, while the other immediately began unpacking supplies.
"Sir, I need you to move back," the woman told Spike, her tone one of authority.
"But," he trailed off, staring at his hands, his hands which were desperately pressed against the side of Sam's head, cradling his friend, afraid that if he let go, if he lost touch with Sam, that his friend would slip away between one instant and the next.
"I know, but I need to be able to treat him and I can't do that with you in the way." She looked him dead in the eyes and told him, "I've got him, sir. He's not going anywhere yet."
Yet… that word made Spike's heart clench, but it was all he could hold onto right now. Yet. And Spike let go.
Immediately, her hands were there, pressing and prodding, before covering the area with a white bandage that quickly lost its pristine color.
"How does it look, Lynn?" the other EMT asked.
Spike looked up to see her partner treating the wound on Sam's chest.
"Looks like he may have been lucky, the head might just be a graze, but we have to stop its bleeding."
A hand crept into Spike's, and he didn't have to look to know whose it was. Someone who was hoping just like he was that this wasn't it. Libby's hand squeezed his, and he squeezed back just as hard.
Lynn rattled off Sam's vitals as she checked him and while Spike did not understand some of the specifics, what he could pick out, he did not like the sound of. Elevated temperature. Sluggish pupils. BP low and dropping. "Bill, he needs a line in yesterday."
"It's in!"
"All right, pack him up, we need to get him to the hospital now."
As the duo loaded Sam into the rig, Libby pulled her hand from Spike's and stepped forward, clearly intent on joining her friend.
Spike put out a hand to stop her.
She looked up at him in betrayal.
"Libby, your parents are worried sick and you need medical treatment," he gestured at her dangling arm, amazed that she was still standing as he was pretty sure the bones were broken clean through, though they hadn't pierced her skin, thankfully. "And they're going to have their hands full with Sam."
"Bullshit! You just don't want me to see," she accused.
Spike didn't deny her accusation, because she was right. But she reluctantly backed away as Spike stepped into the ambo instead and the doors closed, Spike's last glimpse of her was her standing with half of Team One, all of whom looked stunned and lost.
Once the doors shut, the ambulance began moving at what felt like a glacial pace, all the while Lynn continued to treat Sam.
"Sir do you know how to check a pulse?" she demanded, making eye contact.
Spike nodded.
"Excellent. I want you to keep your fingers on his neck and track his pulse. The minute it stops, you tell me."
Spike placed shaking fingers on the pulse point, glad he had something to do, but terrified at the fact that she'd said it like Sam's heart stopping was inevitable, not just a possibility.
He could only watch and wait as he felt Sam slipping away, each beat coming faster and weaker, while Lynn did everything in her power to keep Sam alive.
Just as she finished bandaging Sam's chest, Spike felt it stop. Felt Sam's heart stop. He waited a moment, adjusted the position of his fingers, searching desperately, before admitting the truth.
"No pulse," he croaked.
She swore. "I need you to begin compressions, sir," she ordered as she pulled out an AED. "Bill, how far out are we?!"
"Three minutes!"
"Make it two!"
Spike immediately moved to comply. He'd always been unnerved by the ease with which ribs bent under compression, had always feared he would push too hard, but that fear was nothing to what he felt as he worked on Sam, as he worked to do what Sam's heart could not.
Oh god.
The next moments became a blur as he continued compressions while she attached the leads of the AED and instructed him to move away. They held their breath as Sam's body jerked.
Please.
Spike's hope evaporated as Lynn resumed compressions.
(…Flashpoint…Flashpoint…Flashpoint…Flashpoint…)
Libby could only stand in shock, lost, as the ambulance screamed away from her, the ambulance carrying someone who had changed her life in so many ways. A friend whom, up until a few days ago, she'd thought she might never see again for reasons of safety. And then she'd been able to spend less than twenty-four hours with him, before it was once again uncertain whether she would ever see him again for a very different reason. A more terrifying and permanent reason.
"Libby, Spike said you need medical treatment," she heard Ed tell her gently from somewhere far away. She felt his hand land on her shoulder as he continued, "let me take you to get some help."
For a second, she was too unfocused to realize what was happening, until the weight of his hand finally registered and she jerked out of his reach. "Don't touch me!" she hissed, stumbling away from him, biting her lip in order to stop a scream of agony and frustration as her broken arm at last made itself known. She glared at Ed, hoping her eyes were staring daggers, but knowing in reality that they were just filled with tears.
He looked at her in surprise.
"Too little, too late," she snarled, knowing she was probably being too harsh, but she couldn't bring herself to care. Without another word, she turned and stalked off on her own in search of the triage place set up for victims. Finally locating it, she shivered as she set foot inside of a building for the first time in… she didn't know how long. A water bottle was thrust into her hand and a chair pushed at her.
She sat down heavily, staring at the ground numbly, feeling that numbness creep over her entire body, taking with it the pain and fear.
What finally broke her out of her stupor was when someone—a paramedic—prodded her broken arm. She was sure they meant to do so gently, but it made her arm sing with renewed pain, pain that had probably been there since it first broke, but which had been dulled by adrenaline and her need to keep Sam alive.
Sam.
As the paramedic asked her questions and applied a splint, she replied automatically, but had no idea what she was saying. Her thoughts were speeding away from her, following that ambulance racing towards a hospital, racing towards a chance.
Finally, she heard her name shouted, which caused her to pick up her head and sluggishly look around, eyes landing on the figures of her parents and brother rushing towards her.
"Oh my god, Libby! Are you okay? Are you hurt? Where are you bleeding? Is she bleeding?" her father demanded, the last question going to the paramedic inserting an IV in her good arm.
"It looks like she has a broken arm and is suffering from severe dehydration and mild heatstroke, but given proper treatment she'll be fine."
"Where's all this blood coming from?" Alex demanded.
"It's n—" Libby tried, voice coming out fractured and broken. She cleared her throat and tried again. "It's Sam's. It's not mine."
She saw the momentary relief flash through her parents' eyes, before the concern roared back full force. And that concern made her close her eyes in an effort to hold back the tears. Because she didn't care about her broken arm or the clinical way this person was treating her, all she cared about was Sam, and this paramedic didn't, but now finally here were people who did. Who understood.
"Oh god," her dad breathed.
"We need to go to the hospital," Libby told them.
"Yes, you do," the paramedic agreed, not understanding the reasoning. "You'll need to continue to receive fluids and have your arm properly treated."
"No, Sam—" she tried to explain slowly, but her parents cut her off.
"We know, Libby. You need to get to the hospital to get treated and to get to Sam."
She nodded. Because if she put it like that, it meant Sam would still be there when she got to him.
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A.N.2. That wasn't as bad of a cliffhanger, right? Right? Okay, maybe it was...
Also, a few of you have brought up concerns regarding how Sam figured things out (regarding the second shooter and Ben) when he had no resources. For now, all I can say is I hear you and I thank you for raising the concern! For now I ask that you be patient, as I do address this in later chapters and explain it, so I hope that when the explanation comes (and it comes in pieces, not all at once), that is satisfies :)