An Arrogant Black Belt Threatens a Rookie Nurse in a Rural ER — Unaware She Was a Navy SEAL Officer
Chapter 2
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The doors of Holloway County General opened 40 seconds later. A paramedic she didn't know wheeled in a stretcher with a man on it, soaked to the bone, with a kitchen knife handle still protruding from just below his left clavicle. Knife embedded, not removed in the field—good crew.Reese's eyes did three things at once without her noticing: she measured the angle of the blade; the color of the man's skin registered next; last came the position of the handle relative to the subclavian vein. None of these were things a rookie nurse should be doing. She filed it away.Dr. Kessler swept into the bay, pulling on gloves. "Out of the way, Donovan."She stepped back against the wall. Kessler stood over the patient and barked orders: "Two large-bore IVs, O-neg on standby, get me a chest X-ray."The nurses moved. Reese moved, too, hands quick and quiet, threading an 18-gauge into the patient's right antecubital on the first try.The patient's eyes rolled toward her. He was conscious, scared. He grabbed her wrist with surprising strength."Don't pull it out," he whispered. "He said... don't pull it out.""Sir, who said?" Reese asked softly."The man... on the phone. He said, 'Don't pull it.'"The patient drifted. Reese leaned closer, her tactical brain firing patterns she told herself she didn't use anymore. Stab wound to the chest, patient told not to remove the blade—that meant whoever stabbed him knew exactly what they were doing, knew the knife was the only thing keeping a major vessel from blowing open. That wasn't a fight; that was a message.She glanced at his hands: calloused in specific places—index finger, web of the thumb—hands that had held a rifle for a long time. A thin chain around his neck, half-tucked under his collar: the edge of two metal tags. Dog tags.She straightened before anyone noticed her looking. "Dr. Kessler... his hands... he may be—""Did I ask for your assessment, Donovan? Get me the ultrasound now."Reese turned and walked to the supply alcove. Her hands were steady; her heart was not. Her heart was hammering against her ribs in a rhythm she hadn't felt in three years.She rolled the portable ultrasound back into the bay. The patient's BP had dropped to 95 over 50.Kessler swore. "Where the hell is the surgical attending?""Dr. Phelps is 40 minutes out, sir," the unit secretary called. "The bridge on Route 9 is washed out. He's coming the long way."Kessler's face flushed. Reese had seen that flush before on men who were about to do something stupid because they couldn't admit they were out of their depth. The patient was crashing. He needed a surgeon; he didn't have one. Kessler was the only physician in the building, and Kessler had not performed an emergency thoracotomy since residency, and even then, he had assisted, not led. Reese knew this because she had read his published case files when she vetted the hospital before taking the job. She had vetted everyone. Old habits."Prep him for thoracotomy," Kessler said.Vera froze. "Doctor, are you sure that's—""Prep him!" His voice cracked on the second word.