"Ma'am, can you hear me?" The second EMT asked, gently turning her head to check her pupils. "Can you tell me your name?" Alana tried to respond, but only managed a horse whisper before another wave of dizziness washed over her. "We need to get her to the hospital," the first EMT said urgently.
"Help me get these cuffs off. She's under arrest, Cain barked, stepping forward. His badge caught the strobing lights as he loomed over them. She needs immediate medical attention, the EMT countered firmly. Protocol says the cuffs come off.
After a tense moment, Cain nodded to another officer who produced a key. The cuffs finally clicked open, leaving angry red marks on Alana's wrists. The EMTs carefully lifted her onto a stretcher, strapping her in with practice deficiency. As they wheeled her toward the ambulance, Cain's voice carried across the scene. Another thug off the street.
The crowd's angry response was cut off as the ambulance doors closed. Inside, the younger EMT began hooking up monitors while his partner prepared an IV line. The siren wailed to life above them. Let's see some ID," the first EMT muttered, reaching for the wallet in Alana's sweatpants pocket. He flipped it open, probably expecting a driver's license.
Instead, his fingers froze on the distinctive federal credentials. His face drained of color as he read the identification. The gold FBI shield gleamed under the ambulance's interior lights. Below it, clear black letters spelled out, "Doctor Alana Pierce, Director, Federal Bureau of Investigation." "Oh my God," he whispered, looking down at his patients battered face with new understanding as the ambulance raced through the night, its siren screaming a warning to all who heard it.
The harsh fluorescent lights of the emergency room pierced through Alana's eyelids as consciousness slowly returned. Her throat felt like sandpaper, and every breath brought a dull ache to her ribs. The steady beep of monitors mixed with hurried footsteps and hushed voices around her. "Blood pressures stabilizing," a nurse said softly, adjusting something above Alana's head. Through half-opened eyes, she saw two security guards near her door, their heads bent close together in conversation.
The taller one kept glancing at her with poorly concealed awe. "That's really her, Director Pierce," he whispered to his partner. "FBI credentials don't lie," the other replied. "Words already spreading. The change in the hospital staff was immediate and obvious.
A doctor who had been briskly efficient minutes earlier now approached with careful deference, his clipboard clutched tight against his chest." Director Pierce," he said gently. "I'm Dr. Matthews. How's your pain level? We've documented the bruising around your throat and neck."
Alana tried to speak, but managed only a raspy whisper. A nurse quickly brought her ice chips, handling the cup like it was made of crystal. "Small sips," the nurse advised, her eyes wide with concern. "Your throat took quite a beating." The floor's charge nurse appeared in the doorway, speaking in urgent tones to someone in the hallway.
More footsteps approached rapidly. These ones heavy, anxious. Police Chief Warren burst into the room, his face ashen. His uniform was hastily arranged, tie slightly crooked, suggesting he dressed in a hurry. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cool hospital air.
"Madame director," he stammered. I we had no idea. His hands twisted his hat nervously. If we'd known who you were. Alana's voice came out horsearo, but clear enough to cut him off.
You knew I was human. The chief fell silent, his mouth working, but no words coming out. The medical staff exchanged glances, tension filling the room. Outside, a growing commotion could be heard. Camera flashes strobed through the windows and raised voices carried through the walls.
A security guard stepped in quickly. Media's swarming the entrance, he reported. The videos are everywhere. Twitter, Facebook. Cops choke out woman for resisting is trending.
Dr. Matthews moved protectively closer to Alana's bed. We can move you to a more secure floor. The door burst open again, and Ruth Pierce swept in like a stormfront, her usual dignified composure cracking with worry and rage. Her church clothes were wrinkled, suggesting she'd thrown on a coat over her night gown. "Baby girl," she breathed, rushing to Alana's side.
Her hands were gentle as they touched her daughter's face, but her eyes blazed as they took in the bruising. Look what they did to you, "Mama," Alana whispered, managing a weak smile. "I'm okay." "You are not okay," Ruth snapped, though her fingers remained tender as they smoothed Alena's hair. She turned to fix Chief Warren with a glare that made him take a step back.
"This is what your officers do. Choke out women in the street, Mrs. Pierce," the chief began. There will be a full investigation. There better be more than that. Ruth cut in.
She turned back to Elena, her voice softening. But right now, you need to rest and heal. We'll handle this right. Not fast, but right. Through the next few hours, Alana drifted in and out of sleep as Ruth kept vigil.
The bruises darkened, but the swelling began to subside. Outside the media circus grew, their cameras catching only glimpses through the windows. As dawn approached, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold, Dr. Matthews signed the discharge papers. "You should take it easy for a few days," he advised. "Your throat will be sore, and those ribs need time."
A plain black sedan pulled up to a side entrance as hospital security cleared a path. Ruth helped Alana into a loose sweater, supporting her as they made their way down the quiet hallway. "Head high," Ruth whispered to her daughter. "They didn't break you." Alana straightened despite the pain, her mother's strength flowing into her.
Together, they walked through the automatic doors into the cool morning air, leaving the chaos of the night behind as the sun climbed higher over Riverton skyline. The aroma of chicken soup and fresh cornbread filled Ruth's dining room as evening settled over Riverton. Steam rose from covered dishes spread across the oak table. Comfort food brought by church members who'd been arriving steadily since word spread about what happened. Alana sat gingerly in her mother's favorite chair, a soft cushion supporting her back.
The bruises on her neck had darkened to purple. Stark against her brown skin. Across the table, Keon Brooks and his grandmother, Mrs. Ellen, sat quietly. Keon's hands were still trembling slightly as he held his spoon. "You need to eat something, baby," Ruth urged, ladling more of Sister Wilson's chicken soup into Alana's bowl.
"Keep your strength up." The TV hummed softly in the background until the evening news anchor's voice suddenly grew sharper. Everyone turned to look. Breaking news in the Riverton police brutality case. The anchor announced.
Mayor Thompson has just suspended Sergeant Wade Kaine and officers Peterson and Martinez pending a full investigation into last night's violent arrest. The footage played again. Shaky cell phone video showing the struggle. Alana being forced to the ground. The horrifying moments of the chokeold.
Mrs. Ellen gasped softly, reaching for Keon's hand. The scene cut to the mayor at a podium, his face grave. This administration has zero tolerance for excessive force. Chief Warren has promised full cooperation with both internal affairs and the FBI. About time, muttered Deacon Williams, who'd stopped by with his wife's famous casserole. Took them long enough to do the right thing.
They had no choice, Ruth said, switching off the TV. Not with the whole world watching now. Alana noticed Mrs. Ellen dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. She reached across the table, wincing slightly at the movement and covered the older woman's hand with her own. Keon's safe, she said softly.
That's what matters most. Mrs. Ellen squeezed her hand. When I think what could have happened to my boy, her voice cracked. If you hadn't been there, but she was there, Ruth interjected firmly. The Lord makes no mistakes about where he puts his people.