Graves stood in the garage with four of her own and a stretcher at her side, concrete throwing the strip-lights back in long, oily bands. The bay door was rolled to the dark; wind pushed diesel and wet iron under the tongue. She was still the Syndicate's only doctor, but over the years she'd peeled off a handful of enforcers and built them into something that could pass for a field unit, drilling lines and airways into their muscles until the work held. They ran their regular shifts with guns and radios and came to her only on nights like this, when she called and they understood what it meant.
For a one-minute run she'd staged only the essentials—forced-air blanket humming on battery, bag-valve mask clipped to O₂, gauze and tape on the rail, trauma shears and a red bag at her boot, stocked with lines, drugs, and a monitor. Control had the service elevator keyed and held; runners were down from lift to med; night security watched the lane on camera to keep it clean.
She checked her watch. Nolan had called five minutes out. Four of those minutes were gone.
Her radio cracked: "Control to garage—outer gate rolling." The team tightened without talk—Sam to airway, Deke on the rails, Matteo at the warmer, Baines posted at the elevator call. Graves took the head of the stretcher.
"We go to them. Announce your hands."
Tires chirped on the ramp, headlights skating off pillars as the black SUV dropped into the bay, nose dipping when the brakes caught.
"On me," Graves told them, and they drove the stretcher forward.
Nolan was driving. Onyx shoved the front passenger door wide and came out hard, boots hitting concrete, breath ragged in the cold. He crossed to Graves in quick, uneven strides, shoulders wound tight, voice clipped but shaken.
"Couple minutes ago she crashed—stopped breathing, pulse dropped out. Kier has stayed on her chest since." He didn't wait for an answer, swinging past Graves to haul the liftgate open.
Graves felt her time window shrink and set her hands on the rail. "Stay on her until I say off," she called, and followed him in.
In the cargo well Harper lay flat on the folded rear seats turned into a makeshift platform, tank top plastered dark against her chest, running shorts soaked through, bare legs streaked in blood that had dried and cracked in lines down to her calves. Skin waxy under the strip-lights, cuts crosshatched her arms, ribs, and thighs, smaller lines laddering down her shins—some still wet, others already crusted into thin, rusted seams. Her mouth hung slack, lashes clumped, pupils blown wide and glassy.
Kier straddled her hips, knees locked, arms driving at a steady count that jolted her frame with every compression. Brock knelt crowded at her head, jaw thrust set, both hands hooked hard at the angles of her jaw to hold it open. His eyes tracked the line of her face and the hollow at her neck, searching for any twitch that might mean air was trying to move. His cadence ran low under his breath, numbers clipped, feeding tempo into Kier's hands like the count itself might keep her tied here.
Graves leaned in, gaze catching the tank drowned high on Harper's right side, dark and wet where the stab had gone in. Heat still ran there, the hemorrhage alive under her palm even before she touched it. "Sam, airway. Kier stays on until the turn. Deke takes chest the instant she lands. Matteo, you're on the blanket. We roll on my count."
Nolan shifted in beside her, shoulders squared, gaze cutting past to Brock at the head and down to where Kier's hands worked. He didn't speak, only set his grip ready at Harper's hips, waiting on Graves' call to lift.
They moved the way drilled work moves when nobody argues.
"One… two… now."
Kier drove three last compressions, then slid off Harper's hips fast, keeping a hand braced at her thigh until Nolan and Deke had her weight. Graves took shoulders; Nolan and Deke lifted at the hips. In a practiced drag they had her clear; vinyl met Harper's back in a breath as the stretcher took her weight, her body rocking once as metal settled underframe. Brock crabbed backward out of the well, forced to let go as Deke dropped straight to her side and planted his hands at midline, compressions picking up again before the frame had even stilled.
Graves tracked his count.
"Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty—"
On thirty Deke came off the chest. Graves had the shears under the hem before Harper's ribs fully rose, blades kissing skin as she drove one hard cut straight up the tank and snapped the bra straps in two quick bites. "Back on."
