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  Obviously she'd been lunching with the psych residents way too much.

  The driver had his own theories about tonight's frenzy. He offered a lengthy discourse on how the full moon always made the crazies come out. CJ didn't bother telling him just how right he was.

  The full moon—

  Tires squealed. Metal crashed. CJ's head jerked left, then right, banging the window as the taxi absorbed the momentum of an oncoming car crossing the intersection against the light.

  For an endless, paralyzing moment there was no movement, no sound, other than the murmur of the jazz still whispering from the speakers.

  "Son of a bitch!" The driver whacked his fist against the dash.

  CJ shook off the shock, released the safety belt and rubbed at the dull ache in her right temple. The other car had broad-sided the taxi. Both vehicles now sat in the middle of the intersection, steam rising from the hood of the offending vehicle.

  Swearing profusely, the driver scrambled across the seat and out the passenger side door.

  CJ shoved that hot bath out of her mind for the moment and flung her door open. She caught up with the furious taxi driver as he confronted the driver of the other car.

  "You didn't see the light? What are you? Blind?"

  CJ looked from the dazed driver climbing out from behind the steering wheel to the passenger emerging from the backseat. "You two okay?" Both occupants were male. Caucasian. Young, twenty, twenty-one.

  "We gotta get to the hospital," the passenger shouted at no one in particular. He turned all the way around, staggering drunkenly, as if he needed to get his bearings.

  An instant mental inventory of causes for his imbalance, from illegal substances to head injuries, quickened CJ's pulse. "Call 9-1-1," she instructed the taxi driver, who was still cursing and stomping his feet.

  "Are either of you having difficulty breathing? In pain? Lightheaded? Nauseous?" Moving toward the passenger, CJ visually assessed the car's driver. Looked a little dazed and confused as if he wasn't sure this was real or just a bad dream. No apparent injuries.

  The passenger wore a black Bob Marley T-shirt. Now that she was closer CJ could see that the T-shirt and his hands were as bloody as hell. Her pulse quickened. His inability to regain his equilibrium persisted.

  "Is he calling the cops?"

  CJ ignored the driver's question. "Where'd the blood come from?" she asked the Bob Marley fan, who appeared focused on her blue scrubs. No visible signs of injury. Eyes were glassy. His long dark hair was stringy, but not wet or sticky. Where the hell had the blood come from?

  "My brother." He grabbed her arm, tugged her around the open passenger door. "He needs help."

  There was another passenger?

  CJ pushed the guy aside and maneuvered her way into the backseat.

  Damn.

  Blood. Lots of blood.

  Third passenger was a kid, not more than nine or ten. His Hannah Montana pajama top was saturated in crimson. She tugged the top up and out of the way to get a look at his torso. He didn't flinch. Didn't moan.

  Deep penetrating chest wound.

  Shit.

  She needed more light. Bracing her hand on the seat, she leaned closer. Something wet oozed up between her fingers. Blood. Shit. Shit. Shit. The seat… she checked the knees of her scrubs… the damned floorboard… blood was everywhere.

  Instinct kicked in and training overrode emotion.

  Patient had no other visible injuries.

  Not breathing.

  Oh, hell.

  No pulse.

  Adrenaline detonated in CJ's veins, sharpening her senses.

  "Help me get him out of here!"

  The older brother stuck his upper body into the car. "What?"

  "You and your friend," CJ commanded, "help me get him out of the car and on the ground. Hurry!"

  The two men scrambled into unsteady action. CJ cradled the boy's head and neck as the brother and his friend lifted him out of the backseat.

  "Put him down over there." She jerked her head toward the front of the taxi. The headlights would help her see what she was doing. Streetlights weren't enough.

  "You! Taxi guy!" CJ shouted at the man still on his cell phone. He stopped explaining their circumstances and stared at her in question. "Tell them I need an ALS unit. We have full trauma arrest." She turned back to the boy. The battle was very nearly over. "Tell them to hurry!"

  "You can help him, right?" The older brother dropped to his knees on the pavement next to her.

  "We have to control the bleeding." CJ needed this guy focused on his little brother, not distracting her.

  "You know what this means?" his friend yelled as he paced back and forth in the middle of the street. "The cops are coming. We gotta get outta here."

