Line of Fire (14 page)

“Quick as you can, but careful,” Captain Reynolds said.

“Tommy?” Eve called. “Can you hear us? Tommy!”

The lack of response dampened Howard’s spirits, and he saw the impact reflected in the faces of the others as they worked, yet no less diligently. If anything, they doubled their efforts, finally widening an opening big enough for two of them to slip down next to Tommy and finish extricating him.

“I’ll go,” Julian said grimly.

“All right, you and me.” He turned to tell Zack to run and grab the backboard and medical kit, but the man was already back with them, waiting to hand them down.

Julian went first and crouched next to the still form, Howard following. Howard grabbed the kit from Zack and peered into the space where Tommy lay, trying to see his injuries. He set the kit aside and they struggled to move boards and metal off him, some of the shrapnel twisted like spaghetti.

Tommy’s back was to them, the Air-Pak hanging slightly off center. His blond hair was nearly gray with dust and dirt. Julian reached out and switched off the PASS device, and the silence, the complete stillness, was ominous. Working quickly, they managed to slip his free arm out of the strap holding on the tank, and moved the heavy piece of equipment off to the side. His other arm, however, was still caught under a sheet of metal.

“Let’s roll him, easy. One, two—”

On three, they gently turned him onto his back . . . and Howard’s heart nearly stopped.

“Madre de Dios,” Julian whispered.

The right side of the kid’s face was sliced open, filleted, right through the straps on his face mask. An angry red line traveled from his temple, down his cheek, and curved underneath his jaw, almost bisecting his throat. He was awash in blood. But if they’d hoped that would be the worst of it, nobody upstairs was listening.

“My God, his hand,” Howard said hoarsely.

His wrist wasn’t just pinned—it was severed almost clean through by a shard of metal the size of a dinner plate. The fact that it was still deeply embedded there was probably the sole reason their friend hadn’t bled to death.

Julian pressed two fingers to the side of his neck. “Alive, thank God, but weak. We’ve got to get him out of here.”

“Help me get this mask off.”

Howard held his head steady while Julian slipped the mask off and discarded it. Tommy’s face was pale, lips parted, lashes resting against his cheeks. He appeared to be barely breathing.

Quickly, Julian put on a neck brace as a precaution, to avoid more damage, if possible. They left the metal in his wrist. It wasn’t safe to remove it, except by the surgeon in the OR.

Howard didn’t want to think about the road ahead for Tommy, if he made it. Which was far from a given.

Tommy’s lashes fluttered and he moaned, pale blue eyes glazed. “Six-Pack?”

“Easy does it, kid. We’re getting you out of here.”

“Tell my parents . . . I’m sorry . . .”

“Can’t do that, cause you’re going to be fine. Tommy?”

No answer. His eyes closed.

They ran an IV, strapped on an oxygen mask, and checked his vitals. “He’s in shock,” Julian said, voice anxious.

“BP’s slipping.”

Julian grabbed the backboard. With as much care as possible, they worked his Air-Pak the rest of the way off, moved him onto the hard surface, and strapped him down. Ready to go, they stood and lifted their burden, keeping him level. Zack and Eve were waiting to take him.

The others gave a cheer, more as a morale boost than any conviction that Tommy would be fine. A couple of the men helped him and Julian out of the hole, and Howard turned to Captain Reynolds.

“We’ve got this,” Reynolds said, waving a hand at the mess. “You guys go ahead and take care of your own.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it.” He wanted to say more, but words failed.

“No problem. We’ll give you the next clean-up duty.” Howard managed a halfhearted smile. “Done.”

“Let us know how he’s doing.”

Howard nodded and jogged toward the ambulance, where Zack and Eve were loading the gurney into the back. Howard jumped in the driver’s seat of the ambulance and Julian rode in the back, monitoring Tommy.

“Goddamn, I’m down two good men.”

He didn’t envy any of them what lay ahead.

Least of all, Sean and Tommy.

Shea jumped when Shane’s cell phone rang. She wrung her hands as he listened, and pounced on him the second he hung up.

“They’ve found him and got him out, alive.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful! He’s okay, right?”

“I don’t know, hon. Howard just said they’re bringing him in, and to keep you out of the way.”

“What! What does that mean? I can’t see him?”

“I’m assuming that’s what it means, yes. Here, sit back down.”

“I don’t want to sit! I’m going out there to wait, and you’re not going to stop me,” she declared loudly. “I work here, not you.”