Deke's palms landed center sternum and the compressions resumed. Fabric fell wide. Harper's chest and stomach lay bare under the lights: crosshatch cuts over ribs and belly, breasts scored thin and red, two deeper wounds pulling focus—one high at the shoulder still leaking, another dark under the right ribs.
"Active bleeds—shoulder and flank," Graves called, steady. "Sam, pads high-right, low-left. Matteo, blanket with window."
Sam cracked the packaging and worked around Deke's shoulders, smacking the pads to skin between compressions. Mask sealing over Harper's mouth. O₂ hissed as Matteo squeezed the bag on his count in the next slim pause, Harper's chest lifting shallow before Deke drove down again. Matteo flared the warmer over hips and shoulders, folding back high-right so Graves' palm could lock on the bleeding.
They pushed out of the garage. Brock caught the rail, knuckles bone-white, eyes locked down the line of Harper's body. Nolan muscled the frame from the near side, shoulder steadying the run. Graves kept her palm clamped to the flank. Kier dropped to the far rail with Deke, trading numbers to keep rhythm true. Onyx shadowed close, jaw tight, silent.
The stretcher bumped the paint line and ran, concrete seams ticking under the wheels. The service elevator waited with its doors already thrown wide, Baines planted in the threshold, forearm braced against the sensor. They shoved straight in and the box swallowed them, heater roar rising in the close as the doors slid shut on his heels.
"Swap in two," Graves said, watching the roll of Deke's shoulders rather than his face. "Sam, keep the seal. Small breaths."
"Twenty-nine, thirty—"
Kier slid in, hands locking down as Deke peeled off. Sam held the mask kiss-tight while Matteo squeezed two measured ventilations on his count, Harper's chest lifting shallow between compressions.
The doors parted onto the bay and they pushed through still working, compressions rocking Harper's frame as clean light snapped white over them. They drove the stretcher to the dock; brakes slammed, rails dropped.
"Lift, slide, transfer. On three."
Hands locked where they were supposed to. "One, two, three—" Harper's body shifted as one with the team, gliding from vinyl to the trauma bed without breaking cadence, Kier already planted at her side, count never breaking.
"Two big lines. IV and IO, now," Graves said.
Kier stayed locked at midline, compressions driving Harper's sternum. Deke was already at the arm, his fingers running fast along the inside of her elbow. On someone young and wiry the veins should've stood up easy, but shock had collapsed them to thread. He slid the catheter anyway, caught the flash, and drove it home. "Line's up," he muttered, snapping the tubing on. A pressure cuff cinched around the bag; he pumped it tight, forcing warm fluid down the tube.
Baines knelt at her shin. He didn't waste time searching. He set the IO needle to bone, felt for the flat just below the knee, then drilled through with a hard twist. A tiny give told him he was in. He flushed saline and watched the skin—no bulge, nothing weeping out. "Leg's clean."
Graves kept her hand locked over the flank bleed, watching both sites in her periphery. Two access points—vein and bone. Enough to slam fluids, meds, whatever she needed to drag Harper back.
Sam slid into position at her head as Graves snapped the order. "Tube her. Suction first."
Kier kept compressions running, jolts rocking Harper's frame. Sam fed the Yankauer along her tongue, pulling dark blood and clots out of the back of her throat. The canister clouded fast, metallic reek thick in the air. "Airway's dirty," he muttered.
"On my mark—hold compressions. Three, two, one… hold."
Kier froze at the top of the count, hands hovering as his own chest heaved. Sam lifted the laryngoscope and went in. The blade swept tongue and teeth aside, the view swimming red. Graves leaned in over his shoulder, catching the line of his sight. "Find the cords."
For a moment of stillness the chest stayed quiet and a flash of pale cartilage showed through the blood. Sam drove the tube, stylet stiff, slid past the opening and pulled the steel free.
