Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
The sun was too bright. The campus was too alive. Students cut across the green with headphones. A pair of professors chatted under the maple trees, and a group of cyclists weaved past. All looked ordinary.
The four operators from Tree Town One walked her through the open ground, forming a tight diamond around her. Reid was at her side now, hand grazing the strap of her bag like he might anchor her through touch alone. Claire clutched the bag, forcing herself to keep her chin level.
Suddenly, there was shouting. A press mic was thrust into her path. “Claire Bowman! Dr. Bowman—do you have a comment on Operation Emberline?”
She froze. Dozens of eyes pivoted. Cameras came up like weapons.
Bluebird shoved forward instantly, blocking the lens. “Back it up. Now.”
Before Claire could breathe, two men in plain suits surged in from the opposite side. Badges flashed—NSA. “Dr. Bowman, you’re coming with us. You violated your nondisclosure protocol. You’re in breach of your federal contract.”
“What?” Claire tried to step back, but one agent already had a firm grip on her arm.
Reid’s voice cracked like a whip. “Hands off her. Now!”
The agents didn’t budge. The crowd swelled into a feeding frenzy—journalists shouting, cameras clicking, and students stopping mid-step to record. It was a net closing fast.
And then… a sharp, slicing crack split the air.
Claire didn’t process it until the pain hit, hot and sudden across her right flank. The force yanked her sideways. Her breath was gone, her sunglasses fell off, her knees buckled, and the bag dropped with a heavy thud.
For one stunned heartbeat, all she saw was sunlight and blue sky. And then the heat of blood leaking against her ribs.
The shot was clean, from a high angle, likely a rooftop. Reid knew it before the echo faded.
“Sniper!” Spartan roared, dragging Claire down.
Reid was already moving. He caught her before she hit the pavement, her body folding against him. It was warm and wet where it shouldn’t be. Her blood. His vision tunneled hard, rage slamming through instinct.
“Bluebird, eyes up!” he barked. “Lockjaw, cover the south!”
The crowd panicked and scattered, phones flashing, screams tangling with orders. The NSA suits were shouting into their radios now, ducking low, but Reid didn’t give them an ounce of trust.
He pressed his hand against Claire’s flank. It came away red. Too red.
Her eyes found his, wide and trying to stay clear. “Reid…”
“Don’t,” he snapped, voice steel and fire. “Save it. Stay with me.” He scooped her up against his chest, ignoring the hot streak of blood soaking into his suit. “We’re moving!” he barked to the team.
As Shade threw smoke to cover the retreat, Reid carried Claire through it. His entire world narrowed to the pounding of her heart against his arm and the knowledge that someone had just declared war in broad daylight.
Reid tore across the quad with Claire locked in his arms, her weight barely there, her blood now soaking straight through his shirt. The shouting, the flashing cameras, the chaos of students and agents were gone from his vision. All he saw was her pale face and her eyes slipping.
“Bluebird, call it!” he barked.
“Extraction, one minute, north turnaround!”
“Spartan, Shade, block the rear!”
A second SUV screeched into the lane as Reid rounded the corner. Doors flew open. Flint was inside, sleeves rolled, gloves on.
Reid climbed in with Claire still against him, refusing to let her slide from his arms. Flint’s eyes snapped once over the wound. Blood flowed steadily from her right flank.
Reid cried out, “No exit!”
“Shit. Internal bleed.” Flint snapped open a pack. “Hold pressure. Now.”
Reid’s palm was already jammed into the wound as Flint poured QuikClot straight into it. Claire jerked away, a strangled sound escaping her throat. The smell of burning tissue filled the SUV. Reid’s chest seized.
“QuikClot’s working,” Flint said flatly. “It’s ugly, but it’ll slow the blood loss.” He grabbed a line then stabbed her arm. “IV going in. Hang the bag, Spartan.”
The SUV swerved hard, forcing Spartan to brace the drip line against the ceiling. Flint’s hands were steady but his tone clipped. “She needs a trauma surgeon, Anchor. We’re going into med hot.”
Reid bent close to her ear, pressing down, refusing to let the bleeding take her. “You hear me? Stay with me, Claire.”
Her lashes flickered weakly.
Heat. Too much heat. A burn ripped through her side like a fire was alive inside her. She wanted to scream, but only a ragged gasp came.
Something cold flooded her arm—IV. Voices overlapped, but the one she clung to was Reid’s: low, fierce, steady. “Stay with me. Don’t close your eyes.”
