Chapter 2 2

We managed to stabilize the driver, get him out of the vehicle, transport him to the hospital, and leave the rest of the injured to the other paramedics. Afterward, we return to base, clean the ambulance, restock supplies, and wait for the next call, which doesn't take long to come.

After handling a few minor domestic accidents and a heart attack at the mall—which results in the death of an elderly man—we're just about to end our shift when the radio sends us back into action once again.

"A Shooting on Twenty-Seventh Avenue," Matt reports as we rush into the ambulance.

I roll my eyes and settle into my seat. It’s nothing unusual. Phoenix’s crime rate is relatively low compared to other cities of similar size and population. However, in recent years, prostitution, drug trafficking, and gang violence have surged around Twenty-Seventh Avenue. We get calls from that area every day. Stabbings and gunshot wounds are the most common.

It takes us less than five minutes to arrive. The police have already cordoned off the area. In front of a massive warehouse, two young men lie unconscious while several paramedics tend to them. One glance is enough to tell me they both have gunshot wounds.

"There are two more inside and one at the back of the warehouse," a police officer informs us.

I nod, and we head inside. The warehouse is enormous and completely empty. I ask George to follow us in with the ambulance—there’s enough space for him to maneuver. I spot the two bodies and immediately check the pulse of one while Matt does the same for the other. They're also young. Judging by their clothes and tattoos, they’re almost certainly members of a Latin gang.

"He’s dead," Matt announces.

"This one too."

"Should we start compressions?"

I'm about to say yes when I see two medics running toward us.

"They can take care of it. Let’s check on the one in the back."

"You think it was the Zeta Clan?"

"Not our problem. Let the police figure it out."

Matt nods, and we move quickly. We exit through the warehouse’s back door, and I instruct George to drive around the building to meet us.

I find the young man on the ground—he's conscious, with two police officers standing over him. They let me through, and I kneel beside him.

"Get the hell away from me, bitch!" he yells before I can even touch him.

I raise an eyebrow and study his face. He looks even younger than the others—he can’t be more than twenty.

"If you don’t let me examine you, you’ll bleed out," I say, pointing at his abdomen.

He’s clutching it with both hands, but the blood keeps pouring out, soaking his shirt and the ground beneath him.

"Want us to cuff him?" one of the officers asks.

I keep my eyes on the kid.

"I don’t think that’s necessary, officer. He looks smart enough to know that dying isn’t a great idea. Am I wrong?"

"It’s either death or prison," he mutters. "I don’t know which is worse."

"Live to find out," I whisper, just loud enough for him to hear.

His dark eyes lock onto mine, and I see the fear in them. After a few seconds of hesitation, he removes his hands and nods.

I carefully lowered him to the ground and cut away his shirt to inspect the wound. As I expected, it’s a gunshot wound—not high caliber. I roll him slightly to check for an exit wound. The bullet went through. Given its location, closer to his side, it’s possible no vital organs were hit, but I won’t be sure until the bleeding stops. I press gauze against the wound while Matt inserts an IV into his arm. I notice a Z-shaped tattoo, confirming my suspicions—he’s a Zeta Clan member. The smartest move is to get him to the hospital as quickly as possible.

George brings the stretcher over, and we lift him onto it immediately. Once he’s secured inside the ambulance, the officers inform us they’ll escort us.

Then something unexpected happens.

I hear the screech of tires, and a massive black SUV comes to a stop beside us.

Four men step out.

The officers move to draw their weapons, but before they can, a bullet pierces each of their heads.

Matt ducks, frightened by the gunfire, but I don’t move an inch.

One of the armed men opens the back of the ambulance and grins from ear to ear.

"The son of a bitch is alive," he announces.

They all seem pleased before turning their attention to us. One of them—the only one without tattoos covering his neck and hands—aims a pistol at me.

"Who’s the medic?" he asks.

"I am," I answer after clearing my throat.

I know what’s coming before it happens.

Another man raises his gun and shoots Matt in the head. Then George.

Their bodies hit the ground, lifeless.

I know there’s nothing I can do for them. They’re dead.

"What a shame. I liked George."

"Good," the man with the gun says. "Looks like you just earned yourself a ride around the city."

He gestures toward the back of the ambulance and smirks.

"Get in. You’re gonna patch up my friend. After that, we’ll figure out what to do with you."

I’ve managed to stop the bleeding. I shift uncomfortably and huff in frustration as I feel the barrel of the gun pressed against my lower back. One of the men is driving the ambulance, the one with the tattoos on his neck is upfront with him, and the other one, the one they called Oscar, is in the back with me, keeping his eyes locked on me.

"Can you move the gun a few inches away? I’m trying to save your friend’s life, and having that thing pointed at me isn’t helping."

I think I hear a low chuckle, and then the pressure of the gun against my back disappears.

I keep working mechanically while trying to stay aware of my surroundings. We’ve been traveling at a normal speed, heading east for over twenty minutes. Maybe we’re going to Paradise Valley. They say some criminal gang leaders live there, deep in the rocky desert, in massive luxury mansions.