Chapter 1

LAVENDER

The gunshot echoes through Flatbush at 1:47 AM, and I know they'll bring him to me.

Not to Brooklyn Methodist twenty minutes away, not to Kings County where the trauma surgeons are already scrubbed in and waiting. They'll bring him here, to my clinic that exists in the gray space between legal and necessary, because sometimes dying people can't wait for ambulances or insurance authorizations or the luxury of proper protocol.

I'm already pulling on surgical gloves when the door bursts open, cold February air rushing in with the chaos. Three teenagers struggle through the entrance, their friend's blood painting dark streaks across my freshly mopped linoleum. The wounded boy—can't be more than sixteen—hangs between them like a broken doll, his dark skin ashen and his breathing shallow.

"Doc, you gotta help him," the tallest one gasps, his voice cracking with panic. I recognize him—Marcus, whose baby sister I delivered three years ago in this same room during a blizzard. "Stray bullet caught him in the chest when those fools started shooting up the corner."

I don't waste time with questions. In this neighborhood, explanations are luxury items we can't afford. "Get him on the table. Now."

They lift their friend onto my examination table—the same one I've been using for five years, its padding worn thin but its metal frame still solid. Blood immediately begins pooling beneath him, dripping steadily onto the floor with a sound like a broken faucet.

"What's his name?" I ask, my hands already moving over his torso, assessing damage with the efficiency that comes from too many nights like this one.

"Jamal," Marcus whispers, tears cutting tracks through the dirt on his face. "Jamal Williams. He's my cousin."

Williams. Like me. In this neighborhood, we're all connected somehow—by blood, by struggle, by the invisible threads that bind communities together when the rest of the world forgets they exist.

I press my stethoscope to Jamal's chest, listening to the wet rattle of his breathing, the irregular rhythm of his heart working too hard to pump blood through a damaged system. Entry wound just below the left clavicle, no exit wound visible from this angle. The bullet is still inside, possibly lodged near his lung.

"Pneumothorax," I murmur to myself, then look up at the three terrified faces watching me. "His lung is collapsing. I need to relieve the pressure, then get the bullet out."

"You can do that, right Doc?" The shortest boy—can't be more than fourteen—steps forward, hope and desperation warring in his young features. "You saved my mom when she had her heart attack last month."

I nod, projecting confidence I'm not entirely feeling. This isn't a heart attack or a difficult delivery or any of the dozen other emergencies I handle regularly. This is trauma surgery, the kind that requires a fully equipped OR and a team of specialists. But Jamal doesn't have time for proper procedure, and I'm all he has.

"I need you boys to wait outside," I say, already moving toward my supply cabinet. "And if anyone asks, you were never here."

They hesitate, reluctant to leave their friend.

"Go," I say more firmly. "I'll take care of him, but I need space to work."

Marcus nods, shepherding the others toward the door. "We'll be right outside, Doc. Right outside."

The door closes behind them, leaving me alone with Jamal and the sound of his labored breathing. I move quickly, setting up my equipment with practiced efficiency. Chest tube, local anesthetic, surgical tools that I keep sterile and sharp despite my financial constraints.

That's when I notice him.

Through the window facing the street, a figure stands in the shadows between two parked cars. Tall, broad-shouldered, perfectly still in a way that speaks of training and patience. Most people would assume he's just another late-night wanderer, maybe someone waiting for a ride or looking for trouble. But something about his posture, the deliberate way he positions himself with a clear view of my clinic, makes the fine hairs on my neck stand up.

I force myself to focus on Jamal. Whatever is happening outside can wait—this boy's life can't.

I inject local anesthetic around the entry wound, then make a small incision for the chest tube. Jamal's body jerks reflexively, a good sign that means he isn't completely unconscious. Blood and air hiss out through the tube, and his breathing immediately becomes less labored.

"That's it," I whisper, monitoring his vitals. "Stay with me now."

The bullet is the bigger problem. I can see it on the portable X-ray machine—a dark shadow nestled dangerously close to his subclavian artery. One wrong move, and he'll bleed out on my table faster than I can react.