She wanted to tell him she wouldn’t, but the weight pulling her lids down was too strong. She caught visions of faces. Spartan was holding something above her. Flint leaned in with blood on his gloves, but Reid’s shadow above her was the only shape she trusted.
Her lips barely moved. “Anchor, not… your fault. I messed up.”
His voice snapped, hard as iron, “Don’t say it. Don’t you dare.”
She coughed weakly, a copper taste filling her mouth. Her breath rattled, but she forced her eyes open again, even as darkness pressed. “You came,” she whispered.
Reid pressed his forehead to hers, steadying her, grounding her in that touch. “Always.”
The SUV barreled into the underground Chase Medical garage. The brakes screamed. Doors flew open. Hands pulled her as med techs shouted. Claire felt herself lifted, the ceiling lights stabbing too bright, and her vision tunneled.
She locked onto Reid’s voice one more time, sharp through the roar. “She’s not leaving my sight.”
And then everything broke into white.
CHASE MEDICAL –TRAUMA UNIT – 1229 HOURS
The double doors banged open as the gurney barreled through, wheels shrieking on tile. Fluorescent lights seared the blood already darkening Reid’s hands. He didn’t let go. Couldn’t.
“Status!”
Flint fired back, “GSW, right flank, no exit wound. Sniper. Likely a large-caliber round. QuikClot applied, IV saline running wide, direct pressure held. Pulse 140. BP unstable. Last reading was 60-palp.”
“Bay 3!” Casey Moynihan snapped. He arrived at her side, lab coat ditched, wearing black Chase Medical scrubs.
He dragged a pair of black nitrile gloves on.
His face was calm and steady with the eyes of someone who’d patched holes on dirt floors under fire.
He was a former Night Stalker. He’d done this too many times.
A second figure cut in fast. He was taller, crisp white coat thrown over navy-blue scrubs, mask already tugged into place. Trevor Foley. Trauma surgeon. Navy first, Bellevue after. His presence hit the room like a command.
“Move,” Foley barked. “Get her under the lights. Casey, you’ve got fluid control. I’ll cut.”
Reid stayed pressed to Claire’s side, his palm still firm against the QuikClot packing.
“Hanlon,” Casey said, low and direct, “you’ve got to give me that hand.”
Reid’s jaw locked. “Not leaving her.”
Foley glanced up from the monitor, eyes sharp as a scalpel. “Then stay out of what will soon be a sterile field.”
Casey’s gloved hand replaced Reid’s in one swift motion, taking over pressure like a vise. Blood seeped hot around the seal. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away.
Foley leaned over Claire, mask fogging as he checked her airway and pulse. “She’s bradycardic. BP fifty and falling.” He snapped to a nurse, “Two units O-neg, crossmatch on deck for eight. Prep for a laparotomy. Now.”
Claire’s eyes fluttered under the light, barely finding Reid. “Anchor…” Her voice was a thread, weaker than he’d ever heard it.
Reid bent low, close enough that she’d hear him no matter how far under she slipped. “I’m here. Don’t let go.”
Casey muttered, half to Foley, half to himself, “She’s fighting.”
Foley’s tone sharpened. “Bay isn’t going to cut it. Bullet’s buried. Something’s leaking in deep. OR 2, now.” The whole team moved forward as they circled the stretcher.
The doors banged open, and the sterile corridor swallowed them whole. The air shifted—colder, sharper, humming with filtered vents. A team, already scrubbed, stood waiting, masks up, gloves snapping into place.
“Clear this hallway,” Foley snapped. “Unstable patient. We can’t waste seconds.”
They wheeled her over the threshold. Bright lights. Stainless steel. The sharp tang of antiseptic and heat seared the air.
Reid pushed forward with them, still at her side. But a surgical nurse stepped squarely into his path, both hands up. “You can’t go past this point.”
Reid’s chest heaved, blood smeared across his shirt. Claire’s blood. “I’m not leaving her.”
Foley’s head lifted, eyes locking with his through the sterile mask. Authority cut sharp in his voice. “You don’t get a choice, Hanlon. We need a clean field. We need space. You want her alive? Let us do our job.”
Claire’s hand twitched weakly on the gurney rail as though reaching for him, even in half-consciousness. Reid caught it for a heartbeat, wrapped his fingers around hers and bent low. “I’m here. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
Her fingers slipped from his as they wheeled her inside. The doors shut hard, sterile glass cutting her away from him.
