1 Chapter 1
Bond dove off the jogging path and belly crawled to hide in the mountain forest’s undergrowth. The leaves had begun to turn fall colors on some trees and drop, but the firs and pines here were thick and green. He lay flat with his ball cap bill pulled low to hide the reflection of his skin until he heard a car peel out and its motor grow fainter and fainter until it disappeared.
Realizing he hadn’t been the target, he duck walked out of the trees and scanned the lake and shore. A fully clothed man lay in the sand near the lake’s edge, curled in fetal position with his back to Bond. Footprints across the tan sand indicated he’d been running to escape his attacker or attackers.
With no vehicles or people in sight, Bond took off running and then jammed his knees in the sand as he dropped beside the man. “Are you hurt?”
“Shot,” the man groaned. His face was tight with pain and wet with sweat and tears. The corners of his mouth were red with blood. He was dressed in jeans and an ordinary sweatshirt of faded green.
“Where?”
“Chest. Gut. I’m dying.”
“We’ll do our best to prevent that. I’m a physician. Let me see.” Gently, he helped the wounded man roll onto his back. Blood seeping from his belly and chest wounds had soaked his shirt and discolored the fine gray sand. The acrid, coppery smell permeated the clean mountain air.
Jesus, it’s Afghanistan all over again.
“I’m Bond Bergstrom. What’s your name?”
“Will…Hammond. So hard to breathe.” He coughed up a trickle of red liquid.
Bond was already yanking his damp T-shirt over his head and off. He balled it up. “We need to stop this bleeding in your abdomen, Will. This may hurt more than you do already, but we need to keep pressure on it.”
He pressed the ball over the hole in the man’s belly and pressed.
It was a tough call. If he supported the man’s torso against his kneeling thighs he might breathe better, but then it would be harder for blood to circulate life-giving oxygen to his brain. If his lungs were filling with blood—and he hoped to hell they weren’t—without a chest tube he might suffocate anyway.
Raising Hammond’s legs to improve blood flow to the heart would simply drive more of it into his belly and out the wound. It was six of one and half dozen of the other.
Hell, I only have one hand anyway and need to staunch the heaviest bleeding.
He had no choice but to wait for the paramedics. With his free hand, he thumbed 911 on his cell.
The victim continued to moan and cry out in pain.
“Hang in there, Will. I’m calling for help.”
“Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?” a woman’s steady voice asked.
“This is Dr. Bergstrom, on the east side of the lake near the Serrano Bridge with a male GSW victim. Profuse bleeding abdomen and chest. Send paramedics, ambulance, and sheriff. Red lights and siren.” He’d reassured the man about his condition, so Bond hoped he didn’t understand the call for red lights and siren meant hurry because life hung in the balance.
When the operator told him to keep the line open until help arrived, he agreed. “What’s the ETA?”
In moments the estimated time of arrival came—four minutes.
Maybe this man will make it after all.
To the patient, he said, “Help’s coming soon. Hang with me.”
Will’s pulse raced; his breathing was shallow and rapid with air hunger. He was slipping into shock. When Bond asked who had shot him, he lifted his arm and pointed. “They did.” He lost consciousness.
Damn it all, who is “they”?
At the sound of an approaching vehicle, Bond turned his head expecting paramedics, but instead saw a rifle barrel protruding from the back window of an SUV. Without thinking, his Special Forces training kicked in and he flung himself flat over the victim and held his breath. The crack as the rifle fired and the whine as the bullet passed too close over his head sent his heart rate into paroxysms. Shaken, he thanked God the attacker was a lousy marksman.
Sirens wailed, then grew louder. The SUV motor gunned loudly and raced off before a second shot could be fired. Bond pulled up to sit on his knees, one hand keeping pressure on the wound, the other still clutching his phone.
“Dr. Bergstrom, are you all right?” the operator asked.
Through it all, he’d kept the line open. “I’m okay…shot missed. Tell the sheriff’s department a dark SUV’s speeding away east around the lake. That’s the only description I have.”
The sound of the sirens died, and a red truck braked to a stop on the jogging path. A fire truck and a county sheriff’s car pulled in behind it and two uniformed officers in dark green uniforms stepped out. “The medics are getting out of their rig now. I’m hanging up. Thanks for your help.”
He stood and stepped back to let three men and a woman in dark blue uniforms take over.
