6. CONAN
Chapter six
A t St. John’s Hospital, things could change in a heartbeat. One minute we would be doing routine checks, and the next we were in the midst of an adrenaline-fueled emergency. It was all a part of being at a frontline level II trauma center. We always had to be ready for the worst-case scenario, even though we often had long periods of quiet, like right now.
Leaning against the nurses’ station, I gulped down my third energy drink of the day, eyes on my brother, Atticus, as he finished up scribbling the last notes on a patient’s chart.
“You sure you don’t want to switch jobs for a day? I could use a break from all the surgical procedures,” he joked, glancing over at me and stretching his back with a theatrical groan. His role as an attending emergency department physician sometimes left him envious of my more predictable nursing duties.
“And miss out on handling all the paperwork and patient hand-holding? Never,” I shot back with a smirk, snatching the clipboard from him.
“I’d trade the scalpel for your blood pressure cuff any day. At least you get to sit once in a while,” he bemoaned, rolling his eyes as he tucked his pen into his scrubs pocket. Turning away, he pulled the next clipboard out of the rack and headed down the hallway.
“Like all nurses do is take patients’ vitals,” I snapped, letting out a groan. He just waved the chart in the air and kept on walking. I loved him, but sometimes he could be such a douchebag.
I left the nurses’ station and made my way to room seventeen to see my next patient, Mrs. Jenkins. She was an elderly woman who had been admitted several hours ago because of a sudden spike in blood pressure—her reading was 201/104. Not good. Pushing open the door, I paused, taking in her startled expression. It wasn’t unusual for patients to be taken aback when they first laid eyes on me. I didn’t exactly fit the stereotype of a nurse. My large, muscular frame and the array of tattoos running down my arms and hands often made me look more like a hit man than a healthcare professional.
Mrs. Jenkins glanced up at me, her eyes wide with something akin to fear, then quickly looked down.
“Good afternoon,” I began, softening my voice as much as I could. “I’m Conan, and I’ll be taking care of you today.” She flinched slightly at my introduction, a reaction I’d seen more times than I could count.
“Oh, I-I see,” she stammered, her eyes flicking to my tattoos before darting away. Her hands fidgeted nervously .
I smiled gently, going to stand beside her. “It’s all right. I know the tattoos can be a bit surprising. I promise I’m here to take good care of you.”
She gave me a tentative smile, carefully avoiding looking directly at my inked arms. “It’s just…you’re not what I was expecting,” she admitted.
“Understandable.” I laughed softly.
Unfolding the blood pressure cuff, I carefully wrapped it around her slender arm. I made sure it was snug but not too tight, just above her elbow, where the brachial artery pulsed beneath.
I attached the other end to the digital monitoring machine. After double-checking the connections and ensuring the cable was securely plugged in, I pressed the start button on the monitor’s interface. The machine emitted a series of soft beeps as it began tracking her vital signs.
Next, I tried to find a way to connect with her in a more personal way, to show her the person I was behind the ink. “You know, when I’m not at work, I like to play the guitar. Would you like to see a video? I think it might be a song you know.”
Raising her brows, she nodded. I had piqued her interest. So I pulled out my phone and found a video of me playing an acoustic version of “Here Comes the Sun” by The Beatles—a song I figured would be familiar to most people. I let her hold the phone as I moved to check her other vitals. With the stethoscope pressed against her chest, I instructed her to take deep breaths while I listened for any abnormalities. Next, I attached the pulse ox to her fingertip. This provided a real-time reading of her oxygen saturation levels. Then came the placement of an IV line in her arm. Everyone hated this part, but it ensured we had immediate access for medications if needed. As the music played and I gently tended to her, her expression softened, and she even began to hum along quietly .
“That’s lovely,” she said with a faint smile when the song ended. “You’re very talented.”
“Thank you.” I was pleased to see her relaxing. “Music helps me unwind. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
While the machine beeped softly in the background, I told her about the other tests we’d be performing. “We’re going to check your electrolytes and enzymes, maybe get a chest X-ray and a brain scan, just to rule out any possibility of a stroke or heart attack. It’s all routine, just making sure we cover all our bases.”
