Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 78329 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78329 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
I force myself closer, swallowing down the terror. I can’t help Grandpa if I panic now. I can’t help myself if I refuse outright. I can only do what I know how to do—keep someone alive with the tools I have.
“Lay him back,” I state sharply. “I need to see the wound.”
No one moves.
I look at the president. “If you want him alive, you need to let me work,” I repeat. “Now.”
His eyes harden, but he nods once. Two men step forward and haul the injured man upright. He groans, the sound wet and ugly, and my skin crawls with sympathy I don’t want to feel.
“Don’t,” the man cries out. “Don’t lay me down. It hurts.”
“Gotta have space to work, you can’t be sitting upright.” I explain frustrated because this man needs serious medical attention.
They prop him back against the chair before someone else appears with a pillow and hands it to me as they then move to lay the victim on the tarps, stretching him out.
“For your knees,” the new man explains about bringing me the pillow.
I kneel in front of the man bleeding, careful with my bound wrists, and lean in.
The wound is on his right side, just above the hip. Entry wound small. Blood soaked through a makeshift bandage—an old towel, wrapped tight and already saturated. There’s swelling. Bruising. The skin around it is hot.
He shivers.
Shock is setting in.
My mind races. How long ago was he wounded? How much blood lost? Where did the bullet travel?
I can’t palpate properly with my hands tied together like this. Is there internal bleeding?
“I need my hands free,” I state.
The president’s voice comes from behind me. “No.”
I shut my eyes for half a second, fighting the rage rising in my throat. “You want him alive,” I state slowly, opening my eyes again. “Or you want to punish me? In order for him to live I need the freedom to do my best job. In order for my grandfather to live and me to live you made it very clear he has to live. So let’s stop the games, give me my hands free so I can fix your friend. Are you going to be the reason he dies now?”
That’s a dangerous question. The room goes still. I feel the weight of guns without seeing them.
The president steps closer until I can sense him right behind me. He leans down.
“You’re real brave,” he murmurs near my ear. “Too bad I don’t like sloppy seconds from a Hellion. That challenge you got could be fun in bed. Bet that pussy is tight like a vice grip.”
My breath catches. My eyes sting with unshed tears. I swallow the emotion back and keep my voice as clinical as I can. “I need my bag. I need to check his pulse, his breathing, his cognitive status. I need to apply pressure properly, clean the wound, assess for exit. I need to know if he’s bleeding internally. If he’s got abdominal rigidity, if he’s losing blood into his cavity, he needs a surgeon. He needs antibiotics, pain meds.”
A man scoffs. “She talkin’ like she a damn doctor.”
“I’m talking like someone who doesn’t want him dead on your floor,” I snap, surprising myself with the sharpness.
The injured man coughs, his eyes fluttering. “Water,” he rasps.
Realistically we would withhold food and liquid prepping him for surgery. But I’m clearly not in a normal situation. So fuck it, he wants water, let him have it. I glance around. “Do you have water?”
One of the men tosses a bottle onto the bed. It bounces and rolls.
I pick it up with my bound hands, twist the cap with effort, and bring it to the injured man’s mouth. He drinks too fast, choking.
“Slow,” I instruct automatically, steadying him. “Slow. You’ll aspirate. Can’t breathe and swallow at the same time. ”
The word makes my stomach twist because it reminds me of Grandpa, of aspiration pneumonia, of lungs filling with fluid. I am full of helplessness. I set the bottle aside and look up at the president again.
“You want me to remove a bullet,” I begin. “With what? A pocketknife? A pair of pliers? That’s how you get infection. That’s how you kill him.”
The men shift, uneasy now. They don’t like hearing the possibility that their plan might fail. The president’s jaw works.
“What do you need?” he asks, clipped.
“My bag from my car. Sterile gloves,” I rattle off immediately. “Gauze. Clean towels. Alcohol. Antiseptic. Suture kit. Local anesthetic if you have it. Antibiotics. A clean surface. Light. Iodine. Saline solution.”
“Light, you got it,” someone mutters. “Got a kit with the gloves. Have her bag from the trunk.”
I ignore it. “And I need my hands free.”
The president pauses, then gives a sharp nod to one of his men. “Do it,” he commands.
Relief is immediate and sickening as the stranger approaches. A knife flashes. The zip ties fall away.