Chapter 5 - Code Crimson
The front door of our home was thrown open with a crash, followed by the heavy, synchronized thud of tactical boots pounding up the hardwood staircase.
"Police! Nobody move!"
Three uniformed officers burst into the master bedroom with tasers drawn, sweeping the room in seconds. Behind them were two paramedics in high-visibility jackets carrying heavy trauma kits and a portable stretcher.
"Down! On your knees, both of you!" the lead officer barked, pointing his weapon at Margaret and Carla.
"Officer, please! This is a family misunderstanding!" Margaret pleaded, raising her hands with false elegance. "My son is suffering from an episode—"
"Shut up and put your hands behind your back!" the second officer snapped, stepping forward, forcing Margaret’s arms behind her, and snapping heavy steel handcuffs around her wrists. Carla offered no resistance; she simply collapsed face-first onto the carpet, sobbing hysterically as the metal cuffs clicked around her slender wrists.
"Medics, she's over here!" I shouted, waving the paramedics over. "She's twenty-eight weeks pregnant. Blunt force trauma to the abdomen, multiple contusions to the head and neck, active vaginal bleeding."
The lead paramedic, a burly man with silver hair and a calm demeanor, immediately dropped beside Irene. "Ma'am, my name is David. Can you hear me?"
"Yes..." Irene whispered, her lips turning a faint, alarming shade of blue. "Pain... lower quadrant. Level nine."
David cut the hem of her nightgown open with trauma shears, his eyes darkening as he inspected the severe bruising forming across her lower belly. "We have signs of placental abruption. Vital signs: BP is 85 over 50, pulse is 135 and tachycardic. We need a line in right now. Call ahead to St. Jude’s—tell them we have an inbound maternal trauma, Code Crimson, prep the neonatal ICU and an emergency surgical suite!"
Within two minutes, Irene was strapped onto the stretcher, an oxygen mask pressed over her face, an IV bag running saline wide open into her arm.
"Sir, are you the husband?" the paramedic asked as they wheeled her out the door.
"Yes. I'm coming with you."
"Sir, I need a statement before you leave," the lead police officer said, stepping into my path.
"I am the CEO of Miller Logistics," I told the officer, looking him dead in the eye. "My phone contains twenty minutes of 4K footage documenting grand larceny, aggravated assault, attempted murder, and conspiracy. The safe in the corner has been tampered with; there is a hammer with my sister's fingerprints on it. Take both of those women into custody without bail. My corporate attorney, Marcus Vance, will be at the precinct in thirty minutes with the raw video files. If you delay me from being by my wife's side while my child is dying, I will hold this department personally liable."
The officer stared at me for half a second, then nodded solemnly. "Go with your wife, Mr. Miller. We'll secure the crime scene."
I sprinted down the stairs and leaped into the back of the ambulance just as the doors slammed shut. The siren screamed to life, and the vehicle lurched forward into the rain-slicked night.
Inside the bouncing vehicle, David held a portable Doppler ultrasound against Irene’s swollen belly. The speaker hummed with static, searching through the fluid.
Static. More static.
"Come on, little guy," David muttered under his breath, pressing the transducer deeper into her flesh.
Then, faint, dangerously slow, and irregular, a tiny sound emerged through the speaker: *thump... thump... thump...*
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"Fetal heart rate is under eighty," David said grimly to his partner in the front. "Step on it! We have less than fifteen minutes before we lose this baby!"
***