She nodded, her earlier fear now replaced by grandmotherly warmth. We continued chatting for a few minutes about music and her favorite songs. When I left her room to chart her vitals, I chuckled, remembering her horrified expression when I’d first walked in. It was always interesting to observe how people reacted to meeting me for the first time. If she’d seen all the tattoos on my torso or the giant skull across my back, I doubt she would have ever relaxed. It often took time to show people that beneath the tattoos was a caregiver committed to their comfort and health.
The day was rolling along when I managed to snatch a rare quiet moment with Atticus in the break room. He’d just brewed a pot of coffee when I walked in and flashed me a quick grin over his shoulder.
“Black as midnight, strong as an ox. Just how you like it,” he said. “Want a cup?”
“Sure, it will complement the three energy drinks I’ve already had,” I said, flopping down into the nearest chair and breathing in the scent of freshly brewed coffee that was wafting through the room.
“I’ve noticed you’ve been hyped up all day by the way you’ve been hustling,” Atticus said, setting my cup down in front of me and taking the seat beside mine .
His eyes were weary, but he was still sharp as a tack, as always. Hospital life did that to you—drained you physically yet fueled you emotionally.
“So, how’s Nurse Ratched doing?” he asked, a smirk spreading across his face. He’d taken to calling me that ever since I’d controlled a particularly violent patient with nothing but a steely glare and a stern reprimand.
“Keeping things running smoothly,” I replied, blowing over the surface of the piping hot coffee before taking a sip. I savored the bitter taste and then continued, “Even managed to win over Mrs. Jenkins today.”
“Mrs. Jenkins? The elderly lady in hypertensive crisis?”
“Yep. Showed her a video of me playing ‘Here Comes the Sun’ on my acoustic, and she was putty in my hands.”
Atticus chuckled lightly, a smirk playing on his lips. “You’ve always had that magic touch with the ladies.”
“Yeah, yeah—especially the grannies,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Hey, heard through the grapevine that Samantha’s switching to days. Must be a relief, huh?” I nudged him with an elbow, watching his face for the smile that always came when Samantha was mentioned.
With a crooked smile he nodded, brushing a hand through his hair, a sign he was mulling something over. “Yeah, she’s really excited about it. Working nights has been tough after the kidnapping ordeal. Her therapist thinks switching to a more normal daytime routine will be beneficial for her mind and body. I’m just relieved that the press and legal chaos from the Volkovi Notchi mess is finally settling down. I wish we’d caught Viktor Volkov that night. It’s frustrating that he and his top men just disappeared. Even though he’s probably holed up in Russia somewhere, you never know when that snake might come back to strike again. ”
“Yeah, that whole thing was such a nightmare,” I said. “I still can’t believe something like that could happen right here in Tacoma. At least Samantha has a lot to keep her busy. She must be excited—not just about the shift change, but also about the big wedding coming up. How are the preparations going?” I grinned, imagining the bash that would celebrate those two finally tying the knot.
Atticus took a long sip of his coffee before responding, his expression softening. “She’s up to her ears with the planning. You know Samantha; she’s all wound up about the details. She wants to keep working right up until the big day. I suggested she take some time off, you know, to relax and hang out at home more. Murphy would love the company.”
I laughed, picturing the tiny shih tzu that had more toys than any dog I knew. “That pup’s living the dream. But you know Sam, always on the move. I bet she’s just not wired for downtime.”
“Yeah, she wasn’t having any part of cutting back her schedule. Said she’d get bored staying at home.” Atticus shook his head lightly. “I get it though. After everything with her kidnapping and the mafia, work helps her feel grounded and gives her something to focus on. She says staying busy keeps her mind off…everything that happened. Can’t blame her really.”
“Tough as nails, that one. Most people wouldn’t be able to jump back into life so quickly after such an ordeal, but Samantha—she’s faced down her demons and is still standing strong.”
“Exactly why I fell for her,” Atticus muttered, almost to himself, his lips curling into a small smile. “She’s got this resilience that just blows me away. Doesn’t let anything keep her down for long. ”
Just then, the intercom buzzed to life, calling for a trauma team to assemble. We tossed our cups in the trash, ready to dive back into the fray.
