Chapter 43 | Anna #2
Kincade collapsed against the floor of the van, blood pooling beneath him. So much blood. It was everywhere. Slick and hot under my hands, soaking his shirt.
I dropped to my knees beside him, hands shaking, trying to hold pressure where I could.
The second the doors slammed shut we were speeding into the night.
And I didn’t know if we were fast enough.
I pressed my hands against his abdomen, watched the blood spread and spread.
“Don’t you die on me, dammit,” I said. “If you do, I’ll kill you.”
“Anna—” Ludwig started.
“Don’t,” I snapped.
He shoved me aside—not gently. “Move. Let me see.”
Gone was the charming man, replaced by someone else. Cold. Efficient.
He rolled Kincade onto his side and lifted his shirt, fingers already probing, assessing.
“The bullet went through,” he said. “Front to back. Looks like it missed organs.”
There was nothing in this godforsaken van to stop the bleeding.
I ripped off the tactical vest and threw it aside, then tore my shirt over my head, leaving me in nothing but a tank. I didn’t care. I pressed the fabric against his side, holding pressure with shaking hands.
“What do we do?” I demanded.
Ludwig didn’t answer.
His face had gone grim. Pale.
I lifted my gaze to his. “What do we do,” I barked.
“We’re at the safe house,” Ulrich called.
The van screeched to a halt. He was out in a second, doors flying open. The two of them hauled him up between them and out and started for the stairs.
I stumbled up the steps after them, my own pain forgotten.
All I saw was the way Kincade’s head lolled against Ludwig’s shoulder. The way his boots dragged. The way his blood smeared dark across the steps.
They got the door open—Ulrich fumbling with the key to get it in the lock. Then we were in.
They laid him out on the kitchen table—because of course it was the kitchen table, scarred wood and bad lighting and nowhere near sterile enough—and my hands were on him again. Pressing. Holding. Refusing to let go.
“He needs a doctor,” I said. My chest was tight, burning, hot.
“I don’t—” Ulrich started, as if he was going to object.
I let go for one second, turned, and fisted his shirt front in my bloody hands.
“You get a doctor here right now,” I said, low and shaking, “or I will rip you both apart with my bare hands.”
“She… means it.”
This from Kincade behind me.
Ulrich blinked once. Then he was on the phone, making calls—trying to find someone. Anyone. In the dead of night.
Ludwig found kitchen towels to press against his side. But they were quickly turning red.
“You don’t get to die and leave me here,” I said. But his eyes were closed, and I wasn’t sure he heard.
It didn’t matter. I wasn’t moving.
“Anna, you’re bleeding,” Ludwig said.
“I don’t care.”
“You’re going to care when you pass out,” he said.
And the second the words were out of his mouth I swayed on my feet.
Ulrich wrapped a hand around my arm and guided me to a chair. I was lightheaded. Adrenaline. Blood loss. Shock catching up.
I leaned my elbows on my knees, my eyes never leaving his face. The slow rise and fall of his chest. And that fear that he might die lodged deep and hot inside my chest.
Ulrich pressed a towel against my shoulder. Firm pressure. That was all.
“How long?” I asked.
“Five minutes give or take,” he said.
Five minutes and he could be dead.
It was the longest five minutes of my life.
Kincade’s breathing hitched again—shallow, uneven—and something in my chest fractured.
“Hey,” I said softly. “Stay with me. You don’t get to disappear on me now.”
His fingers twitched once.
I latched onto them anyway.
Ludwig glanced at me, something unreadable in his eyes. Respect.
Ulrich’s phone buzzed. He was at the door before it stopped, opening it, letting in a doctor I assumed was also part of the Quiet Watch.
Then Ludwig was pulling me away.
“Come away,” he said softly. “Let him work.”
I let go—
and it was the hardest thing I’d done all night.
“Let me take care of that shoulder,” he said.
“I’m fine,” I said.
“You’re not.”
I glanced down. Saw blood down my arm from the bullet wound. Staining my hands. Most of it wasn’t mine.
He guided me to the worn sofa. “Sit.”
We stared each other down.
“You’ve got a lodged round and you’re bleeding.”
“But—”
“I’ve got you,” he replied. No humor. No flirtation. “Done it more times than I like. Now, sit.”
I was used to being ordered around. I sat, still listening to what was happening with the doctor. Ulrich hovered between the two of us.
Ludwig crossed the room and grabbed one of the go-bags from beside the door. He unzipped it with practiced speed.
“You were prepared?” I asked.
“Always,” he replied as he pulled out a slim black pouch.
Gloves. Gauze. Forceps.
“This’ll hurt.”
“Fine,” I said.
I was already numb to most of the pain, anyway.
He was fast and efficient. No wasted movements. The bullet was out, and I was bandaged up minutes later. I only flinched once as I gritted my teeth, determined to keep from making a sound.
“You’re no rookie,” he said, sounding impressed.
“No,” I said.
If only he knew what the last twelve months had done to me.
“They were expecting us,” I said. Because I didn’t know who else to talk to. My gaze flicked up to his.
“They knew, yes,” he agreed.
“How?” I demanded, eyeing him with suspicion.
“You hit two other facilities,” he said. “They were ready for you.”
Iskenderun and Tuzla, of course, but…
“How did you know about that?”
“Kincade told me,” he said. “We should have planned better.”
His grim expression was lined with regret.
“I never got to detonate those charges,” I said.
The words burned. That meant they still had all that surveillance. And my life was still on full display for anyone to see.
“There’ll be another time for that,” he said.
“Will there?” I wasn’t so sure.
“He’s stable. For now.” The doctor’s voice interrupted our conversation.
My head snapped up.
“But he can’t stay on the kitchen table,” he continued. “We move him once. Carefully. Then he doesn’t move again.”
Ludwig and Ulrich were already moving toward him. I got up too fast and regretted it. I swayed, caught myself on the edge of the sofa.
They lifted Kincade, every movement deliberate. He made a low sound in his throat and my chest clenched hard enough to hurt.
His lashes fluttered. That was all.
They carried him down the hall and into the bedroom to the bed. Clean. It would have to be enough.
I followed.
They laid him down like he was breakable.
The doctor followed, already giving orders, already working.
I stayed in the doorway.
Watching.
Breathing.
Waiting.