Chapter 9 - Resuscitation on the Edge
"No! Clara, no!"
Mark thrust the wrapped infant into Sterling's hands. "Hold her! Keep her warm under your coat or I swear to God I'll throw you off this ledge myself!"
Sterling, pale and shaking, pulled the baby into his wool jacket, shielding her from the icy draft. Mark immediately turned back to Clara, locking his elbows and beginning CPR. Thirty compressions, two rescue breaths. Thirty compressions, two rescue breaths.
"Come back to me! You told me she wouldn't be waiting anymore, damn you! You have to be there!" Mark slammed his hands rhythmically onto her sternum. He injected a pre-filled syringe of epinephrine directly into her IV line, pushing the plunger home.
Five minutes passed. His arms burned with lactic acid. The roof groaned again, concrete cracking open near the communications antenna as the core structure below melted under extreme heat.
On the eighth cycle of compressions, Clara gasped. Her chest heaved, taking in a ragged lungful of cold air. The pulse monitor began to chirp again—weak, sixty beats per minute, but beating.
May you like
Mark quickly packed her abdominal wound with sterile hemostatic dressing and secured an abdominal binder around her waist, praying the pressure would hold off the hemorrhaging.
Just then, a searchlight pinned them against the roofline. But it wasn't a rescue helicopter. Hovering fifty yards out was a private corporate transport, and its side door slid open to reveal armed private security guards.
