Chapter 2 - The Four-Minute WindowThe service elevator creaked and shuddered as it descended toward the basement loading dock.
The air inside was thick with the scent of roasted garlic, hot dishwater, and old bleach. Mara knelt on the elevator’s steel floor beside Audrey, holding a rolled-up cloth napkins under the young woman’s neck to keep her airway open. Grant crouched on the other side, holding Audrey’s hand so tightly his knuckles were white.
"Talk to me," Grant rasped, his eyes searching Mara’s face in the flickering fluorescent light of the elevator cab. "What are they going to do at the hospital?"
"If we get her there within the three-hour window—and ideally within the golden hour—they’ll do an emergency CT scan to confirm it’s an ischemic stroke and not a brain bleed," Mara explained rapidly. "Once that’s confirmed, they’ll push intravenous tPA. It’s a powerful clot-busting drug. It dissolves the blockage and restores blood flow to her brain."
"And if it doesn't work?"
"Then an interventional neuroradiologist goes in with a catheter through her groin artery, snakes it up into her brain, and physically pulls the clot out," Mara said. She looked directly into Grant’s gray eyes. "It’s high risk, but Ochsner has the best team in the state. You have to trust them."
"I don't trust doctors," Grant said bitterly. "Doctors let my mother die in a waiting room when I was twelve because we didn't have private insurance."
Mara felt a sudden, heavy ache in her chest. She understood that pain. She had spent seven years inside the medical machine, watching the wealthy buy immediate care while the poor bled out in hallway gurneys. It was part of the reason she had burned out, handed in her nursing license, and taken a forty-dollar-a-night waitressing job just to escape the soul-crushing weight of a system that cared more about billing codes than human lives.
"I hear you," Mara said softly. "But tonight, you don't have to trust doctors. You just have to trust me."
Grant looked at her—really looked at her. He saw the lint on her cheap black apron, the faint coffee stain on her sleeve, the dark circles under her tired brown eyes, and the absolute, unyielding competence shining behind them.
"Why are you doing this?" Grant asked quietly. "Most people run when my name gets brought up."
"I took an oath," Mara replied simply. "It doesn't expire just because I quit wearing scrubs."
DING.
The elevator doors slid open with a metallic scrape, revealing the dark, cavernous laundry bay.
Rain was pouring down outside in heavy, tropical sheets, turning Conti Street into a dark, mirror-like river. The high-pitched, wailing screech of an approaching siren cut through the thunder.
A red-and-white ambulance rounded the corner, its tires spraying water against the brick walls as it backed into the bay with a loud BEEP... BEEP... BEEP.
Two paramedics jumped out of the rear doors, hauling a folding stretcher.
"Over here!" Mara shouted, waving her arm. "Female, twenty-three, sudden onset right-side hemiparesis, facial drooping, dysarthria! Onset was approximately twelve minutes ago! Last known well was 8:17 p.m.!"
The lead paramedic—a veteran with graying hair named Hank—looked at Mara in astonishment as he set the stretcher down. "You an RN?"
"Former Level-1 Trauma, Charity Hospital," Mara barked, helping them transfer Audrey onto the stretcher. "Her blood pressure is elevated, pupils are asymmetric. Route straight to Ochsner Main, activate stroke protocol, request CT prep now!"
"Copy that," Hank said, securing the straps. "Let’s move!"
As they rolled the stretcher toward the back of the rig, a pair of bright white headlights suddenly swung into the Conti Street alleyway.
A heavy black SUV screeched to a halt fifty yards away, blocking the exit.
The driver’s side door flew open, and a man in a leather jacket stepped out into the pouring rain, holding a silenced submachine gun. It was one of Victor Vance’s enforcers.
"Mercer!" the man shouted over the roar of the rain. "Vance sends his regards!"
Before the shooter could raise his weapon, Grant Mercer moved with terrifying, unbelievable speed.
He drew a custom black semi-automatic pistol from beneath his coat, stepped in front of the ambulance doors, and fired four rapid shots through the sheets of rain.
THWACK. THWACK. THWACK. THWACK.
The shooter’s windshield shattered. The enforcer gasped, dropping his weapon and collapsing into the mud as the black SUV lurched into reverse and sped out of the alleyway.
The two paramedics dropped to the pavement, screaming in terror.
"Get in the rig!" Grant roared at them, racking the slide of his pistol and checking the street. "Get my sister to the hospital! NOW!"
Hank scrambled up, slamming the rear doors shut.
"Wait!" Grant yelled, turning to Mara. He grabbed her arm, pulling her toward the cab of the ambulance. "You're coming with us."
Mara blinked, rain pouring down her face. "What? I'm just the waitress!"
"You're the only person in this city who knows what’s happening to my sister!" Grant said, his hand gripping her wrist with desperate strength. "I'm not letting her go into that hospital without you. Name your price. A hundred thousand, a million, whatever you want. Just get in."
Mara looked at the ambulance, then at the blood on her apron, then into the fierce, pleading eyes of New Orleans’s most feared man.
May you like
She didn't care about his money. But she looked at Audrey through the small glass window of the rear door—scared, dying, and alone—and knew she couldn't walk away.
"Keep your money," Mara wiped the rain from her eyes. "And open the door."
