18. The Clinic Run
The Clinic Run
Vera
The convoy looks like a military parade that took a wrong turn into mercy.
Three black SUVs. One armored van packed with supplies. Two motorcycles sweeping the intersection ahead like silent scouts.
Neighbors line the sidewalks.
Not cheering.
Watching.
When people in this neighborhood see cars like these, it usually means someone disappears.
Today the doors open and boxes come out instead.
Roman stands beside the lead vehicle, one hand resting on the roof as his men unload crates.
Insulin.
Antibiotics.
Bandages.
Portable oxygen.
The clinic door opens behind me and Sister Marisol freezes mid-step.
Her sharp eyes flick from the convoy to Roman to me.
“Madre de Dios,” she mutters.
“It’s legitimate,” I say quickly. “The corridor is real.”
Her gaze lingers on Roman for a long moment.
Then she nods once.
“Inside,” she barks to the volunteers. “Move before the sun decides to set on our good fortune.”
Boxes move fast once the doors open.
Volunteers carry supplies through the narrow clinic hallways. The air fills with the familiar scents of antiseptic and latex gloves.
The chaos is comforting.
Organized.
Purposeful.
Roman remains near the entrance, watchful, speaking quietly into his earpiece.
He looks like he belongs in a war zone.
Which, technically, he does.
I wash my hands and move straight to the first patient.
Mr. Alvarez.
His cough is worse.
“You brought reinforcements,” he wheezes when he sees the stacked supply crates.
“I brought stubbornness,” I say.
He smiles weakly.
For the next hour, I lose myself in work.
Bandages.
Vitals.
A young mother with a feverish baby.
An elderly woman with a swollen ankle.
A construction worker with a nail through his boot.
I move like muscle memory.
Gauze.
Alcohol swab.
Sutures.
Rebuilding the world one inch of skin at a time.
Roman watches quietly from the doorway.
I can feel his gaze even when I’m focused on stitching.
“You work like the building might collapse if you stop,” he says once when I pass him.
“Sometimes it does,” I reply.
He doesn’t argue.
Outside, children play in the alley.
For a moment, it almost feels normal.
Then the engine revs.
Too loud.
Too fast.
Roman’s head snaps toward the street before I even register the sound.
“Down!” he barks.
The car screams past the corner.
Gunfire erupts.
Sharp.
Explosive.
The windows shatter inward.
People scream.
I don’t think.
A small boy standing near the door freezes in shock.
I dive.
My arms wrap around him and we hit the floor just as bullets tear through the front wall.
Roman moves faster.
His weapon is already out.
Two controlled shots crack through the doorway.
Precise.
Cold.
The car screeches as it swerves away.
More shots echo from Viktor’s team outside.
Then silence.
Smoke drifts through the broken doorway.
The boy in my arms is shaking violently.
“It’s okay,” I whisper.
My hands move automatically—checking limbs, chest, abdomen.
Then my fingers slide across something wet.
Warm.
Too warm.
I pull my hand back.
Blood.
A lot of it.
The boy’s small shirt is soaked near the ribs.
“No,” I breathe.
Roman is suddenly beside me.
“What?”
“He’s hit.”
My hands press against the wound.
“Stay with me,” I whisper urgently.
The boy’s eyes flutter.
Focus slipping.
“Look at me,” I say.
He doesn’t.
His head rolls slightly to the side.
The weight in my arms goes heavier.
My hands come away soaked in red.
And the child’s eyes roll back.