“Shea—”

As she marched out, the first person she saw was Dora. “What’s going on? Have they radioed in?”

To her credit, Dora didn’t even try to feign ignorance or offer her false assurances. “He’s going straight to surgery,” she said calmly. “He’s busted up pretty bad, sustained some lacerations and has some blood loss. He’s in shock. It’s not good, sweetie.”

She felt Shane’s palms on her shoulders, his body strong and solid behind her. Oh, no. He has to be all right. “Thank you for telling me.”

“There’s something else—”

Just then a commotion outside interrupted and a gurney burst through the doors, being pushed by Howard and Julian. When she caught sight of Tommy lying there, face slashed, covered in blood, her knees almost buckled. And his hand . . .

“Oh, my God! Tommy—”

She tried to rush to his side, to follow as the others met the doctor and turned down another corridor toward the OR, but Shane held her back.

“You’ll just be in the way, sweetheart,” he said, hugging her tight. “They need to be focused on him, not you. I’ll stay with you, okay?”

“D-did you see him? His face, and his wrist . . .”

“He’ll be fine,” Shane said, trying to soothe her. “Why don’t we go back into the private room and wait?”

“His hand was almost severed, for God’s sake! Do you have any idea what that means or what it will do to him? How can you say he’ll be fine?”

“I know what it means. But right now, the main concern is making sure he’s out of danger. The rest can be dealt with later.”

Having apparently handed off Tommy to the surgical team, Howard and Julian rounded the corner and came toward them. The men shook hands and Howard studied Shea, expression bruised. Weary.

“I’m not going to lie to you. It’s bad,” he said quietly before she could ask. “If we’d found him ten minutes later, he wouldn’t have made it. He’d lost a lot of blood and wasn’t getting enough air. As it stands, I believe he’ll survive, but there’s a possibility he could lose that hand. I don’t know for sure, though. I’m not a specialist.”

Shea swallowed back her tears. “As long as he’s alive, nothing else matters. We’ll help him deal with the rest as it comes.”

Howard gave a faint smile. “I’d hug you for that, but I’m filthy. He’s going to need people around him with positive attitudes.” His smile vanished and he wiped his eyes, looking tired. “Speaking of which, I’ve got to call his parents. God Almighty, I don’t want to tell them.”

“Want me to call?” Julian offered.

“Nah, I’d better do it. I feel obligated.”

Dora spoke up. “You guys are welcome to wait in the private room. There’s a phone in there, too, if you need it.”

“Thanks,” Howard said. “We’ll take you up on the offer and stay until we get some word, or until we receive a call.”

“Stay as long as you need to. Shea, honey, I’m thinking you’re going to be worthless this shift. Why don’t you go ahead and clock out, wait with them.”

“Thank you, Dora. I’ll make this up to you.”

“No problem, sweetie. I know you’d do the same for me.” Dora gave her a quick hug and hurried off to tend to patients.

Shane sighed. “This could take a while. You might have been better off working to keep busy, take your mind off of things.”

“If you really think that, you don’t know me very well.”

“Yeah, that was stupid. Forget I said it.”

“I will.” She walked back into the consultation room, wondering how things could be going so beautifully, then turn into such a nightmare.

“Are you going to be all right?”

In spite of herself, she softened at his concern. “Always the worrywart. It’s Tommy who’s in there, not me.”

He cocked his head, studying her. “In some ways, it is you. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“That you love him,” he said, sounding hurt and trying not to let it show.

“It’s not like we were keeping it a secret from anyone.” She hugged him, resting her head on his shoulder. “We just admitted it ourselves. I’m not trying to cut you out of the loop.”

His sigh was one of relief, his voice filled with affection. “I’d wondered, after our difference of opinion about Forrest Prescott. You’re not still mad at me?”

“I wasn’t. I was mad at myself. I didn’t want to admit you were hitting too close to home.” She hesitated. “Deep down, I knew I was settling for a ‘safe’ man because Tommy frightened me.”

“And I know why.”

“Yes, you do.”

“He doesn’t any longer?”

“I’m not afraid of him. I’m afraid of me. Or, I was. Maybe not so much now.”

“You’re putting way too much pressure on yourself. Relax and go with the flow.”

She smiled. “You sound like Tommy.”

“Smart man.”

“You know what? I do trust him,” she said in a sudden epiphany. “And when he comes out on the other side of this, I’m going to tell him everything. I know he’s not anything like the bastard who hurt me.”