I prep for surgery, my hands moving through the familiar ritual of scrubbing and gloving. The ultrasound machine hums to life, its screen flickering as I position the probe over Jamal's chest. There—the bullet's metallic signature glows bright against the surrounding tissue.

That's when my equipment starts failing.

The ultrasound screen flickers once, twice, then goes dark. I smack the side of the machine, willing it back to life, but the display remains stubbornly black.

"No, no, no," I mutter, checking the power connections. Everything is plugged in, but the machine refuses to cooperate. Of course it does. I'm three months behind on my equipment lease payments, and apparently the medical supply company has decided to activate their remote shutdown feature.

I glance at the window again. The figure is still there, motionless as a statue. Something about his stillness reminds me of the soldiers I used to serve with—the ones who could stand watch for hours without moving, their attention sharp despite their apparent calm. A chill runs down my spine that has absolutely nothing to do with the February cold.

I shake off the unease and turn back to Jamal. Without the ultrasound guidance, I'll have to extract the bullet by feel and instinct, relying on the surgical training that the Army drilled into me during long, bloody nights in field hospitals. My hands steady themselves as I pick up the forceps, muscle memory taking over where technology has failed me.

"Alright, baby," I murmur to Jamal, even though he can't hear me. "Let's get this piece of metal out of you."

I make a careful incision along the bullet's trajectory, using my fingers to feel for the foreign object buried in his tissue. The metallic fragment is lodged deeper than I hoped, nestled against muscle and dangerously close to major blood vessels. One slip, and this boy bleeds out in my clinic.

My phone buzzes on the counter, the sound making me jump. I ignore it, focusing on the delicate work of extracting the bullet without causing more damage. Sweat beads on my forehead despite the cool air, and I can feel my heart hammering against my ribs.

There. The forceps make contact with metal, and I carefully grip the bullet, applying steady pressure as I work it free from the surrounding tissue. Blood wells up around my hands, but it's the bright red of arterial bleeding, not the dark seepage that would indicate I've nicked something vital.

"Come on," I whisper, adjusting my grip on the forceps. "Come on out of there."

The bullet slides free with a wet sucking sound, and I drop it into a metal tray where it clinks against the stainless steel. Jamal's breathing becomes easier immediately, his body relaxing as the pressure on his chest cavity decreases.

I clean the wound thoroughly, checking for bone fragments or other debris before beginning the careful process of closing the incision. Sutures first, then surgical tape, finally a sterile dressing that will keep infection at bay while he heals.

My phone buzzes again, more insistently this time.

"Not now," I mutter, tying off the last suture. Jamal's color is already improving, the ashen gray of blood loss giving way to a healthier brown. His pulse is steady and strong beneath my fingers, and his breathing has settled into a normal rhythm.

I step back from the table, pulling off my bloodied gloves and tossing them into the medical waste bin. Only then do I reach for my phone, squinting at the screen through the exhaustion that always follows an emergency surgery.

Three missed calls from my bank. Two text messages that make my stomach drop to my feet.

The first one is from my landlord: Rent overdue. Need payment by end of month or eviction proceedings begin.

The second is from MediCore Equipment Leasing: Account overdrawn. Final payment required: $500,000. Equipment shutdown initiated.

Five hundred thousand dollars.

I lean against the counter, the weight of that number crushing down on my shoulders like a physical thing. Five hundred thousand dollars for equipment that I need to save lives, for a clinic that serves people who have absolutely nowhere else to go, for a dream that's been slowly bleeding out for months while I've been too proud to admit I'm drowning.

Through the window, the figure in the shadows shifts slightly, and for a brief moment I think he might be looking directly at me. The streetlight catches the edge of his profile—strong jaw, broad shoulders that speak of military bearing. Something familiar tugs at the back of my mind, but before I can place it, he melts back into the darkness between the cars.

My hands are shaking as I check Jamal's vitals one more time. He's stable, breathing easily, the color fully returned to his face. In a few hours, he'll wake up sore but alive, with a story to tell and a second chance at life.

