Chapter 17 Mac #3
I followed through doors marked TRAUMA—AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. They wheeled Eamon into a bay. Curtains pulled. Voices overlapped—vitals, blood type, coordinating with surgery.
I pressed against the wall. Out of the way but present.
Michael's hand appeared on my shoulder. Blood on his jacket. Snow in his hair.
"You okay?"
"No. You?"
"No." He glanced toward the bay. "They're prepping him for surgery. Checking for vascular damage."
A doctor emerged. Young. Efficient. Scrubs already bloodstained.
"Mr. McCabe?"
"That's me."
"I'm Dr. Randall. We're taking Mr. Price to surgery. The bullet missed major vessels, but we need to explore the wound. He's stable. The next few hours are critical."
"Can I—"
"One minute. We're moving fast."
I pushed through the curtain.
Eamon lay on the gurney, IV lines running, oxygen mask over his face. His eyes were closed.
I took his hand.
His eyes opened. Unfocused but present.
"They're taking you to surgery. You're going to be fine. And when you wake up, I'll be there. Okay?"
He tried to speak. The mask muffled it.
I leaned closer.
"Don't—" His voice was barely there. "Don't leave."
"I'm not leaving. I'm right here. I'm staying right here."
His fingers squeezed mine. Once. Weak but deliberate.
They were already moving him. I walked beside the gurney to the surgical suite doors.
"We'll update you as soon as we can," Dr. Randall said.
The doors swung shut.
Eamon disappeared behind them.
Michael pulled me away.
The waiting room was too bright and too quiet. Ma occupied three seats—reserving territory. Claire sat beside her, spine straight despite the hour. Marcus stood by the window. Matthew and Miles had claimed chairs near the coffee station.
They all looked up when we entered.
"He's in surgery," I said. "They don't know how long."
Ma stood. Crossed to me and pulled me into a hug.
"Sit down. You're shaking."
I was, but I hadn't noticed.
She pressed coffee into my hands. "Drink."
Claire stepped up close to me. Didn't say anything.
"They caught her?" I asked Michael.
"Yeah. Processing her downtown. She's still talking. Explaining her preservation protocols."
"Fuck."
"Found her car two blocks over. All her equipment was inside. She was planning a full extraction."
I closed my eyes. Saw the gun swinging. Saw Eamon moving.
"He didn't hesitate," I said.
"What?"
"Three years ago, he froze. Got someone killed. Tonight, he didn't hesitate. He saw the gun, and he moved."
"That's what matters," Michael said. "The moving."
The clock on the wall read 11:20 PM.
Ma returned with a granola bar. "Eat."
"I'm not—"
"I didn't ask."
11:33.
Claire grabbed my hand. "Cormac. You're catastrophizing. Breathe."
We did it together. Four counts in. Four counts hold. Four counts out. Five cycles.
The panic retreated slightly.
11:52.
Ma prayed—quiet murmurs and half-remembered phrases.
Midnight came and went. Then 1:00 AM.
Almost two hours since surgery started.
I watched the clock and counted seconds.
1:33.
The surgical doors opened.
Dr. Randall emerged. Tired but not devastated.
"McCabe family?"
We all stood.
"Mr. Price is out of surgery. It went well. The bullet passed through cleanly—missed major vessels and missed the nerve bundle. We repaired some muscle damage and closed. He's stable."
My knees buckled. Marcus caught my elbow.
"He's in recovery now," Dr. Randall continued. "But—" He paused. "His blood pressure dropped during surgery. We got it stabilized, but we're monitoring closely. The next twelve hours are critical. If he remains stable, he'll move to a regular room tomorrow."
My stomach clenched. "What does that mean?"
"It means he's not out of the woods yet. But he's fighting. And he's asking for Mac."
"I can see him?"
"Twenty minutes. We need to get him settled."
The doctor left.
I sat down hard.
"See?" Ma's voice was soft. "He's fighting. That's what matters."
But the complication—blood pressure dropping—generated new fear.
Claire's hand squeezed mine. "One step at a time."
1:57 AM.
A nurse appeared. "Mac McCabe?"
"That's me."
"Follow me."
My family watched me go.
Eamon lay in the bed with his shoulder bandaged, his arm in a sling, and his eyes open.
He looked terrible. Pale. Drawn. Exhausted.
Despite it all, he also looked perfect.
I crossed to the bed. Pulled a chair close. My legs gave out as I sat.
For a long moment, I stared at him. Taking inventory.
Then I reached for his hand. Held on tight.
"You're alive," I said. "Oh god, you're alive."
"Yeah." His fingers squeezed mine. "I'm alive."
"They said your blood pressure dropped."
"It came back up."
"Eamon—"
"I'm okay, Mac. I'm here. I'm okay."
I brought his hand to my lips. Kissed his knuckles. His palm. His wrist, where his pulse beat steadily.
"I thought I lost you," I whispered against his skin. "When you went down, I thought—"
"I know, but you didn't lose me. The doc said I'm a fighter."
I looked at him. His eyes were clear despite winces from pain.
I leaned forward and let myself break. Tears came hot and fast. All the terror I'd been holding flooded out.
Eamon's free hand touched my hair. Gentle. Grounding.
"I'm here," he said softly. "I'm right here."
I stayed like that until I could breathe again. Until the tears slowed, and I could look at him without my vision blurring.
"New rule," I said, voice wrecked. "When you get out of here, I'm taking care of you. That's the deal."
"Deal," he said. "But Mac—"
"What?"
"You've been taking care of me all along. You just didn't realize it." His thumb brushed my cheek. "You taught me it was safe to move again. Safe to try. That's care."
"I love you," I said.
"Love you too." His voice was soft. Certain. "And I'm not going anywhere."
The machines beeped. The hospital breathed around us.
"You got here early," I said after a while. "Thirty minutes early. How?"
"Michael drove like the city was clearing a path for us. Every light turned green. Traffic parted like—" He paused. Smiled slightly. "Like Christmas magic."
"Christmas magic," I repeated.
"Yeah. I think Ma would say Santa was watching out for us."
"Maybe he was."
Eamon's eyes closed. His breathing evened out.
I sat in the chair, held his hand, and watched him sleep.
The nurse came eventually. Checked vitals. Nodded approval.
"His pressure's holding steady," she said quietly. "That's good. You can stay if you want."
"I want."
She left.
I leaned back in the chair. Didn't let go of his hand.
Outside the window, snow was still falling. Gentle now. The storm had passed.
Through the glass, I saw the city lights twinkling and the streets were quiet.
We'd survived.
The rest—recovery, rebuilding, whatever came next—we'd figure it out.
Maybe Ma was right about surviving worse.
Maybe Claire was right about breathing through it.
Maybe Michael was right about moving being what mattered.
And maybe Eamon was right about having something worth moving for.
Or maybe it was just this: two men who'd learned that protection wasn't about control—it was about presence.
Outside, the snow kept falling. The city kept breathing. And so did we.