Heal or Kill the Mafia Boss

"A Shooting on Twenty-Seventh Avenue," Matt reports as we rush into the ambulance.

I roll my eyes and settle into my seat. It’s nothing unusual. Phoenix’s crime rate is relatively low compared to other cities of similar size and population. However, in recent years, prostitution, drug trafficking, and gang violence have surged around Twenty-Seventh Avenue. We get calls from that area every day. Stabbings and gunshot wounds are the most common.

It takes us less than five minutes to arrive. The police have already cordoned off the area. In front of a massive warehouse, two young men lie unconscious while several paramedics tend to them. One glance is enough to tell me they both have gunshot wounds.

"There are two more inside and one at the back of the warehouse," a police officer informs us.

I nod, and we head inside. The warehouse is enormous and completely empty. I ask George to follow us in with the ambulance—there’s enough space for him to maneuver. I spot the two bodies and immediately check the pulse of one while Matt does the same for the other. They're also young. Judging by their clothes and tattoos, they’re almost certainly members of a Latin gang.

"He’s dead," Matt announces.

"This one too."

"Should we start compressions?"

I'm about to say yes when I see two medics running toward us.

"They can take care of it. Let’s check on the one in the back."

"You think it was the Zeta Clan?"

"Not our problem. Let the police figure it out."

Matt nods, and we move quickly. We exit through the warehouse’s back door, and I instruct George to drive around the building to meet us.

I find the young man on the ground—he's conscious, with two police officers standing over him. They let me through, and I kneel beside him.

"Get the hell away from me, bitch!" he yells before I can even touch him.

I raise an eyebrow and study his face. He looks even younger than the others—he can’t be more than twenty.

"If you don’t let me examine you, you’ll bleed out," I say, pointing at his abdomen.

He’s clutching it with both hands, but the blood keeps pouring out, soaking his shirt and the ground beneath him.

"Want us to cuff him?" one of the officers asks.

I keep my eyes on the kid.

"I don’t think that’s necessary, officer. He looks smart enough to know that dying isn’t a great idea. Am I wrong?"

"It’s either death or prison," he mutters. "I don’t know which is worse."

"Live to find out," I whisper, just loud enough for him to hear.

His dark eyes lock onto mine, and I see the fear in them. After a few seconds of hesitation, he removes his hands and nods.

I carefully lowered him to the ground and cut away his shirt to inspect the wound. As I expected, it’s a gunshot wound—not high caliber. I roll him slightly to check for an exit wound. The bullet went through. Given its location, closer to his side, it’s possible no vital organs were hit, but I won’t be sure until the bleeding stops. I press gauze against the wound while Matt inserts an IV into his arm. I notice a Z-shaped tattoo, confirming my suspicions—he’s a Zeta Clan member. The smartest move is to get him to the hospital as quickly as possible.

George brings the stretcher over, and we lift him onto it immediately. Once he’s secured inside the ambulance, the officers inform us they’ll escort us.

Then something unexpected happens.

I hear the screech of tires, and a massive black SUV comes to a stop beside us.

Four men step out.

The officers move to draw their weapons, but before they can, a bullet pierces each of their heads.

Matt ducks, frightened by the gunfire, but I don’t move an inch.

One of the armed men opens the back of the ambulance and grins from ear to ear.

"The son of a bitch is alive," he announces.

They all seem pleased before turning their attention to us. One of them—the only one without tattoos covering his neck and hands—aims a pistol at me.

"Who’s the medic?" he asks.

"I am," I answer after clearing my throat.

I know what’s coming before it happens.

Another man raises his gun and shoots Matt in the head. Then George.

Their bodies hit the ground, lifeless.

I know there’s nothing I can do for them. They’re dead.

"What a shame. I liked George."

"Good," the man with the gun says. "Looks like you just earned yourself a ride around the city."

He gestures toward the back of the ambulance and smirks.

"Get in. You’re gonna patch up my friend. After that, we’ll figure out what to do with you."

