The Measure(53)



Many of Hank’s classmates said they wanted to become doctors to be a part of something bigger than themselves. Hank had always nodded along when they spoke, but he never really understood what they meant. He just wanted to help people.

But here, amid the crowd, as his gaze swept from face to face, he understood.

In the background, Hank could hear Rollins arriving onstage to a mixture of cheers and heckling, but he didn’t want to turn around just yet. He wanted to watch the field of protesters for just another moment.

Until Hank’s roaming eye came into focus.

An auburn-haired woman was moving swiftly through the crowd, bumping into people and hastily brushing them off as she moved toward the front, her right hand tucked inside her jacket, like she was holding on to something.

Fuck. Hank felt it in his stomach. The same gut response, the same nauseating sense of assuredness that he could feel when a patient was brought into the ER with barely a chance of survival. His body had a knack for knowing when something awful was about to happen.

Someone was introducing Rollins at the microphone behind him, heralding the congressman’s courage and conviction and faith, but Hank could hardly hear it. He was following the woman, inching closer and closer to her, trying to figure out what she was planning. Maybe it was just a particularly pointed sign, or a bottle of pig’s blood. Whatever it was, she was determined.

He was only a few feet away from her when she finally pulled out a gun.



Hank had been driven by an instinctive impulse his entire life—it allowed him to stay alert during twelve-hour shifts, to stick his hand inside a gushing wound and pinch the artery with his fingers, to run toward the gunshots that morning in May at New York Memorial Hospital. It was that same impulse that pushed him now.

He didn’t think about the obvious danger to himself. He didn’t think about his string. He thought only of this moment, of the people in peril around him.

He couldn’t save his ER from the shooter in May. This time would be different.

Hank saw the woman’s hand on the grip.

Her fingers quivered slightly, two full seconds of hesitation. Enough time for Hank to jump in front of the gun, just as she made her decision to pull the trigger.





Anthony




Anthony had only just registered the sound of a gun firing when he was suddenly crushed under a swarm of security guards and cops and pulled from the stage to an awaiting van. The panicked shrieks of the crowd were instantly silenced as the bulletproof door slammed behind him.

“What happened?” he asked the driver.

“We’re not sure yet.”

“Where’s Katherine?”

“She’s secure. They’ve got her in the next car.”

Anthony nodded and looked down at his suit, which had been crumpled during his chaotic exit.

He was safe.

Katherine was safe.

He had just survived what was, in all likelihood, a targeted shooting. An assassination attempt. On his life.

Holy shit, Anthony thought. Somebody out there wanted to kill him.

He had always had a few enemies: the rival frat brothers in college, an obnoxious law school nemesis, a colleague at the DA’s office angling for the same promotions. But this was different. This was dangerous.

For a moment Anthony was truly scared.

But then he remembered his long string, and the three more decades it promised him, and the fact that, despite his wrinkled Armani, he was totally unscathed.

A second thought followed soon after.

This was, quite possibly, the best thing to happen to his campaign.

People would sympathize with him, be inspired by him, see him as a triumphant survivor. How many political leaders had defied plots to take them out? Teddy Roosevelt, Richard Nixon, Ronald Reagan. And he, Anthony Rollins, Virginia congressman, had just joined their elite ranks. Thanks to a gunman with horrible aim, he was that much closer to the Oval Office.

In the coming days, he would surely craft a poignant speech condemning the violence and hatred that sought to strike him down, grieving any tragic casualties, and calling upon his fellow Americans to march on in the face of fear.

They’ll eat it up, Anthony thought. I’ll be a goddamn hero.





Hank




The woman was trying to help him, that much he could tell. She had shot him, and now she wanted to save him.

“No no no no no no,” she begged over and over. “I wasn’t aiming for you!”

The shooter pressed her hands firmly against the hole in his stomach, her tears falling hard and fast. Her face was so close to Hank’s that he could see the water streaking down her cheeks and the bubbles forming in her nostrils. Loose strands of auburn hair were grazing Hank’s nose.

“I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “I’m so sorry.”

Her arms were still stretched out toward him as a few brave bystanders descended, pulling her up and away.

The woman was replaced by more familiar faces, Lea and Terrell, kneeling down to take over and apply pressure to Hank’s wound, which suddenly hurt like a motherfucker, the adrenaline starting to wear off, his skin burning and his ears ringing.

“You’re gonna be okay,” Lea whispered.

“It’s fine, he’s gonna be fine!” Terrell was shouting, trying to calm everyone down. “He’s still got a few years left like the rest of us.”

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