Chapter 11 Jackson
ELEVEN
Jackson
FIELD MEDICINE
The abandoned textile factory reeks of rust and pigeon shit.
I leave Talia by the entrance, weapon drawn, and clear each room methodically.
Check corners. Test doors. Map exits. The movements are automatic, but my left arm screams with each sweep, blood still seeping through the makeshift pressure I’ve kept on it.
Ground floor clear. No squatters. No surveillance. No surprises.
“Wait here.” I head back outside.
The stolen Camry needs to disappear. I drive it four blocks south, wipe it down with my shirt, and leave the keys in the ignition.
Someone will boost it within the hour, destroying any forensic trail.
The walk back takes longer than it should.
Blood loss is making me sluggish, but I keep my pace steady. Controlled.
Talia’s exactly where I left her, silhouette tense in the doorway. She doesn’t speak when I return, just looks at my arm with those amber eyes, already calculating.
“Inside.”
The factory’s break room still has intact windows, blacked out with years of grime. Perfect. No one can see in, but enough streetlight filters through to work by. I flip a dusty table upright, test its stability. Good enough.
My go-bag hits the table with a thud. Medical supplies always packed on top—lesson learned in Syria. Bandages, sutures, forceps. Morphine I won’t use because it’ll make me useless. Local anesthetic that might help. Antibiotics to prevent the infection that kills more operators than bullets.
I check the windows again. The doors. Then, once more, because my focus is sliding, and paranoia keeps you alive.
Finally, I can’t delay any longer. I sink into a metal chair that creaks but holds. The adrenaline’s fading, leaving behind a deep, throbbing agony that pulses with my heartbeat. My jacket peels away, sticky with blood. The shirt underneath is ruined, dark red from shoulder to wrist.
Talia’s breath catches—a small, sharp inhale. Her hand rises toward the wound, then stops.
“Not as bad as it looks.” I cut the shirt away with my knife, exposing the wound. Neat entry hole in the bicep, no exit. The bullet’s lodged against bone, sending fire through my entire arm with each movement. “Though it’s not great either.”
She moves to my side, hands hovering uncertainly. Then her jaw sets with determination. She points at the medical supplies, then at me. A question without words.
“Ever removed a bullet before?”
Her eyes widen. She shakes her head.
“I’ll talk you through it.”
She stares at the forceps, then at me, then back at the forceps. Her hand moves toward her pocket where her phone would be—hospital, ambulance, normal person response. I catch her wrist.
“No hospitals. Mandatory reporting. Phoenix has people everywhere.”
She processes this, then nods. Once. Decisive.
“Wash your hands. Sanitizer’s in the bag.”
She does, her movements careful and thorough.
Watching her shift from theoretical to visceral, from analyst to field medic, amazes me.
Makes me hard. There is nothing sexier than a brilliant woman adapting to the impossible.
Her face sets with the same focus I’ve seen when she’s working through data.
“Gloves.” I nod at the box.
She snaps them on, and something changes in her posture. Armor on. Ready.
“Clean it first. Saline, then Betadine.”
She uncaps the saline, hesitates for a moment, then pours. Ice and fire. I lock my jaw, breathing through my nose. She works carefully, leaning close enough that I smell vanilla through the blood and antiseptic. Her free hand rests on my shoulder—steadying herself or me, maybe both.
The Betadine comes next, painting my skin rust-orange. Each touch sends lightning through the nerves, but there’s something else. Her fingertips are gentle against undamaged skin. The careful way she holds my arm is arresting.
Like I matter.
“The bullet’s not deep.” I examine the wound as best I can. “Maybe an inch in. Probe with the forceps, find it, grip firmly, pull straight out.”
She picks up the forceps, takes a breath. Looks at me. I nod.
She inserts the tips.
Agony whites out my vision. I grip the chair with my good hand, knuckles white, breathing harsh. She doesn’t apologize, doesn’t narrate; just works with implacable concentration. Her face inches from mine, completely focused.
A strand of hair escapes the Angel Fire hat, brushing her cheek. Even through the pain, I want to tuck it back behind her ear.
Her gaze flicks to mine. She’s found it.
“Grab and pull,” I manage through clenched teeth.
She does. Smooth and steady. The bullet slides free with a wet sound, and relief floods through me so intensely I actually sigh.
She holds up the deformed metal, studying it with those analytical eyes. Then sets it aside, already reaching for gauze. I check it, finding it intact.
“Rinse the wound, use the butterfly sutures to close the skin, then wrap it.”
