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“Alfie’s hurt. Took a bullet to the leg, it looks bad.”
“How the hell—never mind. We’ll be there.” Tommy grabbed my hands and pulled off the gloves. “Get dressed, we’re leaving in five.”
I followed him down the hall. “Why don’t you bring him to the hospital.”
“You know why, Cass. Christ. Just get dressed.” Tommy already had his phone out, presumably dialing Connor.
I hastily pulled on a sweatshirt over my sports bra, not bothering to change out of my leggings and tennis shoes. I met Tommy in the corridor as he was strapping on a shoulder holster over his bulletproof vest. “Connor says the bullet’s still in his thigh. It doesn’t look like it hit an artery, but it’s bleeding badly.”
“I don’t have any supplies with me—what does the bar have, a basic first aid kit?” I shook my head. “I don’t know what you expect me to do. He needs to go to a hospital.”
Tommy bundled me in the car and merged into traffic, pushing the speed limit. “The usual guy we have for these situations is out of town, but the fellas stopped by his place and brought back supplies. You’ll have everything you need.”
“You have a—a what, like an on-call doctor?” I couldn’t imagine anyone risking their license over back-alley patch jobs for the mob.
Tommy winced. “A vet.”
“As in, veterinarian?”
“Retired.”
“Lovely.”
Up ahead, I saw the residential neighborhoods give way to a more urban setting, older, brick buildings with fire escapes and faded, hand-painted signs. I’d never been to Lady Devine’s before, the McTiernan Clan’s sanctum sanctorum, but I’d heard enough about it to elicit a thrill of apprehension through my veins. Tommy pulled past the bar and onto a side street, barely waiting for the car to stop before slamming it into park.
The bar was dimly lit inside. No patrons, no staff, just a closed sign on the front door and a flood of light from the back room illuminating a trail of blood across the floor. As reluctant as I was, I couldn’t help but switch into doctor-mode, and I pushed ahead of Tommy into the back room.
Alfie was laid out on a worn, leather couch. Judging by the stains on the unfortunately puce-colored upholstery, this wasn’t the first time surgery had been performed on it. Connor had both hands firmly clamped over Alfie’s thigh, and Sloane knelt at the other end of the couch, smoothing back Alfie’s hair. Three other men I didn’t know stood uselessly off to the side, looking nervous.
“Everybody out,” I said. “Connor and Tommy can stay.”
Sloane didn’t look up. “I’m staying too.”
“Fine. You three, out.” It was almost a relief to switch back into that calm focus and let my training take over. I crouched down next to Alfie, gently but firmly moving Sloane out of the way. “Tommy, where’s the kit?”
When he didn’t answer, I turned around. Tommy was staring at Sloane’s hand on Alfie’s forehead.
“Oi! Tommy!” Connor barked. “The kit. Now.”
That got him moving. I turned back to Alfie. He didn’t look great. His eyes were open, but he was barely conscious, breathing and pulse way too fast when I took his vitals. Tommy dropped the kit next to me and rifled through it. “What do you need?”
“A tourniquet, for starters. Connor, keep pressure on that and give me your other hand.” Connor didn’t say a word as I brutally pressed his fingers into the femoral artery in Alfie’s groin. “Hard as you can.”
Alfie groaned, eyelids cracking open. “Least…buy me dinner f-first, Con.”
“You should be so lucky,” Connor grinned, but it didn’t meet his eyes. “Just hang in there, Alf.”
“Cass, I can’t find a tourniquet.” Tommy looked up, eyes wide.
I cursed and pulled off my left shoe, grateful I hadn’t bothered to change. I pulled the laces out, grabbed a pencil off the desk behind us, and threaded my arms through Connor’s. “Tommy, Connor, hold him down. This is going to hurt.”
The boys managed to hold Alfie steady as I looped the lace around his upper thigh. Connor’s breath tickled my ear. I slipped the pencil into the makeshift tourniquet and tightened it until the bleeding stopped. Through it all, Sloane kept up a quiet litany of murmured reassurances to Alfie, right up until he passed out.
From there, it was a bit of a blur. Fluids were started, the bullet was removed, and veins and musculature were stitched together. Tommy stood a few feet away, pale and watching, but Connor made a surprisingly helpful assistant. He definitely wasn’t squeamish, but I suspected the look on Tommy’s face had less to do with the blood and more to do with the attentions Sloane was paying Alfie.
“Scissors.” Connor deposited them in my palm, and I snipped the last suture. “We’ll disinfect one last time and then bandage it up.”
I didn’t know why I was narrating all of this, except maybe to defuse the tension in the room. Connor watched me intently as I worked as if he were studying me, or maybe he was just surprised. He shouldn’t have been—he’d seen me work on Johnny in the Town Car.
