Breathe Me, Bratva King

Estina

Go to New York, they said.

Men shouted and screamed, raising fists while nurses and EMTs did their best to keep them on gurneys.

Go to New York and practice medicine. It'll do wonders for your career.

I winced as another patient being wheeled down the corridor swung a punch at the security officer. He missed the man's face because the guy ducked just in time. Instead, the bloody-faced man's fist smashed into the wall. More blood dripped. But that didn't stop him. Cursing in Russian, he lunged off the gurney—either oblivious to his shredded and wounded leg or not caring about it—to tackle the hospital's rent-a-cop.

"We need some help here!"

I flinched at my colleague's shout as he brushed past me. Dr. Fidelis Harroun was supposed to be this hospital's best ER doctor. Right now, as he rushed into the melee, his face stern with disapproval, he sounded and looked more like an unhappy referee, charging forward to break up a fight and stick players in a penalty box.

"Just has to be a full moon," Fatima growled as she hurried forward from my other side. Shaking her head, the charge nurse cursed and swung her long, dark ponytail back as she joined Fidelis in breaking up the fight.

Full moon?

I wasn't prone to falling for superstitions. Chaos in the emergency room wasn't too out of the ordinary. But a full-out war like this in the trauma bay was something else. Not caused by the damn moon.

Whatever this chaos was, it was enough to keep me rooted in place for a millisecond, too stunned to blink or react to the commotion and violence. People came here to be helped. To be treated and sewn back up and saved.

I was here to help and save. To do my part and help others reclaim the best state of well-being they could have. I was specifically here in New York at this particular hospital because it seemed like the wisest career move I could make with my background. A background with a stellar record and many successes. A background that I only had due to all the hard years of working my ass off and studying so much.

All for this?

As I grasped it all and took in the scene of suited men shouting, threatening, and still attacking each other, I seriously had my second thoughts about coming here like my parents and colleagues back home in the UK had encouraged me to for years.

Only ten minutes ago, it was calm. I could've even said it was the dreaded Q-word, the one no medical professional ever utters out loud in fear of jinxing it. That was a superstition I would believe in because it always rang true. The second someone said things were quiet, all hell would break loose. The warzone taking over the floor had to be the karmic result of someone screaming that it was quiet.

Choking on the spot wasn't what I was trained to do. Freezing and trying to comprehend how quickly the neat and tidy emergency floor could've been reduced to this wasn't improving a single thing.

I blinked once more, watching Fatima rush forward to help a man who looked like he'd taken a gunshot to his shoulder as he tried to pull out his gun and aim it at another man.

"Oh, bloody hell." No one would hear me muttering, but seeing my steadfast and dependable charge nurse in the line of danger pushed me right out of shock. I snapped into action, running forward to assist her.

"Easy, easy." I joined Fatima, putting my hands out to steady the man on his gurney and stop him from reaching for his weapon. "Relax, sir."

He screwed up his face, turning to snarl at me and shout. His expression was menacing, warning me enough. His tone was heated and violent. But I couldn't understand a single word he was saying.

"Relax," I repeated, moving with the EMTs and Fatima. Fidelis and others were busy with others. Cops and security guards were mixed in the crowding trauma bay and lobby. All hands on deck. Whatever had happened was pulling out all efforts from each of us on the floor.

"You might be better off sedating him," the burly EMT said as he continued wheeling the patient with the gunshot wound further into the emergency room.

Adrenaline ran high. My pulse kicked up. All senses were alerted and I was focused and in the zone to move it and help return to that orderliness due this location of medical emergencies.

"What happened?" I asked, running alongside the gurney as we all pushed. The man was most intent on reaching for his gun, something the EMT prevented. But it was clear one of the Italian-speaking men on the other side of the room was the target of his ire.

"Bomb went off," the EMT replied, furrowing his brow as the radio piece on his shoulder went off with more chatter. "Half these Russian morons were inside while those Italian dudes were running out of the place. Then once they were on the street, they had to start fighting on top of it all." He glanced back, as if searching out his coworkers.

"Were any civilians hit?" Fatima asked.

Civilians? I cut her a sharp glance as we wheeled the bleeding man into an opening spot down the hall. A curtain wouldn't allow any bullet-proof protection, but we were cramped for vacancies.

"Yeah. They're coming in too," the EMT replied.

Civilians? I got hung up on Fatima's wording as I began to listen to the man's lungs. She made it sound like this man wasn't an ordinary New Yorker. A cop? A...

Oh, bloody hell...

A criminal? Fugitive? My mind was at the risk of running with too many questions and thoughts about these violent men sweeping into the emergency department and clogging the hallways and rooms with too many people—angry and wounded individuals. But I couldn't let my imagination run from me. It was time to concentrate, to focus and lock down on delivering the best assessment and care that I could.