I’ve managed to stop the bleeding. I shift uncomfortably and huff in frustration as I feel the barrel of the gun pressed against my lower back. One of the men is driving the ambulance, the one with the tattoos on his neck is upfront with him, and the other one, the one they called Oscar, is in the back with me, keeping his eyes locked on me.

"Can you move the gun a few inches away? I’m trying to save your friend’s life, and having that thing pointed at me isn’t helping."

I think I hear a low chuckle, and then the pressure of the gun against my back disappears.

I keep working mechanically while trying to stay aware of my surroundings. We’ve been traveling at a normal speed, heading east for over twenty minutes. Maybe we’re going to Paradise Valley. They say some criminal gang leaders live there, deep in the rocky desert, in massive luxury mansions.

The injured boy screams in pain as I start removing the gauze from inside the wound.

"What the hell are you doing?! That hurts!" Oscar yells from behind me.

"I can’t give him painkillers without neglecting the wound," I say, exhaling in frustration. "If you hadn’t killed the paramedic, this would be a lot easier."

"No kidding…" I glance over my shoulder for a second and see that he’s smiling. His eyes are light blue, and he has a sharp line shaved from his eyebrow to the side of his head. It’s not a scar—just a stylistic choice. The injured boy has the same line, though not as pronounced.

"Why aren’t you nervous? We kidnapped you and killed your colleagues, and you don’t seem affected at all."

"There’s nothing."

I don’t respond. I keep working in silence. I’ve been in worse situations, and this isn’t the first time someone’s pointed a gun at me. Right now, the only thing that matters is saving the boy’s life.

"What’s your name?" I ask him.

The boy winces in pain and looks at his friend over my shoulder.

"What the hell does that matter?" the guy behind me hisses.

"I wasn’t talking to you," I reply. "What’s your name, kid?"

He glances over my shoulder again and huffs, his face contorted in pain.

"Go ahead, answer. It’s not like she’ll live long enough to tell anyone," Oscar says in Spanish.

I guess he thinks I can’t understand him, but he’s wrong. Many of my fellow soldiers in the Army were Latino. I’m fluent in Spanish, though that’s not something I plan on revealing. I’d rather let them believe I have no idea what they’re saying.

"Beni," the boy mutters through gritted teeth.

"Alright, Beni. I need you to take a deep breath and stay still so I can release the wound and give you a sedative. It won’t put you to sleep completely, but it’ll help with the pain. Can you do that for me?"

He nods, and I count to three before pulling my hands away. The blood doesn’t immediately gush from the hole, so I move quickly, grab a syringe, and fill it before injecting it into his IV bag.

I return to his side, ready to continue my work, when the ambulance suddenly comes to a screeching halt.

I curse under my breath as I realize the exit wound on his back has started bleeding again.

"End of the line. You’re going to continue inside the house," the man behind me says, pressing the gun against my head once again.

"I need a sterile environment and the surgical equipment in the ambulance."

"You’ll have it. The guys will bring everything inside. Now, get out."

I do as I’m told, silently and without protest. Once outside, I realize that night has already fallen. I glance around. I wasn’t far off—I was right. We’re in Paradise Valley, on what appears to be private property. The place Oscar called a house is actually a massive mansion made of glass, steel, and stone cladding, surrounded by dimly lit gardens and a cascading waterfall in the center. The entrance door is over three meters tall and made of solid light-colored wood. The structure is enormous, two stories tall, and U-shaped—at least from what I can see from this angle. Looking up, I spot a balcony along the facade and, further in the distance, a pool with glass walls.

"Keep moving," the tattooed man orders, pressing the gun against my side.

We step inside, and I hear them speaking in Spanish. The man with the tattoos—whom I finally hear being called Gambo—orders them to clear the game room and keeps pushing me forward. I quickly scan my surroundings and count at least a dozen armed men. Most of them seem like low-level soldiers. Oscar and this Gambo guy are the ones giving orders, and the others obey without question.

I search for a weak point—some oversight or breach in security that I could use to escape. I need to get out before they decide I’m no longer useful and I end up like my two colleagues. I know they’re going to try to kill me—that much is clear. What I don’t know is how I’m going to stop them or if I’m willing to break my promise to survive.