Reid stood there, breathing rough, palms slick with her blood, and the silence of helplessness roaring in his ears. For the first time in years, the battlefield was on the other side of a door, and he couldn’t breach it.
SURGICAL WAITING – 1235 HOURS
The hall outside the OR was a sterile box. It was too still. Reid sat forward on the hard plastic chair, elbows braced on his knees. Claire’s blood had dried, dark and stiff across his hands and shirt.
Every second dragged. He could track gunfire by instinct, chaos by feel, but this silence was worse. It left him with nothing to fight.
The sound of footsteps broke through his concentration. Two sets. Steady, sure.
Reid looked up as Tuck came into view, suit jacket open, tie pulled loose like he’d run all the way here. Pete moved with him, his pace clipped, sharp, already sizing up the surgical board.
“We were halfway to the airport,” Tuck said. “Killian turned us around.”
Pete didn’t stop walking. He scanned Reid once then kept moving toward the scrub station. His tone was clinical, precise. “I’m going in. Foley’s cutting; Casey’s assisting. I’ll work the lines and vitals.” He didn’t wait for agreement. This was his domain.
Reid pushed to his feet. “Pete?”
Pete stopped just long enough to grip Reid’s shoulder, grounding him with that one heavy touch. “She’s not alone in there.” Then he turned, stripped his jacket, and disappeared through the scrub room door.
Reid slipped back into the seat, frozen, the doors sealing behind him. Tuck eased closer, lowering himself into a chair, his presence solid, steady as bedrock.
Reid flexed his bloody hands, jaw tight. “I couldn’t stop it, Tuck. She was right there, and I couldn’t stop it.”
Tuck leaned forward, forearms on his knees, matching Reid’s posture. “You kept her breathing. You got her here. And now some of the best people we’ve got are working her case. You did your part. Now you let them do theirs.”
Reid didn’t answer. His eyes locked on the sterile double doors, like staring hard enough could break them open.
The two men sat in silence, side by side, the years and battles unspoken between them until the wall clock ticked loud enough to remind Reid that time was still moving, even if it didn’t feel like it.
Reid’s eyes fixed on the sealed OR doors. Somewhere beyond them, hands were inside Claire. He hated himself for even letting the thought form.
Tuck rose, slowly and deliberately first. He put a hand on Reid’s shoulder and gave it a small squeeze. “Come on.”
Reid didn’t move.
“You’re no good to her like this.” Tuck’s voice had that quiet gravity that made men listen, even when they didn’t want to. “She’s gonna wake up, and when she does, you’re gonna want her to see you standing there not looking like a bloody mess.”
Reid’s eyes flicked down to his shirt, stiff with blood. His hands were the same. He hadn’t even noticed the dried streak across his forearm where her body had pressed against him.
Tuck nodded toward the far corridor. “Annex is open. A hot shower and your locker are calling.”
Reid hesitated, his gaze snapping back to the OR doors.
Tuck stepped in front of him. “Casey, Foley, and Pete are the best we’ve got. You trust them in there. But when she opens her eyes, she’s not gonna see them first. She’s gonna see you. And you’ll want to be clean, solid and steady.”
For a long beat, Reid didn’t answer. Then he gave a slow, rough exhale and stood.
Tuck didn’t smile, just clapped him on the back once and led the way down the hall.
CHASE HQ TRAINING ANNEX – 1325 HOURS
The annex locker room was empty. Stark white tiles and stainless fixtures. Reid stripped off the ruined clothes and stepped under a scalding hot spray. He braced both palms against the tile as water sluiced the blood off his skin, red spirals spinning down the drain.
He closed his eyes. He could still feel her body in his arms. Her voice cut short when the shot hit. The blood on his shirt was too warm, soaked him too fast. He hadn’t even felt his own lungs working until Flint barked that she was still breathing.
The water burned, but he didn’t move. He let it sear him, let it wash away everything except the one thing he held on to: she’s alive.
When he stepped out, clean clothes were waiting. Boxer briefs, Black BDUs. Chase crest over the heart of a black shirt. The uniform of leadership.
He felt like a fraud. He didn’t protect her.
He pulled them on piece by piece, his movements slow and methodical. Suiting up, not for battle, but for her.
By the time he rejoined Tuck, the haunted edge had dulled just enough. He wasn’t calm, not by a mile. But he looked like a man she could open her eyes to and see something steady.