When I entered the trauma area, a voice came in over the dedicated radio speaker. It was unmistakably my brother Braxton, his tone urgent and strained.
“St. John’s, this is Medic Four. We’re en route with a critical patient and need a trauma team on standby. ETA ten minutes. Over.”
I grabbed the radio and pressed the button to respond. “Received, Medic Four. This is Nurse Thorin at St. John’s. Can you provide more details on the patient’s condition and confirm vitals and interventions? Go ahead, Medic Four.”
“Hey, Conan, it’s Brax. We’ve got a bad one. Female, late twenties, involved in a high-speed MVA. Car wrapped around a tree. Required extrication with the jaws of life. She’s unconscious and unresponsive, Glasgow Coma Scale at 3. Significant facial and cranial trauma with a deep laceration across the forehead. Multiple superficial cuts and bruises across her body, but no obvious fractures to arms or legs. We’ve intubated and have an IV running. BP is ninety over sixty, pulse one twenty and thready. Administered twenty milligrams of etomidate and a hundred micrograms of fentanyl for sedation and pain. We’re maintaining c-spine precautions and have started cooling measures. How do you copy?”
“Copy that, Brax. We’ll get all set up on our end. Trauma team is assembling now. Drive safe, and keep us posted if there are any changes in her status.”
I set down the radio mic and turned to Atticus, who had been standing behind me. “Sounds like a rough one,” he said. “Let’s get everyone ready and the on-call specialists here. ”
As the team mobilized, the siren’s distant wail grew steadily louder. I prepped a gurney with the help of a fellow nurse, making sure we had everything necessary for immediate intervention: trauma shears, gauze, additional IV supplies, and a portable X-ray machine on standby.
While we gathered all the necessary materials and instruments, I also took the time to prepare my mind. The tension in Braxton’s voice had hinted at the severity of this crash, and the fact that the jaws of life had been used meant this patient could be in bad shape. It was a grim picture. We had to be on top of our game.
The scene erupted into organized chaos as the ambulance backed into the emergency bay intake area. Several police cars pulled up alongside it, their lights silently strobing. There was even a truck from one of the local news stations pulling into a parking spot outside.
The ambulance doors flew open. Braxton was the one first out, guiding the gurney. The other paramedic joined him to wheel the woman into the triage area. She lay motionless. What I could see of her face was ashen and smeared with blood. Her long, dark brown hair was matted against her skull.
“Let’s move, people!” Braxton called out as the other EMT and a couple of our techs transferred her to the hospital gurney we had readied. Her neck had been carefully stabilized with a cervical collar, and they remained vigilant in protecting it as they moved her. When she was settled, they placed the portable ventilator next to her.
Suddenly, I was startled by the popping of camera flashes. A man near the door held his camera at arm’s length and pointed it at the woman, clicking away .
Stepping forward, I blocked the guy with my body. Being a thick six-three came in handy sometimes. Thankfully, one of our security staff moved to usher the photographer away.
I got to work and swapped out the blood-soaked gauze on the patient’s forehead for fresh pads while keeping an eye on the monitors, tracking her vitals. When I caught sight of the deep gash beneath the gauze, I winced. It was worse than I’d imagined.
Braxton leaned in and briefed us about the incident. “She broke into the Volkov estate, triggered alarms, and took a car. Drove like a bat out of hell in the rain before wrapping it around a tree. Even with side-impact airbags, it looks like her head hit the window hard enough to shatter the glass.”
The presence of police suddenly made sense.
“No ID on her. Nothing in the car either. Nothing that tells us who she is, not even a phone,” Braxton continued. “Police are still at the estate, trying to ID her.”
Atticus’s brow furrowed deeply, and he shot me a questioning glance. It seemed we had both noted the mention of the Volkov name.
My chest tightened as I looked at her. Despite the blood and bruises marring her face, there was something strikingly beautiful about her, almost ethereal.