“Good for you, sweetheart. I’ve been waiting a long damned time to hear you say that about someone who can make you happy.”

She squeezed him tight. “When are you going to find some lucky woman to make you happy?”

He laughed. “They call me the breeze, baby.”

“I don’t believe that bull for a second.”

“Let’s get your life in order first, shall we? Then you can meddle in mine. Tit for tat.”

“I’m going to hold you to that.”

She would, too. As soon as Tommy was okay.

14

Lights flashed overhead, bright. Blinding him.

Disjointed voices spoke in sharp, urgent tones, but he couldn’t make sense of what they said. Or where he was.

His body was lifted, moved. Settled somewhere new. The lights stopped spinning, but one was like a giant eye, skewering his brain.

Blurry forms hovered above him, dressed in white. Were they angels? Was this heaven?

If so, the hurting should stop. And he told them so, or thought he did. After all, if pain was supposed to be a distant memory in heaven, he’d gotten screwed.

“H-h-hurts.”

Gentle hands smoothed his brow. “I know it does. Easy.”

“Mr. Skyler, you’re in surgery, and you’re going to take a little nap. When you wake up, your friends and family will be here for you, okay?”

What? Surgery?

“Not heaven?”

Which, of course, came out noth theven?

“Not today,” the kind voice told him. “Count backward from ten, Mr. Skyler.”

Huh? Well, all right.

“Ten . . . nine . . . uh . . .”

What came next?

Didn’t matter. He was too tired to count anymore, and the figures above him vanished into darkness.

What a weird thing for an angel to ask him to do, anyway.

Consciousness filtered in slowly, marked by sounds. A rustle, quiet conversation. Strange beeps. Smells came next. Antiseptic and cleaner. Familiar perfume as someone leaned close. Vanilla.

Then touch. A hand on his face, his arm. He liked this best and strained for more, though he wasn’t sure his message came across.

He drifted, wondering whether he was dead. Or simply waiting to cross over.

That question was answered soon enough, when the agony returned.

He felt as though he’d been beaten with hammers. There was no place that didn’t scream in misery. He must’ve made a sound, because someone was there in an instant, trying to soothe him.

“Tommy? Oh, thank God! Don, he’s waking up!”

“Son, can you hear us?”

“Mom . . . Dad.”

“Son, do you know where you are?” Dad.

“I—no.” He tried to open his eyes, but his lids were so heavy.

Mom’s voice drifted to him, choked with tears. “You’re in the hospital, baby. You were hurt on the job, but you’re going to be fine. Just fine.”

This didn’t make much sense. He attempted to process this as painful awareness seeped into individual parts of his throbbing body. Automatically, he tried lifting his arm, but it was weighed down as though by a brick. “How? What—”

“Don’t worry about that right now. Just rest,” his dad said.

Wasn’t like he had a choice. He was so tired.

Sleep claimed him once more.

When awareness returned, it was much sharper. So was the relentless pain. His chest and ribs were locked in a vise, his face and hand throbbing.

This time, his lids obeyed and opened, though reluctantly. His bleary vision began to adjust, taking in his surroundings. He was lying in a bed, wires and tubes attached to every available patch of skin. Had someone said something about being injured, mentioned surgery? They must have, but the memory vanished like smoke.

Another fact penetrated his brain—he was surrounded by flowers. Practically a garden, with several balloons dancing around. They made his head swim.

He was in the hospital, then. Had the shit knocked out of him, but he was alive. Okay. He could deal with that.

One issue at a time. Blinking to clear the grit from his eyes, he took stock of himself.

A strange pressure and a sensation of tightness on the right side of his face was bugging him something fierce. Opening his mouth and stretching his facial muscles caused it to pull and sting, and his immediate reaction was to bring his hand up to touch the area.

Problem was, he couldn’t move his arm. Hadn’t he tried before? Damned thing felt like a rock.

His gaze slid down to where his right arm rested on top of the blankets. His hand and wrist were heavily bandaged, the wrap extending halfway up his forearm. A burn? Must not be broken, or it would be in a cast. He could deal with that, too.

He brought his left hand up instead to feel his face. The IV in the back of his hand pulled, making him wince, but he managed to reach up and brush his fingers over his right cheek.

“Jesus.”

The entire right side of his face, extending underneath his jaw to his throat, was covered in gauze. Damn, he must’ve . . . what? Had a car accident?

