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CHAPTER SEVEN
SANTI CLENCHED HIS fists so tightly it hurt. Good. There was still feeling in them. He shot his fingers out at full length, simultaneously giving them a hard shake. The movement jettisoned him back to memories he’d thought he’d left back in Afghanistan. Syria. Africa. Wherever. Didn’t matter. Dog tags were dog tags. CPR worked or it didn’t. The need to shake it off and stay neutral was the same no matter where he was.
What mattered now was the chest in front of him needing another round of compressions. Fatigue couldn’t factor into it. Giving this guy another shot at living could.
“Where the hell is the ambulance?” he bellowed to anyone who might be in the vicinity. The only answer...the echo of his own voice reverberating off the cement stanchions of the underpass. Raw. Frustrated.
Santi wove his fingers together again and pressed the heel of his palm to the man’s chest, ignoring the worn clothes, the stench of someone who had slept rough too many nights and the fact he’d been providing CPR for twenty minutes since he’d rung for an ambulance.
“C’mon, Miami!” he growled, keeping steady track of the number of compressions before stopping to give the two rescue breaths that just might jump-start this poor guy’s system. “Give the man a chance.”
He glanced at the man’s dog tags again. Diego Gonzalez.
“What’s your story, amigo?” He tugged off his motorcycle jacket, leaving it where it fell on the dry earth before beginning compressions again. He might leave it for Diego once the ambulance turned up and they got a shot or two of epi and some life back into him. From the state of Diego’s clothes, the world had given up on him. Well, he sure as hell wouldn’t. He’d seen it time and again since he’d left the forces. Veterans unable to find a path after their time overseas. Nothing computing anymore. Lives disintegrating into nothing. He might have hung up his camos just a few months ago, but the last thing he was going to do was forget the men who’d given the military their all, only to find life had little to offer when they came home.
Home.
The word was loaded, and just as dangerous as a sniper bullet. He shook his head again, tightening his fingers against his knuckles as he pressed.
Twenty-nine, thirty.
As he bent to give another two breaths he heard the distant wail of a siren.
“Finally.”
One. Two. Three...
* * *
“Ready or not! Here we come!” Saoirse flicked on the whoop-whoop of the sirens, loving the wail of sound that cleared a path through the thick of Miami’s commuter traffic.
“For crying out loud, you mad Irish woman! You’re not in your racing car now.”
“Is that you angling for a ride this weekend, Joe?” Saoirse grinned.
“I’ll be happy to make it through this shift alive, thank you very much. And then you are taking me straight to the cantina. Safely,” he added with a meaningful look as she took the next turn at full pelt. “And heaven help your next partner. They’re going to need nerves of steel.”
Saoirse laughed, weaving between the cars as if she were barrel racing a horse she’d known since it was a colt. Smooth, fluid. It was grace in motion, if weaving an ambulance through grumpy Floridian drivers was your thing. It was hers. Hadn’t always been. But speed ran through her blood now and the tropical heat suited her to a T.
At least something in the past year had turned out all right.
Life had well and truly shot her in the foot, but it had also given her a visa to the States. It should have been a fiancée visa, but the student visa did the same trick. Not that the change of direction still wasn’t raw. Still too fresh to discuss. She gave her head a quick shake and refocused.
“What kind of cake will you be having, then, Joe? Not that awful rainbow-colored thing you had on your birthday, I hope.”
“Hey, little whippersnapper. It’s my retirement party—not your twelfth birthday.”
“I’m partial to coconut.” She gave him a cheeky wink, eyes still glued to the traffic. “We don’t get that sort of thing in Ireland. Want me to call the desk and tell them it’s your favorite?”
Joe pressed his hands to the dashboard of the ambulance as Saoirse hit the brakes then the gas pedals in quick succession as a very expensive-looking convertible whizzed past them, horn blaring.
“What’s up with them?”
“They weren’t expecting Annie Oakley behind the wheel, Saoirse,” Joe hollered. “For the love of my retirement check! You’re going to give me a coronary before we get to the call!”
“Joe! What are the chances you’re going to pronounce my name properly before our last ever shift is over? Sear-shuh.” She overexaggerated the vowel-heavy name her parents had lumbered her with. Maybe she should change that, too. Chopping off most of her hair had been downright liberating.
Joe made another mangled attempt at pronouncing it as they lurched through the next junction and Saoirse laughed.
“If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you twice, just go with Murphy. If that’s too much for you, Murph will do just grand.”
“Sorry, darlin’.” Joe spoke through gritted teeth as they shot through another red light. “I’m of the generation where you do not call a lady by her last name.”
“Is that what you think I am?” Saoirse shot him a sidelong glance. “A lady?”
“Well,” grumbled her partner of two months, “something like that, anyways.”
Saoirse threw back her head and laughed. “Don’t you worry, Joe. I’ll get you to your party safe and sound tonight. Your wife won’t have to worry. There’s only one heart attack we’re fixing today and that’s whoever
