Chapter 6: Shattered Steel and Broken Vows
The world had shrunk to the smell of old blood and the scream of tires. Brian drove like a man possessed, the stolen sedan’s engine whining in protest, weaving through traffic with a precision that was all instinct. In the back, Dom cradled Zara. The seat was slick, warm. He pressed the wadded-up jacket from the floorboard hard against her lower abdomen, where the dark bloom spread across her gray tank top.
“Almost there, Z. Almost there,” he murmured, his voice a broken record against her ear.
Her face was the color of chalk under the passing streetlights. Her breath came in shallow, hitched pulls. She didn’t speak. Her eyes were open, fixed on his face, but he couldn’t tell if she was seeing him.
“Talk to me, Dom. How is she?” Brian’s voice was tight, his knuckles white on the wheel.
“Just drive.”
The warehouse loomed in the industrial wasteland, a block of darkness. Brian killed the headlights and coasted the last hundred yards, the tires crunching over broken glass. He was out before the engine died, yanking open the rear door.
“Get her inside. I’ll get the kit.”
Dom lifted her, his arms sliding under her knees and back. She cried out then, a short, sharp sound that lanced through him. Her head lolled against his shoulder. He ran, Brian clearing a path through a rusted side door that groaned on its hinges.
The medical bay was a ghost of a place. The flickering fluorescent tube buzzed like an angry insect, painting everything in a jittering, sickly light. The examination table was metal, cold, stained with things Dom didn’t want to identify. He lay her down as gently as he could. Her teeth were chattering.
“Cold,” she whispered.
Brian crashed through the door, a heavy black duffel in hand. He slapped a battery-powered lantern onto a shelf, flooding the room with a steadier, bluish glow. The shadows fled, exposing the peeling walls, the cracked sink, the sheer, desperate inadequacy of it all.
“You remember what Mia showed you?” Brian asked, unzipping the bag with a violent rip.
“Yeah.” Dom’s hands were already moving, pulling out sterile packs, shears. His fingers, usually so sure with a wrench or a throttle, felt thick and clumsy. He cut away her blood-soaked jeans, the fabric sticking to her skin. The sight underneath made his stomach turn. It wasn't a clean wound. It was a mess.
Brian was beside him, hands steady, laying out gauze, saline, hemostatic gel. “Pressure, Dom. Keep the pressure.”
Dom swapped the jacket for a thick stack of gauze, leaning his weight into it. Zara gasped, her back arching off the table.
“I know, mi vida, I know, I’m sorry,” he choked out.
Brian worked, his face a mask of concentration. He cleaned the area with saline, the water turning pink as it dripped onto the concrete floor. The air filled with the sharp, clean scent of antiseptic, battling the coppery smell of blood. He assessed the damage, his mouth a grim line. “It’s deep. She’s lost a lot. The gel might not be enough. She needs stitches. Internal pressure.”
“Then do it.”
“Dom… I’m not a surgeon. I watched a field-medic video. Once.”
“You’re all we have.” Dom’s voice left no room for argument. He looked down at Zara. Her eyes were closed now, her lashes dark against her pale skin. “Hey. Look at me. You stay with me. You hear me? You don’t get to leave me. Not like this.”
Her eyelids fluttered. She focused on him with enormous effort.
“The crib…” she breathed, the word barely audible.
The mention of it, their late-night promise in the motel, was a physical blow. Dom’s vision blurred. He swallowed hard, the sound raw in his throat. “We’re gonna build it. You’re gonna sand it. I’m gonna put it together wrong, and you’re gonna tell me how.”
A tear escaped from the corner of her eye, tracing a path through the grime on her temple.
Brian prepared the suture kit, his movements efficient. He shot Dom a look. “This is gonna hurt her. A lot. You gotta hold her still.”
Dom nodded. He shifted, never removing the pressure from her abdomen, and used his free arm to brace across her shoulders, his body a anchor over hers. He lowered his face next to hers. “Look at me, Zara. Just look at me.”
Brian took a deep breath. “Okay. Here we go.”
The first bite of the needle made her jerk violently, a muffled scream tearing from her throat. Dom held her down, his own muscles straining, whispering a stream of Spanish into her hair—promises, apologies, prayers, all jumbled together. Each pull of the thread was agony. She trembled under him, her cries becoming weak, ragged things.
Sweat dripped from Brian’s brow. He worked in silence, his focus absolute, tying off each stitch with careful knots. The room was horribly quiet save for her pain, the buzz of the light, and Dom’s ragged whispers.
Finally, Brian sat back. He applied a thick layer of gel and a fresh pressure bandage, securing it with tape. His hands were covered in her blood. “It’s the best I can do. She needs plasma. IV fluids. Now.”
“Where?” Dom’s voice was hollow.
“The vet.” Brian was already rummaging in the duffel. “He keeps stock for the fight dogs. It’s not ideal, but it’s volume expander. It’ll keep her going.”
“Get it.”
Brian paused, looking at Dom still curved over Zara, holding her, his own shirt plastered to his chest with her blood. “You gonna be okay here for twenty minutes?”
Dom didn’t look up. “Just go.”
The silence after Brian left was deafening. Dom could hear every one of Zara’s shallow breaths, each one a victory. He kept his hand pressed lightly over the bandage, feeling the frightening heat of her skin. The lantern light glinted off the discarded, blood-tipped instruments on the tray.
Her hand moved, her fingers weakly searching. He caught them, lacing his through hers. Her grip was faint.
“Dom…” Her voice was a dry leaf, crumbling.
“Right here.”
“Did we… lose it?” The question was so small, so full of a fear he couldn’t bear.
He had no answer. The bleeding had been severe, chaotic. He didn’t know. The not-knowing was a vast, dark hole inside him. He thought of the weight in her belly when he washed her in the tub, the solid reality of it. He leaned closer, his forehead touching hers.
“We didn’t lose you,” he said, the words a vow. “That’s all that matters tonight.”
Outside, a train whistle blew in the distance, a long, lonely sound. He listened to it fade, listening harder to the fragile rhythm of her breathing. He counted them. Each one. Waiting for the sound of Brian’s engine, for the next impossible thing he had to do, his world reduced to the cold table under her, the warmth of her hand in his, and the fragile thread of hope holding them all together.