No, that wasn’t right.

Fire? Yes. Flames, smoke. He was looking for an exit when a heavy object fell on him.

The warehouse! It all came back in a rush. The urgency to get out, the terrifying roar of the building as it fell.

“Hello?” His voice emerged as little more than a croak. Just as he began eyeing the bed, searching for a call button, the door opened with a quiet swish and his dad walked in, carrying a cup of coffee.

The older man’s eyes lit up. “Holy Christ, it’s good to see you awake. How do you feel?”

“Like a building fell on my ass,” he rasped. “What day is it?”

“Still Friday, almost six thirty in the evening. You’ve been in and out, trying to wake up for a couple of hours.” His dad set the coffee on the bedside table and gave his son a careful hug. “I’m glad as hell you’re all right.”

As his dad pulled up a chair, Tommy saw the suspicious moisture in his eyes that he dashed away. “Am I all right? What about these?” He lifted his good hand and gestured to indicate the bandages.

A strange look flashed in the older man’s eyes, and was gone. “Don’t worry about that right now. We’ve got plenty of time to discuss it when you’re better.”

“I’m not better?” Alarm began to niggle at his brain.

“More alert, I mean. You’re exhausted and you’ve been through quite an ordeal, whether you recall it or not. I want you to sleep,” he said, the love and protectiveness apparent in his tone.

“I’m not ten, Dad. I know when I need to rest, and I will, after you give me the rundown.”

“I’d rather wait for your mother. I took her home to rest herself for a while, but she’ll want me to get her soon, especially when I call and let her know you’re awake. That sweet girlfriend of yours, too. She went down to the cafeteria to get a quick bite to eat—”

“You’re stalling.” That scared him more than anything. His dad was the most up-front, honest person he knew, and if he was trying to put off the conversation, whatever had to be said wasn’t good.

“Son—”

“Tell me.”

The niggle of alarm grew exponentially. He knew that expression on his dad’s face, the one that conveyed sadness, worry, and a little guilt for being the bearer of bad news. His dad let out a weary sigh and dropped his gaze to the floor. When he met Tommy’s eyes again, he nodded, resigned.

“When the roof fell, a piece or two of metal caught you on the right side of your cheek. Laid you open pretty bad from your temple to your throat. You’re stitched from here to here,” he said, drawing a line on his own face to indicate the path.

“Oh, my God.” He raised his hand again, felt the bandages. “I want a mirror.”

“Not yet. There’s more. Christ, this is so hard,” he said, choking on the words. “You had a piece of metal embedded in your wrist as well. Son, your hand was nearly severed from your wrist. The surgery took hours, but the specialist said they think the reattachment will work, barring infection. You’re on heavy antibiotics.”

Tommy stared at his dad in shock. “Reattachment? What are you . . . are you fucking kidding me?”

“I wish I were. You’re going to need physical therapy, and in time, you might regain some use of it. I’m so sorry, son,” he said sadly.

“Regain . . . no. No, I’m a firefighter, at least until I figure out what else I want to do.” His voice rose with his panic.

“Shea encouraged me to try being a walk-on at the Titans’ training camp. She said I could be anything I wanted and . . .”

He trailed off, gazing at the bandaged lump. Concentrating hard, he attempted to wiggle his fingers. Nothing. He looked up at his dad, panic morphing to terror.

“I—I can’t work like this. I can’t go back to my job, or play football. I can’t do shit. It’s over, isn’t it? Every dream I’ve ever had. Everything. Oh, God, Dad,” he whispered, his voice breaking.

Scooting close, his dad wrapped his arms around him, held him close. Tried to comfort him as he had when Tommy was a boy with hurts that a hug from Dad could fix.

But nothing could fix this. He was done.

My fucking hand was cut off.

And the best he could hope for was to keep it as a permanent reminder of what he’d lost.

“Your life isn’t over, son,” his dad said hoarsely. “Just going in a different direction. There was something else in the cards for you, that’s all. You’re going to be fine, and you’ve got your friends, your mother and me, and that pretty lady to help you through this.”

Shea. How could he face her as less than a man? He felt sick.

“What do I have to offer her now? I don’t know how I’ll make a living and on top of that, I’ll be scarred for life.”

“Physical therapy will help, and you’ll find a job.”

“I want a mirror, Dad. Now.”

He had to see for himself. To know what he was up against.