She cleans the wound, approximates the edges, and tacks down the butterfly sutures. When she starts wrapping the wound, she has to lean across me, her body close enough that her warmth cuts through the cold shock settling in.
“Tighter,” I say.
She adjusts. I catch her wrist, guiding the right tension. Our faces are close. Close enough to see gold flecks in her eyes. Close enough to watch her pulse flutter in her throat.
She ties off the bandage but doesn’t pull away. We’re frozen—her between my knees, hands still on my arm, faces inches apart. The factory’s silence presses in, making each breath loud.
“Thank you.” The words come out soft, not my usual tone.
She touches my face. Just fingertips against my jaw, but the gentleness of it cracks something in my chest.
“Nathan was wrong, Talia.”
She goes still, eyes searching mine. Her breath catches. A question in her eyes.
“About everything. About you being too much. Too analytical.” My good hand cups her face. “You’re fucking fascinating.”
Tears gather in her eyes. She opens her mouth—to argue, to deflect, to analyze.
But the tears do it. One spills over, tracking down her cheek, and something in my chest cracks wide open. This brilliant, brave woman who just dug a bullet out of my arm with steady hands is crying because some asshole made her believe she was broken. Made her small. Made her quiet.
She saved my life tonight. Not just with the bullet, but earlier—picking that lock, following every command without question, trusting me completely even when I was bleeding out. And she did it all while believing she’s somehow not enough.
Fuck that. Fuck Nathan. Fuck waiting for the right moment.
I kiss her before she can pull away and hide.
Her mouth is soft under mine, tentative at first, then warming. Opening. Her hands slide up my chest, careful of the bandage, and she makes a sound—half sigh, half whimper—that goes straight through me.
This is what I’ve been fighting since I pinned her against that wall. Since she melted into me when I shielded her from the blast. Hell, since she lay silent and stubborn on my couch with her cold feet pressed against my back.
I pull back before I do something stupid. Like haul her into my lap with one working arm.
She’s breathing hard, eyes dark, lips swollen. One word escapes: “Why?”
“Because I wanted to. Because you’re brilliant and brave.” My thumb traces her bottom lip. “Because watching your mind work is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”
A laugh bubbles out, wet and shaky. “That’s—”
“True.” I pull her closer, settling her between my thighs. “The way you process information, find patterns, solve problems—it’s like watching a supercomputer with a gorgeous interface.”
“Interface?” She’s trying not to smile.
“Beautiful face, killer body, mind like a weapon.” I kiss her again, quickly, before she can overthink it. “You’re the complete package.”
“Nathan said—” She stops, swallows. “He said I was exhausting.”
“Nathan was a weak man who couldn’t handle your strength.”
“He said I approach intimacy like writing a clinical report.”
“Nathan wouldn’t know real intimacy if it bit him.” I tuck that escaped strand of hair behind her ear. “You don’t kiss like you’re writing a report. You kiss like you’re trying to solve me.”
“Am I?”
“Getting close.”
She kisses me this time. Deeper, surer. Her tongue traces my lip, and I open for her, let her explore. She tastes like mint and possibilities. When we break apart, we’re both panting.
“This is a terrible idea,” she whispers against my mouth.
“The worst.”
“You’re my bodyguard.”
“Protection specialist.”
“You’re injured.”
“I’ve had worse.”
“We’re being hunted by killers.”
“Minor inconvenience.”
She’s smiling now, and it transforms her face. “You’re impossible.”
“You’re overthinking.”
“I always—” She stops herself. “No. Not always. Not with you.”
Something shifts in her expression. Walls coming down.
“With you, I just—feel.”
The words hang between us, weighted with meaning.
Then she notices fresh blood seeping through the bandage. Without a word, she finds the antibiotics in my bag and brings water. I take both, watching her shift into caretaker mode.
“Sleep,” she says simply, helping me to a corner where I can watch both entrances. “I’ll watch.”
I want to argue, but exhaustion pulls at me. The adrenaline’s gone, leaving me hollow.
“Two hours,” I manage.
She shakes her head. Holds up four fingers.
“Three.”
A small smile. She nods.
Settling by the window, she becomes a sentinel silhouette against dirty glass. Alert. Capable. Mine to protect but also protecting me.
“Talia?”
She turns slightly.
“Tomorrow, we figure out how to stop Phoenix.”
She nods again. No questions, no analysis. Just trust.
I close my eyes, her taste still on my lips, and let darkness take me.
For the first time in years, I don’t dream of Syria.
I dream of her.