Page 23 of Luck Be Mine (The Defenders #3)

? Combat Trauma Medicine Redefined ?

The hospital dayroom offered a rare pocket of quiet in a busy shift. The cream and green walls created a forest vibe which encouraged deep, steady breaths. The coffee was strong, the snacks plentiful, and the company hit-or-miss.

Cait sipped her coffee, scrolling through the latest house links from Niles. The man was tenacious and thorough. Every day, new listings. Even on weeknight hours, an ER lull never lasted, but Bets hadn’t buzzed her yet, so she kept searching. Plenty of houses for sale. All she needed was one.

She stopped on a promising photo. Wrong size.

She hated having to pick without Hunt. His ‘what do I know about picking a home’ excuses irked in spades.

By his logic, the last two years living in their apartment didn’t count.

She told him so. But he’d countered with ‘you built us this one, so you know more about what we want than I do.’ Then his phone would go off, leaving Niles as her only sounding board.

Too expensive, too small, too big, or gone before they could make an offer – the whole market conspired against their goal.

“One house,” she muttered. “That’s all I want.” She bookmarked another possible and was about to call Niles when Bets popped her head in.

The harried expression made Cait pause.

“Your turn,” Bets clipped out. “Police ambush.”

“A cop?” Cait set her mug in the rack.

Bets kept the door open with her foot. “Nope, the suspect. Both officers have injuries, but they are non-life-threatening.”

Cait tucked her phone away. “Let’s go.”

She donned gown and gloves and moved to the emergency intake doors. Leaning on her Army combat surgery experience steadied her confidence. She was back and building.

Bets stopped next to her. “Trauma 2. Tell me what you decide about surgery so I can add the details.” She dashed off.

Hannah Malone joined her. “Love these. Get to deal with the handcuffs and the cops. For some reason, it’s always worse than they show on television.”

“Can’t interrupt the flow of the drama.”

“We don’t do drama here.”

The nurse’s sarcasm had Cait snorting. “Oh, but we do.”

Hannah shrugged and opened the automatic doors. The cream walls had scratches and scuff marks from maneuvering gurneys.

Sirens cut off, and the ambulance stopped at the door. Several police vehicles pulled in behind. Two orderlies joined them, both craning their necks to see.

Cait dropped back to get out of the way. There was a small delay unloading. Two cops joined both paramedics in moving the gurney to the door.

Then, she saw the patient.

Christ!

The man was bald, tattooed, and huge! She couldn’t tell his height, but he was easily two-hundred-fifty pounds of muscle, tied down, and still fighting.

Hannah sighed. “Great. Can we knock him out?”

Dr. Day joined them, eyeing the procession with a bland look. “Let’s assess first, shall we?”

Cait stayed out of the entrance area and let the paramedic come to her. The young woman carried her harassed feelings well. “Doc.”

“What do we have, Meyers?”

“Gunshots, two. One in his right thigh, the other in his shoulder. Bleeding still. He’s combative, high on something.”

“No IV?”

“Wouldn’t let us put one in. Don’t trust this one, Doc.”

“Understood. Trauma 2.”

She waited for the cops, the orderlies, and Hannah to pass. Frank Walker strode through the door. His broad-shouldered frame filled the space in front of her. With quiet confidence, the man never needed a uniform to carry authority. His grim countenance gave her all the info she needed.

“Frank.”

“Doc.”

“Are your cops okay?”

“Incoming behind me. They need attention, but will hold.” He walked with her to the trauma room. “Another day in the neighborhood.”

“I hear you, Frank.”

He slowed to let a nurse pass. “By the way, Doc, I heard you’re looking for a house.”

Cait grimaced. “Yeah, not successfully, though.”

“There’s one next door to me. Not on the market quite yet, but I know the owner. It’s a great neighborhood. Stable. Solid. Good people.”

Hope bloomed. “I like the sounds of that. Find me later and tell me about it.”

Frank let her move ahead of him.

Hannah stood on the man’s right; a cop guarded his left. Cait waited for the transfer to the table.

The moment one cuff came off, the man shoved the cop and clocked Hannah. Both hit the floor.

Cait’s body moved before her brain caught on. Mackey’s training kicked in. She drove a fist into the man’s windpipe and ducked away. Gagging, his free hand shot to his throat.

Bets lunged with the tranquilizer and stabbed the needle into his thigh.

Frank and an orderly swarmed him, wrestling until the cuff snapped shut again.

“Shit,” the orderly muttered, stepping back.

Cait straightened, shaking her hand, irritation flooding her. “People,” she called to the stunned room. “This is not what they mean by combat trauma medicine.”

