Rescuing Melissa (ALPHA TEAM: Guardian Hostage Rescue Specialists)

6. A Superhero

SIX

A Superhero

CJ

CJ left Saint John’s emergency department. One good deed down. If Melissa Evans hadn’t been married, he would have asked for her number. They’d connected. He hadn’t misread the vibe between them. But she was married, and he respected that.

Shame, he’d never see the pretty jogger again.

A truck came to a screeching halt in front of the emergency department, nearly running CJ over.

“Help! I need help!” A man hopped out of the beat-up truck.

“What’s up?” Years of training kicked in. CJ didn’t even question his actions.

“In the back.” The man flailed his arms.

Blood saturated the man’s shirt, and a nasty wound on his neck oozed. Adrenaline was probably the only thing keeping him upright, but he didn’t seem concerned about his injuries.

Wide eyes and a crazy stare spoke to the man’s fear, and he looked to be in the early stages of shock.

CJ moved to the side and looked in the bed of the truck.

Holy crap!

He flipped down the tailgate and jumped inside.

A woman about six or seven months pregnant laid beside a hunting dog. A metal rod pinned the dog and woman to a large chunk of wood. It looked like the side of a barn. With a whimper, the dog’s tail wiggled when it smelled CJ. One arm of the U-shaped metal rod had been shoved through its leg and had trapped the dog to the wood planking. The other end of the rod punctured the woman’s shoulder. CJ couldn’t tell if the piece of metal had gone through muscle or had pierced her lung.

He felt for the woman’s pulse. Thready, but present. She was breathing, but unresponsive.

A horrific scene of the woman and dog trying to outrun a tornado flashed through his mind.

“Easy boy.” He stroked the dog’s muzzle, letting the animal smell him.

If the dog moved, it might worsen the woman’s injuries.

It whined and beat its tail. The poor thing tried to lick his hand but couldn’t lift its head.

How the man loaded his wife and dog into the back of the truck amazed CJ. The man’s wounds, cuts, scrapes, and gouges down to muscle were as severe as the woman’s.

CJ attempted to reassure the man. “She’s breathing.”

The labored rise and fall of the woman’s chest said she didn’t have much time.

“Oh thank you, Jesus.” The man swayed on his feet. “And the dog?”

Country boy was going to pass out any minute.

“Get help.” When the man didn’t move, CJ added. “The dog’s okay.”

His command proved unnecessary because emergency personnel spilled out of the entrance, running to the truck. Someone inside had been watching. Overwhelmed perhaps, but this staff was kicking ass.

CJ pointed to the man, worried he’d be overlooked once they saw the pregnant woman. “Someone take care of him before he collapses.” For good measure, he added, “You’re going to need a lot more help than that.” How far was the nearest vet?

A nurse in purple scrubs gave him a strange look and then instructed the others what to do.

A man in green scrubs gathered the husband into a wheelchair and bustled him inside. The nurse pinched her lips when she saw the gory scene of the woman and dog. She had to have previous military experience or trauma training because she didn’t seem shocked by the extent of the woman’s injuries. Small hospitals didn’t see this kind of trauma. She pressed her fists to her hips and took in the scene.

CJ read her identification badge.

Florence Reynolds was a doctor, not a nurse.

His training kicked in, and CJ gave his report. “She’s breathing, and her pulse is thready…weak. Can’t tell if the rod is in muscle or pierced her lung. Breathing is labored, and she’s unresponsive.”

“You know them?” Doctor Reynolds jumped into the bed of the truck.

The pregnant woman moaned.

“No. I was leaving when he pulled up.”

“You a paramedic?”

“Yeah.” That was but one piece of his particular skill set. As an ex-Green Beret and Delta operative, it served him well in the military. As Guardian, it continued to prove useful.

She eyed him. Legally, she shouldn’t allow him to touch her patient, but the emergency room was overrun. She nodded as if deciding her next move.

“Okay, Mister?”

“Rowans. CJ Rowans.”

“Mr. Rowans, are you willing to help me get her out of this truck?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good.” She signaled to her staff who had brought out two gurneys and an orange bag of medical supplies. “We need to move them as a unit and deal with separating them later.”

This woman knew her stuff. He breathed out a sigh of relief.

“Get to the front and push while my team pulls them onto the gurney. What the hell are they stuck to?”

“I think it’s siding from a barn.” He moved into position.

Four staff members waited with the gurneys. Dr. Reynolds checked vitals on the pregnant woman, and the dog then jumped down. It took more work to get the pregnant woman and her dog out of the truck than he’d anticipated

“Thank you, sir. We’ve got it from here.” Dr. Reynolds stuck out her hand to CJ.

“My pleasure.”

“Can you move the truck?” she asked. “Park it in the lot and drop the keys at the desk?”

“I’ll take care of it. What about the dog?”

Dr. Reynolds cracked a smile. “Don’t worry about the dog. I’ll make sure he’s taken care of.”

He moved the truck, turned in the keys, and went to see if his hotel had survived the storms. Before heading to the prison, he wanted to wash and change clothes.

He’d thought of little else in the past three years. He needed to be there when the last breath left Scott Patterson’s body. The bastard deserved worse than death, but CJ would take death by lethal injection.

As he searched for his hotel, his thoughts wandered back to the brunette with the mismatched running gear and lacy pink bra.

If he didn’t have to be at the prison, he would’ve stayed.

Overhead, deep blue skies looked down on him; the calm after the storm freaked him out. Some parts of town had been scoured off the face of the earth while other sections remained untouched.

He stopped three times to help others in distress before pulling into the hotel parking lot. It had survived without a scratch. As he grabbed his gear out of the back, a cell phone rang.

Not his.

Looking for the source of noise, he found a phone in the back of the car. It must have fallen out of Melissa’s pocket, although he had seen nothing resembling pockets in her tight running gear.

An unregistered number flashed on the screen. The phone rang six times before the person on the other end gave up. Maybe it went voice message? Less than a minute later, the phone chimed again—same number. Persistent caller.

It might be a family member looking for Melissa, or the husband—lucky bastard.

He pressed the button to accept the call. “Hello?”

“Hello—Hey! Who the fuck is this?” An angry voice rasped. “Where’s Sissy?”

“Sorry dude, you have the wrong number.”

“This is Melissa’s cell. I know my wife’s phone number.”

CJ frowned. “Melissa Evans?” The man’s voice sounded familiar, but CJ couldn’t place where he may have heard it.

“Evans my ass,” the bastard on the other end said. “You tell my wife to keep her fucking legs shut. Or I swear I’ll shut her legs myself. I don’t care what she told you, she’s mine. Do you hear? That bitch belongs to me!”

“I don’t like your tone of voice.” No man should speak about his wife with such disrespect.

“She better not be fucking you.”

The guy was crazy.

“I met your wife today.”

“Then why the fuck are you answering her phone?”

“Because, I dropped her off at Saint John’s. She’s having emergency surgery. I suggest you settle down before visiting her.”

How did a pretty woman get involved with such an ass? If this guy could be abusive to a stranger, what was he capable of behind closed doors?

“Like that’s fucking possible, asshole. How do I know you’re not lying?”

“You don’t.” CJ fisted the phone until his knuckles turned white. He regretted telling the bastard Melissa was in the hospital.

“This conversation is over.”

A string of profanity ripped through the phone, colorful in its depth and breadth.

Maybe he should get back to Melissa’s bedside and stand guard against this creep?