Whiskey (Mission Critical: Iniquus Certified Cerberus Tactical K9 #1)

Chapter One

Sommer

A red sedan slammed to a stop with a bright chirp of wheels protesting against the sudden change in velocity.

Jumping from the car, engine idling, door left standing wide, a man raced around the support column of the Emergency Department’s receiving bay toward the back of the ambulance, beating the driver to the rear door.

Sommer reached into the pocket of her flower-covered scrubs and pulled out a fresh pair of Nitrile gloves, sliding them onto her hands without focus, her feet in perpetual motion as she moved through the door and over to intervene.

The ambulance’s lights still flashed their distress signal, as the man with the middle-aged paunch and a ponytail of long, thinning black hair reached out and put one hand, then the other, on the side of the ambulance door. There, he spread his legs and tipped his head down, his shoulders heaving.

The EMT had rounded to the back from the other direction and pushed the guy out of his way, with the look of hard focus that Sommer had learned to read as “I’m not sure we made it here in time.”

With the doors open, Sommer shifted out of the way, waiting for the paramedic to unload the patient and give her a readout.

Sommer could see a tousle of brown curls, an oxygen mask, and a sheet-encased form.

From her new vantage point, Sommer searched out the man who had emerged from the red sedan. He couldn’t abandon his car there. It was blocking the ambulance’s egress, and the open door slowed the steady traffic that continued to pour toward the Emergency Department.

It was a full moon.

Police officers and emergency rooms alike had girded their loins for the monthly chaos.

For Sommer, that mostly meant an extra protein shake before her shift because she knew she’d need the stamina.

Shuffling to the side, Sommer locked eyes with the man. His eyebrows had slid up his forehead toward his hairline, leaving him with a look of enduring surprise.

Unblinking, clammy, and pale, his hands stretched into claws as if he wanted to reach his fingers into the side of the ambulance and grip it tight.

As more staff showed up to assist and they pushed the gurney toward the automatic doors, the man released the ambulance and pitched forward as he took two staggering steps toward the entrance.

“Hey there, hey.” Sommer caught the man’s arm to keep him from falling. “We need to get your car moved.” Sommer used her body to block his attempt to head into the hospital.

The man’s eyes were vacant as he tried to focus on her. His mouth dropped open, then he bent to put his hands on his knees.

And as he went over, Sommer got a whiff of his hair. He smelled like the top of an infant’s head—a little sweaty, a little bit like honey, maybe like a children’s sugary cereal when moistened with milk.

It was a dangerous smell for anyone past their infancy.

Sommer glanced down at the man’s wrists, and there was no medical bracelet. She looked at the back of his neck, saw a necklace, and dragged it into her hand.

Type one diabetic.

He rounded his back and released globs of vomit onto the cement.

Fortunately or not, Sommer had been a nurse for long enough that the first little flinch of upcoming upchuck and her body, without reflection or encouragement, jumped back.

She missed the splash.

The man had been eating spaghetti.

“Sir? Hey, sir?” Sommer used a clear, commanding voice to get him to focus.

The man swayed on his feet, and Sommer edged him over to the ambulance so he could lean against the side for support. “What’s your name, sir?”

“Barney.”

“Okay, Barney, can you tell me the last time you had insulin?”

“All day,” he panted. “I think there’s something wrong with my pump. My sugar numbers have been high for days now, maybe a week.”

Sommer glanced toward the door as the emergency staff took over the care of the woman, and suddenly Sommer wasn’t certain about the scenario. “Do you know the person who came in the ambulance?”

The man stilled. He looked up at the rescue squad, over to the blinking lights, then his car, back to the gurney, finally bringing his gaze down to the puke.

“Did you follow the ambulance here, or did you come here for you?” Sommer asked.

“My wife.” He seemed to have just remembered what was happening. He staggered forward as if he wanted to follow the gurney down the hall.

Sommer turned her head to see the door sliding shut behind someone exiting; a tech stood just inside. “Hey,” she called out, catching their attention. “I need a wheelchair out here. Stat.”

As Barney swayed, Sommer stepped to the edge of the puke puddle and pressed her body against the man, pinning him between her and the ambulance.

He became the filling in a “I’m trying to help you” sandwich.

Keeping the guy off the ground and out of the puke would make the next steps easier for everyone.

Elegant?

No.

Proper protocol?

Sommer was putting this in the so-far-so-good category. It was better than what would happen had she let the man slip to the ground. It’s what her friend Marna called the “druthers.” As in “I’druther not have a patient covered in puke with a freshly cracked skull.”

Marna often took practicality over protocol when it came to her emergency nursing duties.

So far, so good.

Right now, keeping Barney lucid was key. “Barney. Hey, Barney.”

“Hmmm?”

“Did you check for ketones?”

“What?” He turned glassy eyes on her.

“Did you pee on a strip?”

“I ran out a while back,” he slurred. “I should get some.”

One of the responders stepped through the door. He looked startled by the scene. “What’ve you got?”

“Possible ketoacidosis.” If she was right, then this was a life-threatening situation. And she saw it on the paramedic’s face: whatever happened that put the woman on a stretcher, they’d missed the secondary issue and let a man drive while his brain wasn’t fully functioning. “Wheelchair’s coming.”

Barney’s eyes rolled back in his head, and even Sommer’s weight wasn’t enough to keep him in place.

The paramedic grabbed Barney’s wrist and pulled it around his neck, one hand looping Barney’s belt, then he, too, leaned into Barney’s slack body.

The tech jogged into view, pushing an empty chair. But once he saw the situation, he turned and called over her shoulder, “I’m getting a gurney. I’ll be right back.”

Sommer would have preferred they’d left the wheelchair; she could have managed.

The unconscious part of this scenario was serious.

Seconds might just count.

Sommer had a guess borne out of years of experience. But she didn’t know what underlying issues might make the man’s insulin ineffectual and what the consequences might be.

This might be a stroke or heart attack.

The paramedic spoke some coded gibberish into the radio he had on his shoulder. A moment later, his partner was at their side.

Sommer stepped back, thankful for her rubberized shoes, which she’d hose off before caring for any patients.

But as she stepped out of the responders’ way, the red sedan was back in her awareness.

With the engine still running and the door yawning wide, Sommer walked over.

A woman’s purse and a phone rested in the front passenger seat.

There was bound to be a meter in that bag that would give the doctors important information.

Possibly even a means to control the guy’s insulin pump.

Sommer grabbed them up and put them on Barney’s lap as the responders got him settled on his gurney.

Rounding back to the driver’s side of the car, Sommer climbed in to drive over to emergency room guest parking where she’d lock it up and get the parking space number to deliver back to that woman’s nurse.

Then hose off her shoes.

And back on the floor.

She still had nine hours until she went home.