Chapter 81 Arrest
The flashing red and blue lights illuminated the small, metallic space in frantic, strobing bursts. The smell of copper and antiseptic was overpowering. The paramedic’s voices were sharp, clipped, barking medical jargon that I didn't fully understand, but the tone told me everything I needed to know.
Tristan was slipping away.
"Pulse is thready," the medic yelled over the siren. "I can't get a BP reading. We're losing him!"
"Keep the pressure on that wound!" the other medic ordered me, his hands busy preparing another injection.
I pushed down harder on the thick wad of gauze covering the hole in Tristan’s shoulder. My arms were shaking with the effort, my entire upper body weight bearing down, but the blood still seeped through, hot and relentless.
I stared at his face. It was ashen, the sharp angles of his jaw stark beneath his pale skin. His lips were slightly parted, utterly relaxed.
He looked peaceful.
It was the most terrifying thing I had ever seen.
"No," I growled, the word a physical command aimed at the universe. "You don't get peace yet. Do you hear me? You don't get to leave me to clean this up alone."
The ambulance lurched as it took a hard turn, throwing me against the side wall. I scrambled back, replacing my hands instantly.
"ETA is two minutes!" the driver yelled from the front.
"We don't have two minutes," the medic swore, checking the monitor. The line was flat again. The horrible, continuous scream filled the cabin. "Starting compressions!"
He pushed my hands away.
"Get back!" he ordered.
I pressed myself into the corner, out of his way, my bloody hands hovering uselessly in the air.
I watched as the medic placed his hands over the center of Tristan’s chest, right where the stun baton had hit Silas earlier that night. He pushed down, hard and fast, establishing a brutal rhythm.
One, two, three, four...
Every compression jolted Tristan’s lifeless body. It was violent. It was desperate.
"Come on," the medic grunted, sweat beading on his forehead. "Come on, stay with us."
The ambulance slammed on the brakes, throwing us all forward. The back doors were thrown open before the vehicle had fully stopped.
A team of doctors and nurses was waiting on the brightly lit emergency bay.
"Gunshot wound to the right upper chest," the medic shouted, climbing out as they pulled the stretcher down. "Arterial bleed. Lost pulse twice en route. He's coding again!"
They swarmed him. I was pushed out of the ambulance and instantly swallowed by the organized chaos of the ER.
I ran alongside the stretcher as they sprinted down the long, linoleum hallway.
"Tristan!" I screamed, reaching for his hand, but a nurse blocked me.
"Ma'am, you have to stay back!" she yelled, pushing me gently but firmly away.
They turned a corner, bursting through a set of double doors.
The doors swung shut, cutting off my view.
I stood there in the middle of the hallway, alone.
The silence of the hospital was deafening after the siren and the shouting. People were walking past me—nurses, orderlies, patients—but they all seemed to be moving in slow motion, their voices muffled.
I looked down at my hands. They were completely covered in drying, cracking blood. My white silk blouse was ruined, stained a dark, rusted brown. My black pants were smeared with the dust of the stage floor.
I looked like a slaughterhouse worker.
My knees finally gave out.
I sank to the linoleum floor, leaning back against the cold, sterile wall. I pulled my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around my legs, trying to make myself as small as possible.
I didn't cry. I didn't scream.
I just stared at the double doors, waiting for the world to either end or begin again.
"Minerva."
I didn't know how much time had passed. It could have been ten minutes or ten hours.
I slowly looked up.
Vane was standing over me. The sharp, immaculate lawyer looked as wrecked as I felt. His tie was gone, his collar unbuttoned, his suit jacket wrinkled.
He knelt down beside me, ignoring the blood on my clothes.
"Are you hurt?" he asked softly, his eyes scanning my face.
"No," I whispered. My voice was hoarse, raw from screaming. "It's all his."
Vane swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat.
"Is he...?" I couldn't finish the question. The words wouldn't form.
"He's in surgery," Vane said quickly, placing a hand on my shoulder. "They got a pulse back. He's stable enough for the OR, but... it's bad, Mina. The bullet shattered his collarbone and nicked the subclavian artery."
"But he's alive."
"He's fighting," Vane corrected gently.
I closed my eyes, letting my head fall back against the wall.
He was fighting. The Titan was still in there, battling the darkness.
"What happened at the Opera House?" I asked, opening my eyes. I needed details. I needed facts to anchor my floating mind. "After the ambulance left?"
Vane’s expression hardened, the lawyer returning to the forefront.
"It was a bloodbath," Vane said grimly. "Not literally. But the fallout is massive. The police secured the building. They found the C4 Silas wired in the tunnels."
"And Silas?"
"In custody. He's not talking yet, but he will. We have enough evidence to put him away for the rest of his natural life."
"And Ida?" I asked. The name tasted like poison on my tongue.
Vane stood up, offering me his hand.
"Come with me," he said. "There's a waiting room down the hall. You shouldn't sit on the floor."
I took his hand. He pulled me up. My legs were shaky, but they held.
We walked down the hall to a small, private waiting area. It was empty, save for a few uncomfortable chairs and a humming vending machine.
Vane directed me to a chair. He went to a small sink in the corner, grabbed a handful of paper towels, and wet them.
He came back and knelt in front of me, gently taking my hands.
He began to wipe the dried blood from my skin. It was an intimate, tender gesture that made the tears prick my eyes again.
"Ida is in police custody," Vane said, his voice low, as he scrubbed at my knuckles. "She was transported to the precinct under heavy guard. The DA is already drafting the charges."
"She looked so happy," I whispered, remembering the manic gleam in her eyes as they dragged her away.
Vane stopped wiping. He looked up at me.
"She's completely unhinged, Mina," Vane said. "I spoke to the tactical commander. When they breached the royal box, she didn't even try to shoot them. She just stood there, smiling, waiting for them to take the rifle."