Chapter 9 Flynn
FLYNN
Flynn ran her hands under the chilly water of the hospital bathroom, trying to wash Dawson’s blood from under her fingernails. Shoot, it just wouldn’t…
She slammed her hands on the counter, closed her eyes, tried to stop the shaking, but of course, it only made the gunshot reverberate inside her skull.
She couldn’t stop seeing the way he went down protecting that little girl.
She shoved her way out of the bathroom, trying to find her breath, clear her head.
The hallway outside the surgical wing stretched endlessly in both directions.
Motivational posters about healing and hope lined the walls—mockery at six in the morning on Christmas Eve.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows that made everyone look corpse-pale.
The antiseptic smell burned her nostrils and mixed with the lingering scent of blood that clung to her winter jacket.
She pulled it off, wadded it up and shoved the entire thing into the nearest trash. Then she folded her arms, found a space of wall, leaned against is and closed her eyes.
Mistake.
The images sharpened. Dawson lunging forward. The gun swinging toward him. Her scream—she’d had a bead on the guy, had pulled the trigger—
Too late.
The explosion of sound and blood and Kiana’s scream cut through everything.
And then Dawson, on the ground, writhing, his leg shattered.
She’d held pressure on his leg while the EMTs worked. Watched his blood seep through her fingers despite everything they tried. The femoral artery, one of them had said.
Critical.
Touch and go.
Flynn ran back into the bathroom, slammed open the door to the stall and retched.
She found herself on the bathroom floor, sweating, her face in her hands.
Her phone buzzed. She worked it out of her back pocket with hands that still shook. Echo again, but no news. Just >>Still trying to reach them. Will text when I know more.
Echo had said that the team hit trouble on the way back.
Radio contact had been lost hours ago.
What if she lost them both in one night?
“Detective?” A nurse came into the bathroom, spotted her in the stall. “Are you okay?”
Clearly, yes, by the way she sat on the floor, sweaty, her clothing still splotched with blood. “Yeah.” She got up. “Any word yet?”
“No, ma’am.”
She went back to the sink, splashed water on her face, dried it with a paper towel and then glanced at the nurse. “How long has he been in surgery?”
“Four hours. Dr. Peterson is one of our best trauma surgeons. If anyone can save the leg, it’s him.”
If.
The word hung there, and Flynn fled to the hallway.
If.
Her phone rang. She lunged for it. “Flynn.”
“Flynn, thank goodness.” Echo’s voice crackled through static. “I finally heard from Jericho Bowie. He’s got your team. They’re maybe twenty minutes out.”
Relief flooded through her chest—so intense it made her knees weak. “All of them?”
“All accounted for. Cold and tired, but whole.”
Whole.
Axel was alive. Coming home. Flynn pressed her hand against the wall to steady herself as the terrible heat inside finally began to ebb.
“I need to check on Tillie,” she said, ending the call.
Room 314 was quiet except for the steady beep of monitors and the soft sound of sleeping children.
Hazel was curled in the visitor’s recliner, wrapped in a hospital blanket, her dark hair spilling across the pillow someone had tucked behind her head.
Caspian lay at Hazel’s feet—Flynn had to pull some strings, ask for a temporary care-dog pass.
It helped that most of the staff knew Moose and the Air One team.
She startled to see Tillie awake. The woman stared at the ceiling with the hollow expression of someone who’d been fighting her own battle while everyone else focused on bigger emergencies. The hospital gown turned her look fragile, and the IV line snaking from her arm suggested she’d needed meds.
Flynn just…just couldn’t ask. Didn’t know, really, what to say. When she’d left the hospital, Tillie had returned from her ultrasound—no news—and they’d decided to admit her for the night and keep an eye on Hazel.
“Hey,” Flynn said softly. “How are you feeling?”
Tillie sighed. “I don’t know. How’s Dawson?”
“Still in surgery.”
They sat in silence. Listening to the monitors and Hazel’s even breathing. Outside the window, dawn was breaking over Anchorage, painting the snow-covered cityscape in shades of pink and gold that looked like hope.
“I should have told Moose,” she said. “I shouldn’t have hidden it.”
Flynn didn’t know what she meant, really, but she took her hand.
A knock came at the door, and a doctor came in, with a nurse, probably on early morning rounds.
“Mrs. Mulligan.” He held out his hand. “How are you feeling this morning.”
She lifted a shoulder. The nurse moved in to take her pulse, her blood pressure. Flynn stepped back.
“So, we have the contractions under control, and I’m going to prescribe you antibiotics for the bladder infection. And of course, you’re a little anemic, so we’ll need to get that under control. You’ll need to take it easy.”
“Pulse is still a little high,” said the nurse.
Tillie hadn’t moved.
Flynn stared at her, then the doctor. And…wait. “Doc. Is the baby okay?”
He frowned. Glanced at Flynn, back to Tillie. “Yes. We got a heartbeat. So far…yes.”
Flynn looked over at Tillie, who hadn’t really moved. “Tillie, did you hear what he said?”
She looked at Flynn, then at the doctor. “What?”
Flynn took her hand. “You didn’t lose the baby, Tillie. It’s still…there.”
Tillie blinked at her, then looked at the doctor. “What?”