At that moment, the local reporter returned. He started trying to muscle through the nurses, techs, and police, throwing out questions about her possible ties to the Russian mafia’s Volkovi Notchi. Atticus stepped up and addressed the man. “You need to leave. This isn’t a press conference. Hospital policy and patient rights,” he stated, his tone brooking no argument. He gestured to one of the police officers nearby. Reluctantly, the reporter backed off, and Braxton turned to block him from coming any closer .
“Blood for type and cross, full panel, and coags,” Atticus called out to the charge nurse, who nodded and hurried to draw the necessary samples.
Atticus moved to the patient’s side, assessing her pupils and checking her response to stimuli. “Dilated and sluggish on the left,” he noted grimly. “Hang a unit of her blood type as soon as we know it,” he directed one of the nurses. “We need to stay ahead of the blood loss.”
As we worked, cutting away the patient’s clothing and removing her jewelry, we assessed every inch of her for additional injuries. I wondered what her story was, who might be waiting for her to come home. This part of the job—the intersection of clinical detachment and intense personal connection to strangers we fought to save—was a constant challenge for me.
“Let’s get her into Trauma One, stat!” Atticus said, his commanding tone snapping me back to reality. We moved swiftly, following the stretcher into the trauma room.
“Blood pressure’s dropping, eighty-five over fifty. Heart rate’s a hundred and thirty and climbing,” I reported, attaching the blood pressure cuff and ECG leads. My hands worked automatically, but my mind was unusually focused on the patient’s pale, haunting face.
“We need to stabilize her before we can even think about imaging,” Atticus instructed, frowning as he administered an IV push of epinephrine.
As we worked, I had a strange feeling I couldn’t shake off. I was drawn to this woman, protective of someone I didn’t even know. It wasn’t just her looks. There was a vulnerability that called to something deep inside me.
“Conan, keep an eye on her stats. Let me know the minute she’s stable enough for a CT,” Atticus said, moving to examine the cut on her forehead more closely .
“Got it,” I murmured, adjusting the IV line. “We’ll take good care of you,” I whispered to her, even though she couldn’t hear me.
The room quieted down as her condition stabilized. The rush of activity gave way to the steady beep of the heart monitor and the soft whir of the ventilator.
As the team prepared her for further testing, my thoughts raced. Who was she? What had caused her to run from the police so recklessly? And why did I feel such a strong pull to protect her?
“Imaging’s ready,” someone announced.
Stepping up next to her, I carefully stabilized her neck while we prepped to move her to imaging. “Let’s get her to CT now,” Atticus said, and together we all worked like a well-oiled machine, hustling the gurney down the corridor.
While we wheeled her toward the imaging suite, her face remained eerily calm under the harsh fluorescent lights.
“We’re almost there,” I muttered, more to myself than to anyone else, checking her vitals again. The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor provided a small comfort—that is, until it suddenly spiked.
“Atticus, her heart rate’s climbing—one hundred seventy…one hundred eighty!” I called out.
No sooner had I spoken than her body began to convulse violently. The stretcher shook as her arms and legs flailed uncontrollably.
“Seizure! She’s having a seizure!” I shouted. Immediately, I lowered the side rails of the stretcher and attempted to hold her head in place to prevent further injury. “She needs diazepam, now!”
Atticus raced back to the trauma room and returned within seconds, syringe already in hand. He administered the medication intravenously, his movements precise as always, while I maintained my hold, ensuring the patient didn’t harm herself.
The convulsions slowly ebbed. The incident had drawn a small crowd of medical staff, but I was solely focused on her, my hands held firm, keeping her steady despite the rush of adrenaline going through me.
When the seizure passed and her body finally relaxed, I continued to keep a close watch on her breathing, ensuring the endotracheal tube stayed properly placed and her respiration remained steady. The crisis was over, but our window to diagnose her injuries was narrowing.
With the seizure under control, Atticus smacked his hands together, eager for us to get moving. “Let’s get her to CT now. We need to rule out intracranial bleeding or swelling,” he said with a decisive edge. “Time’s critical.”
We arrived in the imaging suite, and as she was wheeled under the scanner I placed a reassuring hand on hers, a silent promise of protection. The CT machine whirred to life. My thoughts churned. I thought of all the potential complications. Seizures could indicate a traumatic brain injury, and time was not on our side.