Suddenly looking old, his dad went out, presumably to ask a nurse about Tommy’s request. He was gone for a few minutes and when he returned, he brought a medium-sized handheld mirror.

“Help me with the gauze.”

Tommy held the mirror in his lap while the older man carefully peeled off the edges of the tape at his temple. He lowered the gauze pad enough for Tommy to be able to examine most of the wound.

Left hand shaking, he raised the mirror, turned his head to the side, and angled it to see—and almost dropped it.

“Oh,” he moaned. “Oh, no.”

He didn’t recognize the face in the reflection. A black line of railroad tracks pulled his angry red flesh together and marched down the side of his face to his jaw and beyond. Nobody would ever mistake him for some handsome actor again, would they?

In a word, he was hideous.

The mirror slipped from his hand and plopped onto his lap. His dad silently removed it, retaped the gauze, and waited, anxious, gripping Tommy’s forearm to lend his support. Hot, bitter tears slid down Tommy’s face and his chest felt like it would explode.

He couldn’t be that lucky.

Settling back on the pillows, he closed his eyes, wishing for oblivion. Darkness. He’d longed to be a man Donny would’ve been proud of, to make something meaningful out of his life. What would Donny say now, if he could?

Maybe his brother was the lucky one after all.

Shea crept into Tommy’s room and laid her purse on the rolling table next to a pot of flowers. Mr. Skyler sat at his son’s side, hands clasped in front of him, head down.

“Mr. Skyler?”

The man raised his head and gave her a bleary, sad smile. “Shea, you can call me Don.”

“Okay, Don,” she said, a little nervous. They hadn’t spoken much, given the circumstances, but his folks seemed to be nice people who were desperately afraid for their son. “How is he?”

“Sleeping, doped on painkillers. Woke up for a bit and had questions about all of this.” He flicked a hand to indicate the bandages. “I answered them as honestly as I knew how.”

Shea moved to stand beside him and studied Tommy’s pale face, the half she could see. Dark circles were smudged under his eyes and he still had dirt in his hair. But he was here, breathing. Alive.

“How did he take the news?”

“About like you’d expect—badly. He insisted on looking at his face, too.” Don appeared miserable. “He was absolutely devastated. I haven’t seen him like that since he lost his brother.”

“Oh, no.” She laid a hand on his shoulder, heart twisting as she gazed at Tommy. “I was hoping to put off his seeing himself a little longer.”

“Me, too. But once that boy gets his mind set on something, a team of horses can’t budge him.” Don met her eyes. “And I’ll tell you another thing, he’s got it in his head that he has nothing to offer you now.”

Oh, God. “That’s his emotions talking. They’re bound to be all over the place for a while.”

“We know that, but he doesn’t. Not yet. He’ll find another career, other interests, and in the meantime we’ll all be here to support him.”

“Isn’t that nice? I feel so much better.”

Startled by the bitterness, the anger, in Tommy’s raspy voice, Shea looked down at him. His eyes were open, and the dullness there frightened her even more. Gone was the playful sparkle, the hint of promise.

“Son, we love you and we just want to help—”

“Well, you can’t.”

Don’s expression was wounded, but he stood firm. “You don’t think so now, but you’re upset. We’re here for you, whether you want us to be or not.”

“Upset. What a tidy word.” His laugh was ugly. “Do I look upset to you? I don’t know.”

Don gave a resigned sigh and stood. “I’m going to give you and Shea a chance to talk while I run home and get your mother. I know she wants to see you before visiting hours are over.”

“Don’t bother, okay? I’m tired and I’ll be asleep.” Tommy stared at the opposite wall, not meeting his dad’s scrutiny.

“If you’re sure . . .”

“I am. And if you’d take those fucking balloons with you, I’d appreciate it. Tell the nurses to give them out in the kids’ ward. Where the hell did all those flowers come from, anyway?”

Don shared a pained glance with Shea, and she could swear he was silently wishing her luck with their surly patient. “You have a lot of friends, son. They’re just trying to cheer you up.”

“Fantastic. Do you think there’s a plastic surgeon with a magic wand hiding in one of those pots?”

Don just turned and busied himself detaching the ribbons on the balloons from the various arrangements. Clutching them, he said, “Your mother and I will see you in the morning. Call if you need anything before then.”

His father was almost to the door when Tommy called out.

“Dad?”

Don looked back. “Yes?”

“Thanks for being here,” he said, voice anguished. “I’m sorry I spoke to you that way.”