Kit scrambled out from under the stairs, running toward the abandoned hostage, who lay ominously still. He checked gently for broken bones and tested the pulse at her throat, unable to reach her wrist under its tight Victorian sleeve. She lay crumpled on her stomach, long dark hair falling in disarray across her face, obscuring her features. Kit was afraid to move her until he was certain there were no broken bones. Very gently, he eased her hair back . . . and gasped sharply. Shahdi Feroz! What was the Ripperologist doing back in TT-86, weeks too early? She’d followed the gate crasher through, leading the efforts to capture him. Kit didn’t care for the ominous implications.
A nasty bruise was swelling and purpling along her temple. She needed medical attention. Kit searched the confusion of screaming, running tourists. Half-a-dozen fistfights were in progress and a medi-van was just arriving at the edge of the riot zone.
“Medical!” The roar of the seething melee swallowed his shout as though he’d barely whispered. The only people who heard were a handful of vultures who’d descended on the spilled luggage, carting off cash and valuables. The nearest looter glanced up, looked right at him, then ran for cover, pockets stuffed with spoils. Kit cursed roundly. He’d have to go find someone.
Kit bolted through the chaos, heading toward the arriving medi-vans. He reached the nearest and flagged down a team. “Medical! Dr. Shahdi Feroz is back there, unconscious. The gate crasher knocked her out.”