If only second chances came with payment plans.

The door opens, and Marcus pokes his head inside, his young face tight with worry. "Doc? How is he?"

"He's going to be fine," I tell him, mustering a smile that I don't feel. "The bullet's out, the bleeding's stopped. He'll need to take it easy for a few weeks, but he'll make a full recovery."

Relief floods Marcus's features, and he steps fully into the clinic, followed by his two friends. They gather around the table where Jamal lies sleeping, their voices hushed with the kind of reverence that comes with witnessing a miracle.

"Thank you, Doc," Marcus says, tears streaming down his face. "Thank you so much. We don't got insurance or nothing, but we can pay you something—"

"Don't worry about it," I interrupt, the words automatic even though I can't afford the generosity. These boys don't have five hundred dollars between them, let alone five hundred thousand. "Just make sure he follows up with me in a few days, okay? And keep that wound clean and dry."

They nod eagerly, promising to take good care of their friend. I help them transfer Jamal to a more comfortable position, showing them how to watch for signs of infection or complications. By the time they carry him out into the night, the clock on my wall reads 4:30 AM.

I'm alone again, surrounded by the smell of antiseptic and the lingering metallic scent of blood. The silence feels oppressive after the chaos of the emergency, pressing down on me like a weight I can't shake.

I walk to the window and peer out at the street. The figure in the shadows is gone, leaving me to wonder if I imagined him entirely. Maybe exhaustion is making me paranoid, seeing threats where none exist.

But as I turn away from the window, my eyes fall on the framed photograph sitting on my desk—a picture from my Army days, taken during a rare quiet moment in Afghanistan. I'm smiling in the photo, surrounded by my unit, my arm around the shoulder of a tall, broad-shouldered man whose gray eyes seemed to see everything.

Roman Cavanaugh. The Beast, they called him, for his ruthless efficiency in the field and his ability to survive situations that would have killed lesser men. The man who saved my life more than once, who held me together when the world was falling apart, who disappeared from my life five years ago without explanation or goodbye.

The man whose security company now handles contracts worth millions of dollars, according to the financial articles I definitely haven't been reading online.

I pick up the photograph, my thumb tracing the edge of Roman's face. He looks so young in the picture, unmarked by whatever scars time has given him since. We all look young, actually—kids playing soldier, thinking we were invincible.

My phone buzzes with another text message, this one from the clinic's utility company. Three days until electricity gets shut off for non-payment.

I set the photograph down and walk to my desk, pulling out a piece of paper that I've been carrying in my purse for three weeks now. Roman's current address, obtained through sources I probably shouldn't have contacted. The paper is wrinkled from handling, the ink slightly smudged from my sweaty palms.

Five hundred thousand dollars.

The amount might as well be five hundred million for all the chance I have of raising it through normal channels. Banks won't loan to a clinic that's already drowning in debt. Investors aren't interested in businesses that operate in neighborhoods where gunshots echo through the night and insurance companies fear to tread.

But Roman Cavanaugh built an empire from nothing. The Beast who used to count off his heartbeats during firefights, who could field-strip a weapon blindfolded, who once told me that the only thing separating the living from the dead was the willingness to do whatever it took to survive.

I fold the paper carefully and slip it back into my purse. Tomorrow—today, actually, since it's already past dawn—I'll swallow my pride and go see him. I'll ask for help from the man who once held my life in his hands, who I trusted with everything I had.

The man who walked away from me without looking back.

Outside, the first rays of sunlight paint the empty street in shades of gold and amber. Another night in the clinic is over, another life saved against impossible odds. But for how much longer?

I lock the door behind me and head home, my steps echoing in the quiet morning air. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails—another emergency, another crisis that won't wait for convenient business hours or proper insurance authorization.

Another life that hangs in the balance while I count down the days until everything I've built crumbles to dust.

Thirty days to find five hundred thousand dollars.

Thirty days to save the clinic that serves as the last hope for people who don’t have anywhere else to turn.

Thirty days to find the courage to face the man I once loved, and ask him to save me one more time.