By the time the scan was completed, the tension in the air had eased slightly, but the concern for our Jane Doe hadn’t. We wheeled her to the ICU, where they would be better able to monitor her fragile condition.
“We’re set up in ICU Room Twelve,” I relayed to the team as we entered the intensive care unit. The ICU team was ready, and a group of doctors and nurses gathered to take over. The handoff was swift but thorough. I briefed them quickly, summarizing everything from her arrival to her current condition. “Severe head trauma, recent seizure managed with diazepam, awaiting further imaging results. ”
They nodded along, taking notes and asking pointed questions about her vitals and the timeline of her care. When they wheeled her to her new room, I felt a pang of concern, but I knew she was in capable hands. This was their realm, where they turned tides, battling inch by inch for every patient’s recovery.
Stepping back, I watched them hook up her monitors and adjust her medications. It was hard to leave her side, but my part, for now, was done. I trusted these colleagues implicitly. They were skilled professionals. As I walked away, my mind replayed the intense events of the last hour. I hoped we’d done enough to give her a fighting chance.
When I returned to the ED, I found Atticus reviewing the preliminary CT results on the portable screen. “No immediate signs of hemorrhage,” he said, “but she’s definitely got a concussion. I’m sure the folks over in the ICU will keep a close eye on her for any changes.”
Throughout the rest of my shift, I found reasons to pass by the ICU. And each time, I paused to check on Jane Doe. Every visit left me more intrigued and invested in her well-being. Despite the flurry of activity that defined emergency department life, thoughts of her lingered at the back of my mind as I continued with my other responsibilities.
Midway through my shift, I pushed through the door of the break room and found Atticus there, staring at the TV mounted in the corner. The local news was on. He barely glanced over at me as I entered, scrutinizing the images with a troubled expression. He had a cup of coffee in hand but didn’t seem interested in drinking it.
“Come watch this,” he said, pointing at the screen.
I moved closer and leaned back, resting my elbows on the counter. The journalist who had annoyed us earlier stood outside the entrance to the hospital’s emergency department. He was recapping the accident’s brutal details. The image of the mangled car wrapped around a tree flashed up, grave against the rainy backdrop.
“What are they saying?” I asked.
“They’re just giving the details about the wreck now.” Atticus’s brow furrowed as he listened. The reporter described how the unidentified woman had broken into the Volkov estate, stolen a car, and then led the police on a high-speed chase that had ended in disaster.
“The car was demolished,” I pointed out as I moved to grab a bottle of water from the fridge. Then I leaned back on the counter again.
The reporter continued, detailing the absence of any identification on the woman and informing viewers how the police had returned to the mansion, finding nothing there with which they could identify her.
“And as for her fingerprints, found at the Volkov estate, the police report that they’ve found nothing in their system. For now, she is a complete unknown,” the reporter concluded, promising to dig deeper into her identity and motives.
Atticus shook his head, muttering, “Do you think she could be tied to the Volkovi Notchi? With all the heat on that organization after kidnapping Sam, it’s weird she’d just break in.”
I shrugged and took a sip of my water as I thought about his question. “Nah, it doesn’t add up. If she was connected to them, why break in? And why run from the cops in such a panic? If she knew the Volkovs, she’d have known better than to trigger alarms and steal a car. She’d understand the lay of the land better than to end up wrapped around a tree. Sounds more like she panicked and realized too late she was in over her head.”
“True.” Atticus nodded, keeping his gaze fixed on the screen while the newscast moved on to another story. “But then, why was she there? Nothing besides the car stolen, no signs of anything else disturbed. If she’s not connected, what’s her angle?”
“Maybe it was a dare or something random? Maybe it’s a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time?” I suggested, trying to come up with any scenario that would fit the bizarre facts.
“Could be,” he agreed, though his voice was tinged with skepticism. “But a dare that leads to a high-speed chase and a crash? Seems extreme.”
The TV continued to hum in the background as I considered the possibilities. The report had given us more questions than answers.
“Whatever the reason, she’s in terrible shape now,” I said after a moment, pushing off from the counter. “And with no ID and the police not having any information on her, she’s a mystery on all fronts.”
