Page 12 of Saving Grace
I tried to refocus. What was running through my thoughts earlier? Oh, yes. Though most people who could have walked had gone, there were still those lying in pain on the ground. People more critical than I was.
“Look. I think that man over there needs your help more than I do.” I gritted my teeth at my words. Had I always been this stupid martyr? “If one of you could stop the bleeding on my leg. I think I can walk out of here.”
The two EMTs exchanged looks. The other—not Diaz—nodded toward me and spoke into his shoulder radio. “This is unit-541-2. We still have multiple casualties requiring medical assistance.”
“We’ve got you, lady,” Diaz said shortly. “Now let’s stop the bleeding before we put you on the stretcher.”
“Can I have a sip of water?”
“Sorry, ma’am. It’s against protocol until we figure out the extent of your injuries.”
I was really thirsty.
My purse began to vibrate. I opened my bag and picked up one of those weird looking devices that was now playing a familiar tune with the caller name on the screen: “Mr. Asshole calling.”
What the hell?
“I’m sorry.” Diaz suddenly snatched the device from my hand. “I can’t have you answering your phone.”
The situation didn’t feel right. Alarm bells pinged in my head.
“What? Is this against protocol, too? Give me back—get that needle away from me!”
My heart jumped to my throat as I attempted to crab-walk backward, but the EMT anticipated my move and yanked at my bad leg. Before I could scream for help, Not-Diaz plunged a needle into my neck.
“Now, now, Ms. Levinson, take a long sweet nap.”
They knew my name.Oh my God, I was so screwed.
“Yes, you are, sweetheart.”
I must had spoken out loud.
“Who … are you … guys?”
“It’s not important at this point.”
“Are you, are you … ”
Going to kill me?
“Hey, man, what the hell are you doing?” A new voice asked beyond my quickly-dimming peripheral vision.
“We got this. Tend to your own patient.”
“Like hell …”
“Help …” I croaked.
All the voices faded into the blackness.
So did the chaos in my mind.
*****
Matt
As expected, the roads were congested. What was normally a two-hour trip took four, and that was on his bike. Colt arrived an hour after him. Using the former Navy SEAL’s connections to the Atlanta PD, they were able to gain access to the north terminal. They had walked through the wreckage left by three bombs—debris of ceiling tiles, dry wall, hanging wires, and the more grim reality of coroners zipping bodies into body bags amidst the blood on the floor. It was like walking through a war zone, except this seemed surreal because the carnage happened in a major U.S. airport. The news was now calling this a terrorist attack because whether it was homegrown or foreign, no one could deny this was coordinated.