Chapter 17
CHAPTER 17
S loane’s arm was on fire. Every bump in the road felt like torture. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to push through the pain. “How long?” she managed to grit out.
“Almost there.”
A few moments later, they pulled up in front of a concrete block house with a faded orange awning. She glanced around, not recognizing anything.
“Where are we?”
“This is a safe house,” he replied.
A safe house? Was this where he stayed? She had questions, but the pain in her arm was all-consuming.
“I feel sick,” she mumbled.
“It’s the shock.”
He got out of the car and opened the back door, first scanning the sidewalk. Then he reached out his arms. “Come on, I’ll carry you.”
She shifted over, letting him scoop her up. He kicked the car door shut and carried her to the entrance. The door swung open just as they arrived.
“What happened?” asked a short, older Pakistani woman, maybe in her sixties. She seemed to know Stitch.
“She’s been shot,” he said, carrying her inside.
“Put her on the couch,” the woman instructed. “I’ll get some hot water and something to clean the wound.”
She disappeared, concern etched on her face.
“Who is she?” Sloane croaked.
“A friend,” he said, not offering more.
Sloane glanced down. The entire one side of her blouse was soaked in blood.
“It looks worse than it is,” he reassured her.
“It hurts like hell,” she muttered.
“Hang in there. You’ll be okay.” His voice was soft, almost gentle, with that rough, comforting edge she’d heard before. His “doctor voice,” the one that had saved Fatima, that made her trust him completely.
She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, trying to manage the pain.
“Good girl.” He squeezed her hand, and she wished he’d leave it there. She needed someone to hold on to.
The woman returned with a bowl of steaming water and clean cloths draped over her arm.
“I’ll be right back,” Stitch said. “I need to grab my medical kit.”
The woman set the bowl down on the coffee table. “I’m going to clean your wound,” she said, her dark eyes meeting Sloane’s, making sure she understood.
Sloane nodded.
The woman picked up a pair of scissors and carefully cut the sleeve off Sloane’s blouse. Then, she soaked a cloth in the hot water and gently cleaned around the bullet hole.
Sloane lifted her head to look at the wound. It was a neat circle with burned edges and blood oozing out of it. It wasn’t gushing, which she took as a good sign—no major arteries hit.
The woman didn’t touch the wound itself, just cleaned around it and down her arm. The pain was so intense, her arm was turning numb. Sloane tried to wiggle her fingers, but the pain made her stop.
“Keep still,” the woman urged. “Stitch will take care of you.”
Oh, crap. She’d forgotten the bullet was still inside.
“Ready?” Stitch walked back into the room, carrying a tray full of medical tools. Sloane spotted a scalpel before squeezing her eyes shut.
No, she screamed internally, but she knew it had to come out. Better not to look.
“You’re going to have to trust me.” He knelt on the floor beside her. “I need to get that bullet out.”
The woman stepped aside, letting Stitch work. It wasn’t exactly an ideal setup for surgery.
He picked up the scalpel.
Tears welled up in her eyes, more from pain than fear. She’d never felt anything like this in her life. She tried to nod, to show she was ready, but the burning was spreading like a red-hot poker digging into her shoulder. She wasn’t sure she could handle it.
“I’m going to give you something for the pain,” he said, as if reading her mind. He must have known she was on the edge. “It’ll knock you out. You won’t feel a thing.”
Thank God.
He filled a syringe with the same amber liquid he’d used on Fatima. She winced as he injected it just above the wound site.
The last thing she remembered before the darkness took over was the feel of his hand brushing her hair away from her face—rough calluses, gentle touch. Then everything went black.