  "Shut up!" the brother screamed.

  "Give me your hand." CJ reached out to him. His eyes were wild with fear and whatever had him buzzed. His hand shook as she gripped his wrist and covered the wound with his palm. "Keep pressure there. It slows the bleeding."

  Not that this kid had much left to leak.

  CJ started chest compressions.

  "They'll take us to fucking jail," the friend railed. "I ain't going to jail. This is your fault, not mine!"

  "I said," the brother warned, "shut the fuck up."

  CJ tuned out the heated exchange. Focused on keeping the boy's heart pumping. She had no idea how long he'd been in full arrest, but he didn't have a chance in hell of surviving if—

  Blood seeped from beneath the kid's left shoulder, spreading ominously over the pavement.

  Shit.

  She stopped the compressions.

  "What're you doing?" the brother demanded. "Keep…" he motioned with his free hand "… doing… whatever. That's what you're supposed to do, right?"

  CJ didn't answer. She carefully rolled her patient onto his right side. Her breath fisted in her throat, refused to fill her lungs.

  Exit wound: left scapula. Major blood vessels… the heart… all lay smack in the middle of the path the bullet had taken. The puddle of blood on the pavement indicated that every chest compression she'd executed had sent more of what little blood remained in his slim body out that exit wound.

  "Do something!" the brother wailed.

  Where the hell was that ambulance? "Did you tell them to hurry?" CJ shouted to the taxi driver.

  He nodded frantically. "They're coming! They're coming!"

  "Help him, goddammit!" the brother shouted in her face.

  CJ flinched but kept her focus on the kid. She lowered him onto his back. "We need pressure on that wound!"

  The brother obeyed the order and she resumed chest compressions. The kid would likely die anyway, but he would damned sure die if she didn't try.

  Just… hang in there, kid.

  "Don't you get it?" the brother's paranoid friend yelled. "The kid's dead. Nobody loses that much blood and lives. She's only doing that"—he waved wildly at CJ with both hands—"to keep you from freaking out. The kid's fucking dead, man."

  Big brother shot to his feet. "If you don't shut—"

  "Gun!" the taxi driver screamed. "He's got a gun!"

  Don't listen. Don't look. Focus.

  The distant shrill of sirens accompanied the screaming between the three men.

  "Tell him," the friend shrieked at CJ, "that you can't save the kid!"

  "Is that true?"

  She ignored the brother's demand. Mentally marked the necessary rhythm.

  He stuck his face close to hers. "IS THAT TRUE?" he screamed in her ear.

  "I'm doing all I can," CJ admitted without looking up. She braced for his reaction, but didn't stop the only option she had available to help the patient.

  "If he dies," the brother warned, "you die." He jammed the gun in her face.

  Fear bumped against her sternum.

  Ignore the fucking gun! Lift. Compress. Repeat.

  The sirens grew, louder and louder. Nearly here. Thank God.

  The frie
nd started backing away. "I'm out of here. I'm not going to jail."

  A police cruiser skidded to a stop on the other side of the taxi and the lowlife driver took off.

  "He's running!" the taxi guy bellowed to anyone listening. "The driver is running. Stop him!"

  Compress. Lift. Repeat.

  "Drop your weapon!" Cop.

  The unloading paramedics were shouting questions at CJ. "Full arrest," she called back. "Deep penetrating entrance wound mid-torso. Exit wound left scapula. Massive blood loss." Get that Advanced Life Support unit over here!

  "Drop your weapon!" the cop repeated.

  "He's… only nine years old," the brother pleaded, his words directed at CJ and barely audible amidst all the shouting. "You can't let him die."

  CJ couldn't help herself. She lifted her gaze to his. No matter that the gun was still pointed at her, there was nothing reassuring she could say. The resignation that claimed the brother's posture, his eyes warned his intent a split second before he acted.

  There was no time to react.

  The explosion from the gun shattered the night.

  DEBRA WEBB, born in Alabama, wrote her first story at age nine and her first romance at thirteen. It wasn't until she spent three years working for the military behind the Iron Curtain—and a five-year stint with NASA—that she realized her true calling. A collision course between suspense and romance was set. Visit her Web site at www.debrawebb.com to learn more.