Atticus drained the last of his coffee, crushing his cup in his hand before throwing it away. “Well, for now, she seems to be doing as good as can be expected under the circumstances. Let’s just hope she wakes up with some answers.”
I nodded, though worry nagged at me. “I’ll head back to the ICU and see how she’s doing in a little while.”
Something about Jane Doe’s story—and the rumors of her mafia ties—bothered me. It was a puzzle with too many missing pieces, but it was one I wanted to figure out.
Several hours passed. Before punching out of my shift, I headed to check on Jane Doe one last time. The corridors of St. John’s were quieter now, but as I approached the secured doors of the ICU, a now familiar voice disrupted the calm .
“Excuse me, Doctor, a moment of your time?” Niles Johnson, the persistent reporter from KING Channel 5 News, positioned himself squarely in my path, notepad at the ready.
“I’m not a doctor. I’m ED Nurse Thorin,” I corrected him, not breaking my stride or even giving him the decency of looking in his direction.
Niles followed me, undeterred. “Right, Nurse Thorin. Can you update us on the condition of the woman from the crash? The one involved in the Volkov estate break-in?”
At that, I stopped and faced him, my patience wearing thin. “Look, I can’t discuss any patient details with you. It’s against hospital policy and a violation of patient privacy.”
“But the public has a right to know, especially given the connection to the Volkovi Notchi crime organization,” he pressed, his voice gaining an edge. “And how is Samantha doing? Considering her past with them, people are curious.”
God, of course. I should have known that, as soon as I mentioned my last name, he would make the connection to Samantha and her kidnapping. All the press around that ordeal had finally quietened down, and this incident was going to cause lots of new speculation. What were the odds of someone breaking into the Volkov estate and ending up in our ED under the Thorin brothers’ care? What was the likelihood of all three of us being on shift at the same time and caring for someone tied to the Volkovs? Maybe I should stop and pick up a lottery ticket on my way home.
“That’s none of your business, Jensen. Samantha’s fine, and she has nothing to do with this incident.” I gritted my teeth, feeling a rush of protectiveness.
Niles shot back, “I’m just here on public grounds, gathering information for a story under the protection of the First Amendment, Nurse Thorin. ”
I scoffed. “Freedom of the press doesn’t give you the right to harass patients or hospital staff. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” With that, I brushed past him, swiping my badge to enter the ICU.
I made my way to Jane Doe’s room and paused next to her bed. There she was, lying unconscious, her features tranquil despite the jungle of tubes and wires attached to her. She looked like some kind of refined princess from a storybook, all grace and mystery, resting in a glass case—a sleeping beauty, untouched by the real world.
Standing there, watching her, I felt like a damn monster—a guy covered in tattoos, each one a marker of past fights and darker days. My exterior might have been tough, but it was nothing compared to the ugliness trying to claw its way out of my heart. My childhood had left me jaded and untrusting. I had always put on a good front, acting like the easygoing golden retriever who didn’t take life too seriously. But ever since I was a kid, I’d known life mostly sucked. So why not live in the moment? If life had taught me one thing, it was that none of us were guaranteed a tomorrow.
I leaned in, keeping my voice low as the monitors beeped in the background. “I’ve got your back, pretty angel. I won’t let any more harm come to you.” It was more than a promise; it felt like a vow. Being this close to her, I couldn’t shake the feeling that fate had thrown us together for some higher purpose. Here I was, a beast, and there she was, a beauty—our lives slammed together by some twist of destiny.
Feeling a lingering sense of duty, I straightened up and headed back out, only to find Niles waiting like a vulture. But my mind was still back in that room with her. She and I, we were worlds apart and yet inexplicably linked. This wasn’t just about protecting her from the prying eyes of the world—it was about protecting something more, something I couldn’t explain .
“Did you see her?” Niles asked, sounding like an incessantly annoying mosquito. “What can you tell us about her condition?”
My frustration boiled over. “I told you to back off,” I growled, stepping close enough to see him reconsider his stance. Without another word, I pushed past him.
I reported the incident to the on-duty nurse manager before walking out to my Jeep, my curiosity about our Jane Doe hanging over me like a cloud.