Bets snorted. “Around here anything goes.” She went to the door and yelled for security.

Cait bent to Hannah. “Let’s get you out of here.”

The woman pinched her bloody, broken nose and moaned. “Dammit. With your punch, you can go first next time.”

Frank helped the stunned cop to his feet. “How did you learn that, Doc?”

“Eleven years in the Army, and I work for Mackey Reynolds at QM. Nobody walks around untrained.” She flexed her fingers. “But don’t tell my husband. I’m not supposed to do that.” She glared around the room.

Frank grinned. “Our secret, and four bedrooms with two and a half baths. Big yard. Big kitchen.”

“You said the magic words.”

Frank helped his cop to the adjoining cubicle. Bets took Hannah’s arm and walked her out of the room. Another nurse eased into her place, wide-eyed and nervous.

Cait snapped orders. “Get an IV on this guy and get me some vitals. Take his blood and run it to the lab. I want to know what he’s on before I cut him open.”

Cait shook her hand again and tested her fingers. Nothing broken. Thank God - no paperwork.

Mackey would be so proud. Hunt? Not so much.

§§§§§§§§§§

July 2021

One Month Before Fall of Afghanistan

Kabul Province, Afghanistan

1030 Zulu Time

Hunt adjusted his vest, swearing at the heat that clung like a second skin. Not performing overwatch this time, he sank into his training like he’d never been out of the field. Their three black SUVs plowed north on the rocky dirt road, one right after the other.

A request to rescue their loyal interpreter had been approved.

The man served on all their missions, every time they’d been in country.

With U.S. assets pulling back, U.N. partners scrambled to reorganize, and local allies were frantic with deep fears for safety and desperate to find viable options.

With a ten-man team, Hunt had organized a plan to get Jamil Al-Masur, his wife, and four children back to Bagram for an exfil flight out.

A good friend of his team from the beginning, the bond had deepened over the years.

They’d been in country when his third and fourth child were born, and the team had passed the hat to help his family. The rescue was what they owed him.

Jamil also held critical knowledge about operations, routes, and personnel. Leaving him behind would rocket the man’s capture to the top of the Taliban’s priority list, threaten security, and leave the man vulnerable after promises had been made.

Hunt couldn’t live with that.

The grim quiet in the vehicle wasn’t only from weeks of bad news. The intel on the interpreter’s whereabouts was iffy, the timing risky, yet they had to try.

Hunt opted out of the front seat spot on this one. LT Jack Brennan and Senior Chief Hernandez were overseeing the mission. They needed an extra gun, and Hunt had volunteered. He knew Afghanistan like the back of his hand.

Carter drove Jack, Baxter, and Hunt in vehicle one.

Hernandez, Doogie and K-Rock were in the second vehicle.

Tommy, Riaz, and Stemmons were in the third vehicle.

The extra room was to add six more people.

He sat in the same seat Cait had two years ago on their mountain mission.

Luck had been a two-edged sword for him ever since.

Carter turned to Jack but included Hunt. “We’re about twenty minutes out.” With mountains to the west and scrubland to the east, they entered the area from the south and kept tabs on the countryside.

“Bax, update our status with homebase,” Jack ordered. Baxter immediately went to his mic and made the call.

Finished with the check in, he signed off. “Homeplate has no new intel.”

Hunt hadn’t been expecting any, but his gut tightened.

Baxter cleared his throat. “Is it just me? Or do things feel different now? The atmosphere is heavy with uncertainty, fear, and anger.”

“Ours or theirs? Carter steered around a boulder in the road.

“Both.” Baxter fingered his weapon.

“Yep.” Jack stayed a man of few words.

Hunt kept silent but agreed. It wasn’t his new rank; the area felt dangerous and unpredictable with a rawness to the emotions that was palpable.

So much work had gone into helping this country stand on its own without terrorism guiding it.

The news notwithstanding, a hard defeat was in the offing, and it was on every face.

The failure sat in his chest, crushing his personal belief in what he had contributed to the fight.

So many men lost, so many friends gone. So many fucked up situations polluted the memories in his head. Without Afghanistan, he never would have met Cait, a highlight he would forever be grateful for. But the road this would end on? Hundreds of people like Jamil would suffer.

Silence fell again. No one talked, joked, or reviewed the mission.

Hunt watched the countryside, counting every curve and crevice, every jagged rock, and every bit of brown dust, remembering. Sucked to be so familiar with a place, yet so far from a meaningful connection.

“Five minutes.” Carter touched his weapon, then put his hand back on the wheel.

Baxter communicated with the other vehicles.