Chapter Eight #2
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Shane
Immediately after leaving Starbucks, I call Ian with the cabin coordinates and address. Unfortunately, the team is over a good four hours out. If we are lucky. Which means I am on my own.
At Target, Talia and I pick up supplies so I can at least sterilize her skin and complete the chip removal as carefully and safely as possible.
Then we lock ourselves in a family bathroom.
Jonah, meanwhile, says he has an errand to run and will meet us back at the spot we left the car in the parking lot, to lead the way to his cabin.
The bathroom is small, but not as tiny as a stall, and there is no chance of anyone walking in on us. Talia hasn’t said a word since we locked ourselves in, and I am too busy giving myself a pep talk about the upcoming surgery to have a conversation.
With shaking hands, I open the bag of supplies and lay a pair of scissors, small razor blade, alcohol, and gauze pads on the counter. Bandages follow.
“I don’t want to do this,” I mutter, not for the first time.
“Come on. You’ve seen bullet wounds, right? It’ll be fine,” she says, her voice about as steady as my hands.
I shake my head, my admiration for her rising exponentially with every passing minute. “You’re badass, Ms. Smarty-Pants.”
She grins. “Desperate times and all that.”
She draws a deep breath and pulls the waistband of her pants down to her knees. Looking down, she pats the muscled area below her hip, near her buttocks. “Son of a bitch. Here.” She grabs my fingertip and presses it against her flesh where a tiny raised area can be felt but not seen.
I nod, breaking into a sweat. Am I really going to do this? I am. I wash my hands with antibacterial soap, then douse the small blade in alcohol.
“Why don’t you sit?” That way, if it hurts, she won’t pass out from a standing position.
Nausea fills me, but I know the faster I work, the better off we’ll both be.
She sits, her side facing me, her hands in tight fists.
“Keep breathing,” I tell her.
She manages a short nod. “Just do it.”
I draw a steadying breath. With the blade, I make a tiny cut, pressing down hard enough to break skin.
She sucks in a breath. Lets out a squeak of pain, her real noises being held back, I know. I swallow a wave of nausea and keep working.
Going on and methodically following Jonah’s instructions, I part the skin and, using sterilized tweezers, dig in. I’m not a surgeon, and I have to dig around more than I like, the soft noises coming from the back of her throat piercing my heart.
“Got it.” Finally I pull out the rice-sized chip, holding it up for her to see before dropping it into the towel I placed on the counter.
“Thank God,” she mutters, tears in her eyes.
I’m not sure how long I worked or how much time has passed. I was only aware of the task in front of me and the sounds of her heavy breathing mixed with my own.
“Okay?” I ask her.
She gives a short nod.
I do my best to close the wound with butterfly strips, determined to get her to a doctor, and probably a tetanus shot and antibiotics, as soon as we are safe.
She ducks her head, pulling in deep breaths, as I turn back to the sink and wash off the blood.
I have a hunch I’ll see that nightmare in my sleep often in the coming days.
I clean up after myself, leaving no trace behind, except what I toss in the trash.
Let the bastards dig through the garbage to find their tracker.
I place a hand on her shaking back. “Hey. Are you really okay?”
She meets my gaze, her eyes glassy and her cheeks flushed, but she manages a nod.
Damn, she is brave. We have to get the hell out of here, but I take a minute to lift her up and pull her into my arms. I need the embrace as much as she does. I’ve never done anything like that on someone I care about, and my stomach is roiling.
“You did good,” I say, not wanting to let her go but knowing we need to leave.
She tips her head back. “You did better.” She grins.
Unable to resist, I kiss her lips. Not for long—we have no time to spare—but I need a taste.
“Take the ibuprofen, and we’ll get on the road.” I press another kiss, this one to her forehead.
She tears open the pain killer we bought and swallow it with water. “Ready.” She takes a step on her foot, wincing as she walks.
I grab my bag, which carries everything, including the formula, wrap an arm around her, and rush out to the car.
We follow Jonah to the cabin in a beat-up Jeep in silence. Talia isn’t in a chatty mood, and I’m not about to push her to talk after what she’s been through.
I don’t mention it to her, but we have a tail a far distance away. I’m not surprised; they’ve obviously had someone on her, and with or without the tracker, they are on to us.
I knew I’d have to deal with whomever is after her at some point. Better to be aware than wondering.
But no matter how you slice it, my team is four hours away by private jet, then they’ll have to take a helicopter to reach the cabin.
We are talking hours before we can possibly feel safe, and though we might all reach the cabin at the same time, there is more of a likelihood I will have to take on at least the guy in the car and whatever backup he’s called on his own.