“Don’t lose my bumper,” I said, my voice low and hard. “You see these lights flash blue, you stay glued to ’em. You hear me? You don’t stop for red. You don’t stop for traffic. You stay on my six until you see the Emergency Room sign. That’s an order.”
His mouth opened. Nothing came out but a shaky breath that fogged the cold air.
“I said start your engine!”
I was already sprinting back to the cruiser before I could talk myself out of it. I hit the lights and the siren in one motion, the world exploding into red and blue chaos. Dispatch crackled through the speaker, asking for a status update.
I keyed the mic and took a breath.
“Dispatch, Unit 27. I am initiating a priority medical escort. Eastbound on 70 toward Grant Medical. I am clearing a path.”
And just like that, I wasn’t a cop writing a ticket anymore. I was a shepherd trying to beat the Reaper in a four-door sedan held together by hope and rust.
I looked in the rearview mirror. Daniel Harper was right there, inches from my steel bumper, his old headlights shaking like a man praying.
Part 2″” The cold air howled through the two-inch gap in my window, a high-pitched whine that competed with the thrum of the siren. I didn’t roll it up. I needed the cold. It was the only thing keeping the adrenaline from turning into pure, blinding panic. In the academy, they teach you to control the scene. Dominate the space. But right now, barreling down I-71 at 94 miles per hour with a stranger’s beater sedan welded to my back bumper, I wasn’t controlling a damn thing. I was just aiming the nose of the cruiser toward the distant orange glow of Columbus and praying the Goodyear tires held on.w
Dispatch crackled again, the voice tinny and distant in the chaos of the cabin.
“Unit 27, copy. Be advised, construction zone active at the 670 East split. Lanes reduced to one. Heavy congestion reported. ETA to Grant Medical via surface streets from your location is thirty-seven minutes.”
Thirty-seven minutes. I glanced in the rearview mirror. Daniel Harper’s headlights were two steady, trembling dots. They didn’t waver. The guy had the focus of a fighter pilot. I’d seen drunks swerve and teenagers over-correct. Daniel drove like he was carrying nitroglycerin in the trunk—steady hands, white knuckles, a man who understood that a single mistake meant he’d never hear his daughter’s voice again.
I keyed the mic.
“Dispatch, Unit 27. Acknowledged on the 670 construction. I’m going to use the westbound express lane shoulder to bypass the backup. Can you patch me through to Grant Medical ER? I need a charge nurse on the line.”
There was a pause. Using the express lane shoulder was a massive liability. If a semi-truck driver fell asleep and drifted six inches to the right, we’d be turned into scrap metal and confetti. But sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic watching the clock tick toward a flatline? That wasn’t an option either.
“Stand by, 27. Patching now.”
