CHAPTER 1
Doctor Church
I knife through the morning rush hour traffic in New York City on my motorcycle with the precision only I could.
There’s no one like me. Not on the back of a high-speed motorbike and definitely not in the ER.
That’s exactly why they called me.
The daughter of one of America’s highest ranking politicians was stabbed early this morning coming home from a night out with her friends and it’s up to me to save her life.
I hate scumbags and I never let them win. And nobody dies on my watch.
Not before. Not now. Not ever.
I pull my bike right into the emergency freight elevator I’ve prepared for situations just like these and slip out of my riding jacket and street clothes as the elevator shoots up to the third floor operating room like a rocket.
The doors open right to the prep room where three nurses immediately surround me and begin readying me for the procedure.
“The other surgeon couldn’t make it, Doctor Church,” my main nurse, Mary, briefs me.
“Don’t need him.”
“You received the brief, sir?” second in command, Jill, asks.
“Are you insinuating that I’m not prepared for surgery, Jill, when you know I’m the best damn surgeon in this city maybe the entire world? I’m the one that built this state-of-the-art facility with the money from the skill and knowledge of years of practice and preparation?”
“I’m sorry, sir. Just wanted to make sure.”
And I’m completely sure Jill wants this doctor to be in all the time, as in inside her. But as wild as I am there’s on thing I don’t mess around with.
My job.
And my job today is going to be as difficult as ever.
In order to save this young woman’s life I’m going to have to drain her blood, pump her veins with a saline solution and then place her in what’s known as suspended animation.
It’s exactly what it sounds like. She’s neither dead nor alive.
I’ll perform the surgery to patch up her internal organs, get her stabilized, and then refill her body with blood and resuscitate her.
In other words I’m going to flatline her in order to save her.
It’s a technique only used in extremely dire situations. Ones in which the patient has less than a ten percent chance of survival. Oh…and the patient has to have also suffered a cardiac arrest from a traumatic injury in addition to having sustained massive blood loss.
For the next twelve hours I work like a complete madman, even though I’m anything but.
I’m focused, in control, and completely in the flow.
I live for this.
My entire life is about it. I work out like a fiend and eat only the best food to keep my mind and body ready for moments like these…moments where the patient realistically has no chance of survival, but when they hit my operating table they always do.
My back muscles are firing after bending over for twelve straight hours. My brain is fried. I’m dehydrated and starting to hallucinate from not having had a single glass of water all day, let alone a bite to eat.
“Doctor!” her father says to me.
“Please, doctor. Give us some news,” her mother says.
Frankly, I’m surprised they’re even asking.
“She’s resting comfortably,” I say. “She’ll be out of here by middle of next week. Back to normal in a few months.”
“Oh my god! It’s a miracle,” her mother says.
Wake up, lady. It’s not a miracle. It’s the man whose initials spell out I AM Church.
Ian Andrew Michael Mother Fuckin' Church.
And they just had a front row seat while I walked on water.