“Didn’t anyone tell you last night?”
She shook her head. “I was in ultrasound, and then I came back here and they said they’d send someone in, but then…I don’t know. I never…no.”
The doctor nodded. “I’m so sorry. With the emergency last night—I’m so sorry.” He glanced at the nurse, back to Tillie. “You have a bladder infection, and it’s quite swollen. That’s what caused a tear in your uterine wall. But the placenta is intact, and the baby is fine.”
“But I had cramps?”
“Your body, reacting to the stress of the bleeding. You weren’t in labor, although we did have to give you a muscle relaxant.”
A bare smile. “No wonder I felt so tired.”
“No, honey, I think you’re tired because you’re three months pregnant,” said Flynn.
And now Tillie smiled. “I’m still pregnant.”
“Yes. And due sometime this summer. Do you want to know the sex of the baby?” He turned to his tablet—
“No!” Tillie held up her hand. “Sheesh—maybe I should tell my husband that we’re expecting, first.”
He grinned. “Yes. Maybe you should.” He put a hand on her leg, and squeezed. “I’ll be back later. Get some rest. We’ll discharge you later today.”
Flynn sank into a chair as they left.
“We’re going to have a baby,” Tillie said.
“Yes, you are.” And for a second, that miracle just sat between them.
A commotion in the hallway made both women look toward the door. Voices—urgent and familiar—growing louder as they approached.
“Sir, you need to show ID before—”
“I’m EMT with Air One. Axel Mulligan. I’ve got clearance.”
Flynn’s heart hammered against her ribs. That voice. Rough with exhaustion and cold but unmistakably alive. She was on her feet, instinct pushing through the door and into the hallway.
Axel stood at the nurses’ station. Ice crusted in his dark hair and light beard, his winter gear still steaming from the subzero cold outside. His face was windburned and hollow with exhaustion, but his eyes were bright. Searching.
They landed on her, and time stopped. Oh, see…despite the tragedy, despite the terror…there was still light.
She took off for him.
Behind him, Moose, Shep, and London looked like they’d been through a war—snow-covered, red-faced, moving with the careful stiffness of people who’d spent too many hours fighting Alaska weather.
“Flynn.” Axel’s voice broke on her name. He turned to meet her, arms open.
She launched herself into his arms with enough force to make him stagger backward. He caught her and lifted her off her feet, his face buried in her hair, his grip so tight it hurt.
She didn’t care.
“I thought—” The words stuck in her throat. “Echo said there was an accident.”
“Ran out of gas. Had to flag down a ride.” His voice was muffled against her neck, but she could hear the relief in it. The same bone-deep gratitude she was feeling. “When we heard about the shooting...”
She pulled back to look at him. He wore worry lines around his eyes, and his hands shook slightly as they framed her face. “You’re okay?”
“Now I am.”
“Flynn.” Moose appeared beside them, his face grim with concern. “Where’s Tillie?”
“She’s in the room—she’s okay, Moose.”
He started for the room, but Flynn caught his arm.
He stopped, turned, his blue eyes wide. “What?”
“It’s Dawson.”
Flynn forced herself to step out of Axel’s arms, though she kept one hand pressed against his chest.
“A suspect named Ravak took his daughter hostage. Dawson…he jumped in front of a bullet for her.”
Moose drew in a breath, his mouth opening.
“Dawson’s been in OR for four hours. Femoral artery.”
The silence was broken only by the hospital’s ambient noise—monitors beeping, overhead pages, the distant sound of Christmas music from the lobby speakers.
“Where is he?” Moose asked.
“Surgical wing. Third floor.”
Moose stilled, glanced toward the elevators. Turned toward Tillie’s room.
“Wait—” Flynn said.
Dr. Peterson appeared at the far end of the hallway. Still in surgical scrubs, his face unreadable. He looked around at the group of exhausted, ice-covered people and seemed to take them in stride.
“Are you Detective Mulligan’s family?”
“We all are,” Flynn said. Because yeah, she was. Even if not technically, yet, she fully planned on marrying Axel Mulligan, Dawson’s cousin. Even if she had to do the asking.
It was taking the man long enough.
“He’s stable. The surgery went better than expected. We were able to repair the artery and save the leg, though there will be extensive rehabilitation ahead.”
Axel’s arm went around her, pulling her against him, as if holding her up. Yep, and thank you.
Behind her, Moose released a breath he’d probably been holding since they arrived.
“When can we see him?” Axel asked.
“He’s in recovery now. Give us another hour to get him settled, then you can visit in small groups.”
The doctor disappeared back down the hallway. Leaving them in the sudden quiet of crisis averted. Not solved—Dawson would have a long recovery ahead, and…well, she didn’t know about Kiana—but the immediate danger had passed.
Moose turned and went into his wife’s room.
“What’s going on with Tillie,” Axel said as he put his arms around her again.
“She’s…fine.” Flynn turned and wrapped hers around his waist, settled her head against his chest. “We’re all going to be fine.”
“Merry Christmas Eve,” Shep said quietly.
It wasn’t merry, exactly. But for the first time in hours, Flynn thought they might all make it to Christmas morning intact.
And sometimes, that was the best gift you could ask for.