A single GSW, from the look of it. Blood fucking everywhere.
A dark-haired woman, her lacy red bra on full display, knelt next to him, pressing down hard on a soaked ball of cloth.
“You’re doing great, Madeline. Keep applying pressure. Is he still breathing?” a tinny voice asked from the cell phone lying on the pavement next to the petite brunette’s knee.
Devlin crouched next to Tag’s long, lean body and pressed his fingers against the still neck.
Where was Tram?
The pulse beneath his fingers was strong, but fast. Too damn fast. Still his buddy hadn’t checked out yet—thank Christ.
Disbelief flooded him. Rage. How many fucking ops had his lieutenant come home from? Hundreds, for sure. He’d arrived home bloody after some. Bruised after others. Exhausted after every single motherfucking one. But he’d come home intact. He’d come home alive.
And now this? On home soil? Because of some worthless piece of shit?
No damn way.
The rage burned colder, deeper. Whoever had done this was going to pay. Pay in every motherfucking way possible. But for now he needed to concentrate on keeping his lieutenant alive. Thank Christ the woman across from him had made a good start on that—unlike Sarah, who was nowhere to be seen.
“I got a pulse,” he told the woman, in case she was inclined to give up her efforts. A burst of question squawked from the phone. He ignored them.
“Are you a cop?” the woman asked, her voice barely audible above the shrill scream of the alarm.
She must have seen his holstered weapon. He ignored the question in favor of scanning Tag’s face. Blue tinged skin. Fast breathing. Classic signs of a collapsed lung.
But first on the agenda was slowing the bleeding. And that cloth the woman was pressing against Tag’s chest was soaked. He reached up, yanked his shirt over his head, and folded it in a thick compression pad.
More squeaking from the phone. He dismissed it.
“Madeline, isn’t it?” He shot the woman a quick glance, reassured by the calm brown eyes that skipped from his bare chest up to his face. “We need to swap out the pads. When I tell you, pull your pad away.”
She studied his face, her eyes sharp with intelligence, then simply nodded. He edged his bundled shirt right up next to hers.
“Now,” he ordered, breathing a sigh of relief as she quickly complied. He smoothly shifted his pad over the bubbling wound—looked like the exit wound—and pressed down. There had been no chest seal in place, so the chest cavity could still be filling with air, which would explain the signs of tension pneumothorax.
“Any other gunshot wounds?” he asked, just to make sure he hadn’t missed something. There was too damn much blood covering Tag’s chest to trust his assumptions.
Of course there was the entry wound, somewhere in the back. But he couldn’t do much about that now. He’d have to hope that applying pressure on the front would work to press his back against the pavement and slow the bleeding there.
For now, that collapsed lung needed to be dealt with. Then the entry wound.
“I don’t think so.” Her voice remained steady. Quiet. “This was the only one I saw.”
“Good. That’s good. I need your hands back here,” Dev said, lifting his wrists as soon as her fingers hovered over his.
“Keep the pressure on,” he ordered, turning his attention to the truck beside them.
Tag always had a med kit in the glove box. Since his lieutenant was also meticulous and thorough, it would be fully stocked with chest seals, compression bandages, and needles. They needed a damn fourteen gauge. Since those big ass needles were standard fare now in every Corpsman’s kit, hopefully Taggart had one in his personal kit as well.
But that glove box was also where he stashed his backup pieces, which meant it would be locked.
“Am I pushing down hard enough?” the woman asked, ignoring the reassurances drifting out of the cell phone. “I don’t know how hard to press.”
Devlin glanced down at her hands. “You’re doing good. Just keep at it. Steady firm pressure. What’s the ETA on the ambulance?”
“I don’t know. They’re on the way, but got blocked by an accident. They had to turn around and take a different route.”
Devlin scowled. The bluish tinge to Tag’s face was worse. His breathing was shallower too, verging on raspy. They couldn’t afford to wait. He needed that damn needle.
“He’s got a med kit stashed in his truck. But it will be locked, so I need his keys.” Better to