THE HAND OF VENGEANCE

Chapter 2 — The Alley Miracle

Chicago’s rain hadn’t stopped. It came in thin silver needles that turned every streetlight halo into fog.

Frank walked without destination, collar up, hospital ID still clutched in his fist like evidence of a crime no one would ever investigate.

Voices cut through the rain ahead, panicked, sharp. Tires screeched against wet asphalt. “Somebody help! He’s not breathing!”

Frank’s pace slowed. The sound came from the narrow alley beside a shuttered convenience store.

A small crowd huddled under umbrellas, phones flashing. The smell of burnt rubber and gasoline bit through the cold air.

A sedan’s hood was crumpled against a dumpster. A man lay half on the pavement, half in the gutter. “Don’t touch him!” someone barked. “An ambulance’s coming!”

Frank stepped forward. “What happened?”

A woman turned, eyes wide. “He just, collapsed after the crash. He’s not moving!”

Frank crouched beside the man. No pulse he could feel, shallow breath if any. His brain started listing facts before emotion could interfere. He could hear Lisa’s voice from hours ago, You’re finished here.

Maybe. But not yet. “Hey, what are you doing?” another bystander demanded. “You a cop?”

“Doctor,” Frank said, already scanning for what he needed. His hands moved automatically, coat off, wrist checking airway, fingers pressing along the neck.

“Back off, man! You’ll make it worse!”

“He’s already dying,” Frank replied. “If you want to film it, fine. Otherwise, hold that light steady.”

A pause. Then a shaky phone flashlight angled down. The man’s breathing fluttered and stopped. Someone cursed. “Ambulance’ll be here any second!”

Frank’s mind flipped through everything he’d ever learned about trauma in resource-poor zones, everything the board at St. Mary’s called reckless improvisation.

He tore open the man’s jacket, pressed two fingers beneath the jaw, listened, counted, listened again. The world narrowed to pulse, rhythm, timing. “Come on, come on…” he muttered. “Don’t quit on me now.”

“Dude, he’s gone,” said a teen with a soaked hoodie.

Frank ignored him. “Paperclip, wire, anything metal and thin!”

“What?”

“Now!”

Someone rummaged through a backpack, handed over a bent key-ring wire. Frank straightened it against the pavement, glanced at the man’s neck. “Hold this light. Right there.”

“Sir, what are you”

“Quiet.”

Every movement was measured; his hands steady in a way the rest of him wasn’t. He adjusted the head tilt, used the wire to clear a blockage that shouldn’t have been possible by luck alone.

A wet gasp broke through the alley. The crowd jumped. “Holy, did you see that?”

Frank pressed down on the chest, counting under his breath, alternating breath and compression. Rain beat time against the dumpsters. The man coughed once, twice, then drew a ragged breath of his own.

Frank sat back, soaked, staring at the impossible in front of him. His hands shook, not from fear, but from the adrenaline drop after perfection. Someone whispered, “He saved him… with a key ring?”

Another: “That’s insane.”

Frank wiped water from his face. “Insane works,” he said softly.

Blue lights flared at the alley mouth. Two EMTs rushed in. “Who’s responsible for the patient?”

“Dr. Frank Mercer,” he said automatically.

One EMT blinked. “The Frank Mercer? From St. Mary’s?”

“Used to be,” Frank replied.

The medic crouched beside the revived man, disbelief in his eyes. “He’s breathing on his own. How the hell”

“Trade secret,” Frank said.

The other EMT turned to him. “You can’t just intervene like that. Liability’s on you.”

Frank stood, dripping. “If he’d died while you were stuck in traffic, liability would be on everyone.”

The medic hesitated, then said quietly, “Thanks… doctor.”

Frank nodded and stepped back as they loaded the man onto the stretcher. The onlookers began to murmur, some grateful, some skeptical, all astonished.

“Yo, doc!” The teen with the hoodie called after him. “That was crazy! You on TikTok or something?”

Frank almost laughed. “Not my kind of publicity.”

He turned toward the street, but someone caught his sleeve. A woman in her thirties, the one who’d first screamed. “He’s my brother,” she said. Her eyes were rimmed red, rain mixing with tears. “You saved him. I, I don’t even know your name.”

“Frank.”

She gripped his hand. “Thank you, Frank.”

He nodded once, then pulled away gently. “Take care of him. Make sure the hospital doesn’t send him a bill he can’t pay.”

Her brow furrowed. “What?”

“Just, watch them,” he said, and disappeared into the rain.

The city was quieter here. Frank stood beneath the steel girders, listening to the rain’s echo. His phone buzzed, an unknown number. He almost ignored it, then answered.

“Dr. Mercer?” The voice was formal, precise. “This is Agent Cole, Secret Service medical liaison. Were you present at a motor accident near Wabash and 43rd tonight?”

Frank’s eyes narrowed. “Depends who’s asking.”

“We have reason to believe the man you revived is connected to a federal protection detail. The President’s daughter was in that convoy.”

He stiffened. “She was hurt?”

“Critically. And according to witnesses, you performed an unsanctioned field procedure that stabilized her bodyguard. We’d like you to come in for a statement.”

Frank looked toward the river again, its surface rippling under the rain. “A statement,” he repeated.

“Yes, sir. We can arrange transport”

“I’ll find my own way.”

He ended the call and slid the phone back into his pocket. Above him, trains rumbled past on the elevated tracks, sparks flashing briefly in the dark.

He felt the old rhythm of purpose settle into his chest, the thing that had been missing since Lisa’s words stripped him bare.

He’d saved a stranger tonight using nothing but instinct and nerve. The system that discarded him couldn’t touch that. Maybe they’d call him crazy again. Maybe they’d even be right.

But for the first time in a long time, crazy felt alive.