The Missile Game (The Dr. Scott James Thriller Series Book 1) by Glenn Shepard

Bovie electrocautery machine was on its side on the floor. An instrument table was upside down and lying on the anesthesia cart. Surgical instruments, medications, and supplies were strewn all over the counter tops and floor.
    Keyes raced to the recovery room and screamed when she saw James’ body on the floor. She kneeled and felt for a pulse. It was weak, almost imperceptible. In a moment of uncertainty, she paused before slapping his cheeks, hard. “Scott! Wake up!” There was no response. His face was pale gray.
    Keyes placed her lips on his, squeezed his nostrils shut, and began blowing air into his lungs as hard as she could. His body twitched. She compressed his chest several times, and then resumed the mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. After her first blow, he tried to breathe, but his airway was obstructed. Keyes shoved her hand deep down his throat and mopped out thick mucous. He inhaled with the heavy snore of a partial blockage.
    Bottles and vials of medications were scattered all around. She recognized the empty succinyl-choline bottle and sighed relief at the large volume of unused medication still in the syringe in his arm. He’d injected less than 1 cc; the lethal dose was 5 cc’s. She jerked the syringe from the IV and threw it against the wall. She quickly looked at the labels on the drug vials, throwing them aside until she had the one she wanted: Narcan. It was a potent drug that reversed the actions of sedatives. She drew 10 cc’s in a syringe and stuck it his vein. She injected half of it, paused briefly, then shrugged and injected the entire bolus.
    She used a catheter to suction the back of his throat and trachea, removing gobs of thick, white mucous. He started breathing easier.
    She wiped the tears from her eyes and dragged James over to the anesthesiology machine. It was connected to three tanks: oxygen, nitrous oxide, and air. Holding his chin up, she put her mouth over his and blew her breath into his lungs six times. Then she fumbled with gas lines and placed the oxygen mask on James’ face. She grabbed the black balloon and squeezed as hard as she could. No oxygen moved into his lungs. The airway was still blocked.
    Her heart pounded fast in her chest. She’d read about all these maneuvers and helped others do them several times in Houston, but never before had she performed them by herself.
    Removing the mask, Keyes again reached her small hand deeply down his throat. His tongue was inverted. The succinyl-choline had relaxed the tongue and it had fallen back in the pharynx and was choking him. She pulled it back into his mouth. With trembling hands, she placed a plastic airway in his mouth to push the tongue forward. She quickly reattached the mask and squeezed the bag as hard as she could with both hands. Success! His lungs filled with air! Sweat dripped from her face and covered her entire body.
    She sat on the floor beside James for half an hour, rhythmically inflating his lungs.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
    Scott James Surgery Center
    7:30 pm
    I WAS LYING ON the hard tile floor of the operating room. I tried to swallow. My throat was so painful, I gagged. My lungs burned with each breath. Putting my hand to my mouth, I coughed and felt a tingling sensation in my arm. I looked and saw that my entire forearm had ballooned out from an infiltrated IV of D-5½normal saline. Reaching down, I jerked the malfunctioning needle from my arm. The cold liquid running from the IV saturated my shirt.
    Then something moved beside me. I turned, and there was Elizabeth Keyes, lying next to me on the floor, staring at me.
    “Hey,” she said.
    “Hey.”
    “Let me put that back in for you.” She studiously reattached the IV, then said, “Welcome back. I thought I’d lost you.” Tears welled in her eyes.
    I reached out for her hand, squeezed it and then kissed it. “I thought I was in heaven when I looked up and saw your face. An angel, that’s what you are.”
    “An angel, huh?”
    “No. A hundred