Deep Trauma

CHAPTER ONE

 “Get the hell out of the goddamned road,” the enormous bald man growled.

Riley Brighton squinted up at the giant towering over her in the middle of the 101 Freeway. Blinded by the glaring headlights of the gridlocked pre-dawn traffic, she hadn’t seen him emerging from the darkness. “Unless you have some kind of death wish,” he added, brushing past her in her full leathers to get a better look at the body lying in lane three.

“Your timing’s slightly off,” she snapped back sarcastically, thinking she could have used someone his size only moments ago to help with traffic control. The man gave her a double take, locking his eyes on her when she pried her full-face helmet off and her long dark braid swung loose.

She scanned the scene again, wondering how many cars had run over the body, and how many had just narrowly missed hitting her. The pounding in her chest hadn’t subsided yet, even though all five lanes of the southbound commute into the city were now at a dead standstill. And in LA, that meant the freeway would probably be tied up for hours. So, the man’s tone seemed unnecessarily hostile now, in her view. If it wasn’t for that, he might have found her a little chattier.

She might have explained how she’d come across the accident. That she’d been exceeding the speed limit, quite excessively no less, when the sight of the twisted, motionless body in lane three had come rapidly into the beam of her headlight. And that once she’d realized the form was human, she’d immediately pulled off the freeway and launched into action using a flair from her motorcycle’s toolbox to get traffic stopped before anyone else got hurt.

Her knees were still quivering, and she wasn’t entirely sure she could keep her breakfast down as she tried to process the horrific sight at her feet. As an ER physician, she was no stranger to trauma, but stumbling across such a grizzly scene on her morning commute had totally blindsided her. Especially as the victim was a fellow motorcyclist—an urban warrior, of sorts—in the battle against LA’s notoriously distracted motorists.

Her throat seemed to pinch itself closed as she stared down at the man sprawled on the asphalt in front of them. His limbs were a jumble of incongruous angles, with open wounds, bloodless and gaping, like holes in worn leather. No blood flow, she noted. His heart had probably ruptured on impact. Jesus, she thought, the poor guy hadn’t had a chance.

She glanced up again at the giant now breathing heavily at her side. His shoulders seemed to swell like a cobra’s hood as he stared her down. Clearly, he wanted her out of the way. She considered that perhaps he was an off-duty police officer, or maybe a first responder on his way into the city for an early shift. When she broke from his gaze, the man extended a beefy arm, as if to restrain her, while he leaned in to get a closer look at the body. His verbal skills needed work, she decided. Riley stepped casually around him, determined to do what her training called for.

Slipping the reinforced glove off her right hand, she tucked it under her left arm, and knelt down on the pavement to check the body for a pulse she knew she wouldn’t find. The victim was still warm, but just as she’d suspected, there were no signs of life. In fact, his head and neck were so contorted that for a moment she almost thought his helmet was on backward. She leaned forward, reaching for one of his hands—the one that wasn’t pinned under his chest—and closed her fingers around it gently. It was small for a man, almost delicate, clearly the hand of someone quite young.

 “Sorry, buddy,” she murmured looking down at him. “Hope it was quick.”

The giant stepped back as she got to her feet, he seemed now suddenly appeased. Riley shot him a dismissive glance as she headed toward the emergency lane where she’d left her bike. “Your turn now, big guy,” she called over her shoulder. With all the witnesses in the southbound lanes presently staring at the spectacle from behind their windshields, she was confident that the oversized man would keep traffic in check until the CHP arrived.

As she reached her motorcycle idling on the side of the road, Riley turned to survey the scene one last time. Where was the victim’s bike? she wondered. The large black pickup truck on the shoulder probably belonged to the giant, but there was no sign of the dead man’s ride.

She pulled the cuff of her reinforced jacket back, checking her wristwatch—6:15 a.m.

Her eyes swept methodically over the scene. Maybe the motorcycle had been launched over the concrete divider into the northbound lanes. But she hadn’t noticed traffic on that side of the barrier swerving or breaking to avoid anything.

And now, she heard the distant wail of the CHP and paramedics approaching. Finally!

She grasped the end of her braid and wrapped it around her neck before pulling on her full-face helmet again.

The deep, resonant blare of a fire truck’s horn punctuated the din of sirens as it neared the scene, its red lights splintering the darkness in  eye-piercing shards.

Riley straddled her  Kawasaki Ninja 300 cc sportbike. She depressed the clutch, revved the throttle a little and kicked the stand up. Then she threw it into gear and pulled her wheels back onto the tarmac.

Ahead of her, all five lanes of the southbound 101 Freeway into the city were now wide open—a stretch of deserted asphalt replacing the typical congested snarl of metal and motion she usually dueled with each morning.  She was on the right side of a backup for once, and that meant, despite the delay, she’d still make it to work on time.

A moment later she was leaning into the wind created by her rapid acceleration. She wrapped herself around the low, sleek black torpedo as closely as the designer’s signature adorning the fuel tank under her chest. Then her left foot clicked smoothly through the range of gears until she was nothing but a streak of light in the darkness.