"Back on," Graves ordered, and Kier dropped his palms to midline again, compressions snapping back into rhythm. Matteo snapped the bag onto the connector as Sam sealed the cuff at Harper's mouth. Matteo squeezed once, twice, timing the breaths between Kier's counts. Harper's chest rose equal on both sides; fog traced the inside of the tube, oxygen hissing through.
Graves kept her hand pressed to the flank bleed, eyes on the rise of Harper's ribs. "Good tube. We're secure."
"Expose the pelvis," Graves said.
Matteo ran the shears from cuff to hip in one long cut; belt and button went with it. The waistband peeled back, shorts stripped free so the right flank and lower abdomen were clear. Graves kept her palm locked where she'd already been holding pressure, blood still seeping under her hand. Baines removed the shoes and bagged them; Sam lifted the blanket edge back in place to keep the heat tight.
"Pads reading," Sam said, eyes on the screen. "Monitor up."
Graves didn't look up. "If she flips into VF, we shock. PEA and we keep compressions going and chase the bleed."
"Pause for rhythm in three… two… now."
Hands lifted. The thump of compressions cut off. The room held still except for the hiss of O₂. The monitor traced an organized green rhythm. Graves pressed her fingers hard into the carotid and met nothing.
"PEA. Resume."
Kier slammed back onto the chest, arms locked, cadence hammering. Deke slid aside, sweat shining at his temples. Sam steadied the tube at Harper's mouth, eyes flicking to her chest for symmetry with each squeeze. Matteo worked the bag-valve in time, ribs rising shallow under the force.
"Epi one milligram IV," Graves called. Deke grabbed the syringe, snapped the cap, and pushed hard into the line. The cuff hugged the bag, forcing warm fluid wide into the vein.
"Warm saline wide open. Onyx—get Gunner now. Donor kit and TXA." He was moving before she finished, boots pounding for the hall.
Graves' palm was still clamped to the flank bleed, her wrist aching with the pressure. She needed her hands back. She looked up.
"Nolan. Here."
He was beside her in an instant. She caught his wrist, dragged his hand down onto the wound, and pressed until he felt the weight she wanted. "Hold it. Don't surf."
Blood welled through his fingers, hot and slick, but he didn't flinch. His shoulders squared, locking in like he was bracing a door.
Baines had already rolled the ultrasound cart up to the rail, screen bright and waiting. The probe kissed Graves' wrist; she took it without looking. "Next ten-count, I scan."
Kier's cadence stayed steady, chest rocking under his locked arms. Matteo squeezed two breaths in rhythm. Sam steadied the tube at Harper's mouth, eyes flicking from chest rise to monitor. Nolan kept his weight anchored at the flank, pressure unrelenting, his free hand snapping out once to catch Brock's shoulder when he edged in too close and to hold him there.
Heat pooled slow under the blower.
"Pause—ten count, go."
Hands lifted. Compressions cut off. Graves smeared gel and set the probe. The screen flickered gray, organ borders ghosting into view. "Pericardial clear." She slid right to the upper quadrant; a black slick widened at the liver edge, pooling dark in the grain. "She's leaking. Resume."
Kier dropped back on the chest, rhythm snapping into place as the probe slipped from Graves' fingers and swung on its cord.
"Two minutes," Baines called from the clock.
"Swap—Deke in." Kier slid aside clean, Deke taking his place, rhythm hammering without pause.
Sam steadied the tube at Harper's mouth, eyes on chest rise as Matteo squeezed air in time.
Brock's hands opened and closed empty at the rail; his mouth shaped a prayer that never reached sound.
Graves swept Harper fast with palm and eyes. The back of the head felt solid under her fingers, skull holding firm, no give or step in the bone. Pupils caught the light and gave it back, equal and reactive, but the rims were raw, tears leaking, the whites injected and angry. A knot swelled under the hair at the base of the skull, tender beneath her touch.
The shallow stab high at the shoulder oozed slow; Baines squared it with tape. Thin lacerations marked her everywhere—chest, belly, arms, sides, hips, legs, even the scalp behind her ear—a scatter of shallow, fresh cuts over almost every span of skin.
