He couldn’t save his ER from the shooter in May. This time would be different.
Hank saw the woman’s hand on the grip.
Her fingers quivered slightly, two full seconds of hesitation. Enough time for Hank to jump in front of the gun, just as she made her decision to pull the trigger.
Anthony
Anthony had only just registered the sound of a gun firing when he was suddenly crushed under a swarm of security guards and cops and pulled from the stage to an awaiting van. The panicked shrieks of the crowd were instantly silenced as the bulletproof door slammed behind him.
“What happened?” he asked the driver.
“We’re not sure yet.”
“Where’s Katherine?”
“She’s secure. They’ve got her in the next car.”
Anthony nodded and looked down at his suit, which had been crumpled during his chaotic exit.
He was safe.
Katherine was safe.
He had just survived what was, in all likelihood, a targeted shooting. An assassination attempt. On his life.
Holy shit, Anthony thought. Somebody out there wanted to kill him.
He had always had a few enemies: the rival frat brothers in college, an obnoxious law school nemesis, a colleague at the DA’s office angling for the same promotions. But this was different. This was dangerous.
For a moment Anthony was truly scared.
But then he remembered his long string, and the three more decades it promised him, and the fact that, despite his wrinkled Armani, he was totally unscathed.
A second thought followed soon after.
This was, quite possibly, the best thing to happen to his campaign.
People would sympathize with him, be inspired by him, see him as a triumphant survivor. How many political leaders had defied plots to take them out? Teddy Roosevelt, Richard Nixon, Ronald Reagan. And he, Anthony Rollins, Virginia congressman, had just joined their elite ranks. Thanks to a gunman with horrible aim, he was that much closer to the Oval Office.
In the coming days, he would surely craft a poignant speech condemning the violence and hatred that sought to strike him down, grieving any tragic casualties, and calling upon his fellow Americans to march on in the face of fear.
They’ll eat it up, Anthony thought. I’ll be a goddamn hero.
Hank
The woman was trying to help him, that much he could tell. She had shot him, and now she wanted to save him.
“No no no no no no,” she begged over and over. “I wasn’t aiming for you!”
The shooter pressed her hands firmly against the hole in his stomach, her tears falling hard and fast. Her face was so close to Hank’s that he could see the water streaking down her cheeks and the bubbles forming in her nostrils. Loose strands of auburn hair were grazing Hank’s nose.
“I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “I’m so sorry.”
Her arms were still stretched out toward him as a few brave bystanders descended, pulling her up and away.
The woman was replaced by more familiar faces, Lea and Terrell, kneeling down to take over and apply pressure to Hank’s wound, which suddenly hurt like a motherfucker, the adrenaline starting to wear off, his skin burning and his ears ringing.
“You’re gonna be okay,” Lea whispered.
“It’s fine, he’s gonna be fine!” Terrell was shouting, trying to calm everyone down. “He’s still got a few years left like the rest of us.”
Hank tilted his head and caught a glimpse of Ben, his body shuddering as he gripped Maura’s hand. Ben would have to explain to them all.
Then a third set of faces arrived. EMTs with a stretcher and an oxygen mask.
As a doctor, Hank had witnessed the final moments of 129 patients. Each one he remembered more vividly than any of his memories with Lucy and Anika, or with his parents while he was growing up. The peaceful moments, and the violent ones. The expected, and the shocking. He could picture every flatline on the monitor. A string spread taut across the screen.
Hank had always wanted his own moment to be quiet, but the commotion of the crowd and the sirens of the ambulance ensured that it would not be.
As the rubber straps of the oxygen mask were pulled over his head, Hank wondered what was coming. He was terrified as hell, and he had only hope to hold on to. Hope that it was somewhere nice. Hope that his father would be there, waiting. Hope that his mother would be okay and that, in time, she would be there, too.
Ben’s was the last face that Hank saw before shutting his eyes. Ben had evidently run after the EMTs and alongside the stretcher, managing to reach Hank just before they loaded him into the ambulance.