The Devil’s Mercy

Chapter 2

"Shooting on Central Avenue," Matt reports as we run toward the ambulance.

I huff and settle into the seat. Nothing out of the ordinary; drug and gang violence have invaded Central Avenue in recent months. We get emergencies from that area almost every day: stabbings, gunshots, fights that spiral out in minutes.

In less than five minutes we’re on scene. Police have already secured the perimeter. In front of an old abandoned hotel, two young men lie motionless while other paramedics work on them. At a glance, the wounds speak for themselves: gunshots.

"There are two more inside and one in the side corridor," an officer tells me as he lets us through.

I nod and we go in. The hotel is empty inside, the lights flicker and the echo of our steps is lost in the halls. I find the two kids and check the pulse of one; Matt does the same with the other. They’re young. Clothes, tattoos: clearly members of a Latin gang.

"He's not breathing," Matt announces.

"This one neither," I add after feeling the second.

"Should we start compressions?" someone asks.

Before I can answer, I see two more paramedics approaching quickly.

"They’ll take care of that," an officer says. "Go check the man at the service exit."

"Okay," I answer. "Have someone hold the scene. We’ll go for the one in the corridor."

We leave through the back door. I tell George to circle the building and wait for us at the exit. I find the wounded man on the corridor floor: conscious, with two officers on either side. He lets them handle him roughly and yells at me before I can get close.

"Get away, b***h!"

I raise an eyebrow and study his face; he can’t be older than twenty.

"If you don’t let me check you, you’ll bleed out," I tell him, pointing at his belly soaked in blood.

He clutches his abdomen with both hands, the red liquid soaking his shirt and the floor. One officer murmurs:

"Should we cuff him?"

I look at the kid and answer coldly.

"I don’t think that’s necessary. He doesn’t look ready to give up."

"It’s death or jail," he says, his voice rough.

"Decide later," I whisper, just so he can hear me.

His dark eyes lock on mine. After a moment, he lowers his hands and nods. I lay him down carefully, open his shirt and check the bullet entry: it passed laterally. If it didn’t hit vital organs, we can control it, but the bleeding won’t stop. I apply dressings and Matt starts an IV. I identify him by a lightning-shaped tattoo: a member of the rival gang. The safest move: get him to the hospital now.

George brings the stretcher and we load him inside. The officers tell us they’ll escort us.

Then a sharp noise cuts the calm: a dark SUV brakes beside us.

Four armed men get out.

The officers react, but before they can, two shots tear through them: bullets hit their heads. Matt ducks, surprised by the violence, but I remain still, watching.

One of the intruders opens the back of the ambulance with a grim smile.

"The bastard’s alive," he says, pleased.

They turn toward us. The only one without tattoos on his neck and hands raises his pistol and points it at me.

"Who’s the medic?" he asks.

"I am," I reply, clearing my throat.

I know what’s coming. Another shot rips the air; Matt falls. A second bullet hits George; his body goes still on the pavement.

"I see immediately there's nothing left to do."

"What a shame. George was all right," the man says.

"Perfect," the one pointing at me replies. "You’re coming with us."

They gesture to the rear of the ambulance.

"Get in. You’re going to patch up my buddy and then we’ll see what to do with you."

I’ve finished controlling the bleeding as best I can. I feel the barrel of the gun pressing into my back. One of the men takes the wheel; the tattooed one sits in the passenger seat and the man who watches me, called "Memo," stays in the back, fixing me with his gaze.

"Move the gun a few inches," I say, keeping my hand steady on the syringe. "You're obstructing my work."

I hear a snort; the metal moves a bit but still points at me. I work with mechanical hands, keeping my awareness sharp. We’ve driven for half an hour heading south: they’re going far. Maybe they’re taking us to a secluded estate or a hideout in the hills.

The wounded man screams as I remove the inner dressing; the bleeding starts again.

"What the hell are you doing?" Memo snarls over my shoulder.

"If I give him painkillers without controlling the bleeding, it’ll get worse," I answer. "If they hadn’t shot my colleagues, I could do it easily."

Memo smiles with no remorse. His look is cold and the shaved line at his temple doesn’t hide the cruelty. The kid we’re treating has a shaved line too—same as one of the kidnappers—a detail that stands out in the light.

"Why aren’t you scared? We kidnap you, kill your colleagues and you act calm," Memo says.

"I’ve seen worse," I answer dryly. "Now breathe deep and stay still."

I don’t tell him I used to serve in the Army and that I speak Spanish fluently; I let them assume whatever they want. I ask the boy his name.

"What’s your name?" I ask in a firm voice.

He looks at me, grits his teeth and manages to murmur.

"Mateo."

"Mateo," I repeat. "Count to three and hold on."

I count, pull the dressing away and prepare a sedative for the IV Matt placed. I push it slowly into the line. Just as I finish, the ambulance screeches to a halt.

"This is the end of the ride. You finish it inside the house," Memo orders, pressing the gun butt against my skull.

"I need the inside of the ambulance and the sterile instruments," I insist.

"We’ll bring them," says the tattooed man. "Get down."

I obey. When I step out the night already covers the place. We’re not in Paradise Valley this time: the lights reveal a property on the outskirts, a modern residence with high walls and a minimalist garden. The main entrance is wide and from the road you can see dark windows reflecting the moon.

The tattooed man called Héctor gives low orders in Spanish; a group of at least ten armed men moves around us like clumsy pieces on a board. Héctor orders them to clear a ground-floor room and they push me forward with a pistol pressing my side.

I quickly calculate possibilities: doors, windows, service exits; I see cameras that seem disabled, guards smoking in a corner. I need a lapse, something that lets me act before they decide I’m useless. I know what awaits me if I become an obstacle—the image of Matt and George lying face down doesn’t leave me. But for now, my only option is to keep Mateo alive and wait for an opening.