"All other cuts are surface," Graves said. "Clean and dress later. Eyes flagged for flush, numbing drops first. Treat the head like it's hurt until I scan."
Onyx burst back through the doorway with Gunner in tow, coat half on. Gunner's eyes went wide at the sight on the bed.
"What do you need?" he asked.
"Chair. Left arm. Make a fist," Graves said, not looking up.
Deke's compressions kept the bed rocking under Harper's body while Matteo timed breaths between counts. Baines dragged a stool in at Gunner's side and snapped a tourniquet on fast. He cracked the CPD bag, tipped the anticoagulant once around the plastic, and snapped the donor set together before sliding the needle into the crook of Gunner's arm. Gunner clenched the rubber ball on Baines' count, jaw locked, gaze fixed on Harper.
They'd screened him months ago for this—label on the bag already marked. "O low-titer confirmed," Baines said.
The bag budded red, filling firm and steady.
"Stop the clear on the left. Blood on the left line, pressure cuff it," Graves called. "Leg stays for meds."
"Fresh whole blood to Harper, filter inline. TXA now through the leg."
Warm color climbed the tubing into Harper's arm while Gunner kept squeezing, hand steady on the ball.
"Pause—rhythm and pulse."
Hands lifted off the chest. The pounding thump of compressions cut away and the room went tight with silence but for the hiss of O₂.
The screen traced a steady green rhythm, still organized. Graves pressed two fingers deep into the side of Harper's neck. For a breath she felt nothing—then a faint push, thin and stubborn against her touch.
"Carotid present. ROSC." Her voice stayed flat, not letting the room breathe with her. "No compressions. Keep assisting breaths. Push blood. Don't stop moving it."
Brock's knuckles flexed white on the rail. Nolan's hand held steady at the flank, blood still seeping warm under him.
"BP?" Graves said.
"Seventy-eight… seventy-two… dropping," Baines answered. The heart still raced on the screen, but the numbers wouldn't stick.
"Repeat right upper," she said.
Probe down—gray grain, then black water by the liver, wider than before. Under her hand the belly had gone tight, board-hard against the probe.
"It's building," Graves said. "She won't hold here. We cut."
"OR's hot," Baines answered.
"Good. Secure everything. Keep the tube tight. Ten a minute, small breaths," Graves said.
Sam checked the tube at her mouth, tape snug, chest rising clean under Matteo's squeeze. Nolan's weight stayed clamped at the flank, blood still seeping slow against him. The numbers on the monitor wobbled, then held.
"Keep the blood moving under pressure on the left. Leg line stays for meds. Second walker on standby if Gunner fades," Graves said. Her voice cut the room short.
"Listen up—we're moving. Sam, hold the tube. Matteo, bag her, ten a minute. Deke, stay on the flank from Nolan. Lock it down. Nolan, once we're rolling, you're on the foot and you steer. Baines—stay with Gunner; fill and send bags the second they're ready."
Deke pressed in, gloved hand replacing Nolan's, weight steady over the wound. Blood welled, but the pressure held. Nolan pulled back, slick to the wrist, and wiped his hand on his shirt without looking away from Harper.
Graves' eyes found the rest. "Kier—out. Onyx—clear the hall. Nolan, get Brock out of my doorway. Anyone not medicine, out until I say."
Brock broke the line anyway—one fast step to Harper's head. His hand brushed her temple as he bent, the word a breath against her hairline. "I'm here."
"Brock," Nolan warned.
"Out," Graves said, firmer now, never looking away from the wound.
Onyx caught his elbow, Nolan the other side; together they hauled him back cleanly, his weight resisting for half a breath before he let them take him. The stretcher pivoted, unbroken.
"Let's go," Graves said.
The wheels rolled. The corridor was twenty paces of hard light and cold air; the OR waited open, bright with mean lamps, antiseptic biting in the air.
"In and park. Lock," she said at the threshold, and the doors took them.