Chapter 16 Danae #3
“He was bleedin’ a lot,” someone says.
“Does he have any medical conditions?” I ask. “Allergies? Medications? Blood thinners?”
The men stare at me like I’m speaking another language. No one answers.
“Anybody know?” I press for more information.
Silence. The injured man’s eyes drift shut.
“Hey,” I say, touching his shoulder. “Stay with me. What’s your name?”
His lips move.
I lean in.
“Duke,” he whispers.
“Duke,” I repeat. “Okay. Duke, I need you to tell me if you have any allergies.”
His eyes flutter. “Penicillin,” he breathes.
Good. Something. “Any medications?”
He shakes his head faintly. “Any conditions?”
“None.” His head droops.
I check his pupils as best I can without a light. I press lightly around the wound, feeling the heat, assessing swelling. I look for an exit wound along his back or abdomen.
Nothing obvious.
The bullet might still be inside. My stomach twists.
A man returns with a plastic bin—like a first aid kit, but larger.
Another brings a grocery bag with bottles clinking inside.
The bag they bring from my car wasn’t my back up medical kit, but my spare change of scrubs bag.
It has toiletries for if I get held over for an additional shift and need to shower at the hospital.
My pen light, stethoscope, pulse oximeter, and other things are in the other bag still in my car.
“This bag doesn’t have my medical supplies. It’s useless.” I inform the room. “What’s in the tub?” They dump it onto the floor beside me: gloves, gauze, tape, rubbing alcohol, peroxide, a cheap suture kit still in packaging, a flashlight, a bottle of ibuprofen, and—God help me—a bottle of whiskey.
“Antibiotics?” I ask.
The president’s mouth tightens. “None.”
“Then he’s at risk for infection,” I explain.
He leans against the doorframe like he’s bored. “Then don’t let him get infected.”
I want to scream. Instead, I breathe. In. Out. Think smart. “You have a thermometer?” I ask.
A man shrugs. “No.”
“Blood pressure cuff?”
“No.”
“Pulse ox?”
Blank stares. Of course.
Fine. I improvise.
I wash my hands in the bathroom sink as best I can. The water runs rusty for a second before it clears. I scrub like I’m about to step into an OR, even though I’m about to do this in a dusty bedroom with guns at my back.
When I come back, I pull on gloves. Double up if I can. I lay out gauze. I use alcohol to wipe anything that might touch him. I rip open the suture kit and stare at it like it’s a cruel joke.
I can suture.
I’ve sutured in emergencies under supervision. I’ve assisted. I’ve done wound care that would make most people faint. I even stitched up a stranger in my house before.
But removing a bullet? I swallow hard.
“Duke,” I begin, forcing calm into my voice. “I’m going to change the dressing. It will hurt.”
He nods faintly. One of the men steps closer.
“You make him scream, I’ll make you feel it,” he warns.
I look up at him, eyes steady. “If you want him alive, you let me do my job,” I state, and I’m amazed my voice doesn’t shake. “The rules here and expectations are out of line. You want him to live, I gotta do what I gotta do and it damn sure isn’t gonna feel good you fuckin’ tool.”
The president smiles like he likes the defiance.
“Do what you need to,” Duke tells me. “I’m not going back to prison.”
There is it. I’ve dealt with this in the Emergency Department. People not wanting to give names because they have active warrants and know being reported, like a gunshot wound, leads to lock up.
I peel away the towel slowly. The wound oozes. Not spurting—thank God—but seeping, steady. I press fresh gauze down, applying pressure. Duke groans, teeth clenched.
“Breathe,” I tell him. “In. Out. That’s it.”
My hands move like I’m back in the hospital, like I’m in control.
Except I feel anything but in control.
I’m a nurse in a room as a hostage with a man’s life under my palms and my grandfather’s life somewhere else in someone’s hands.
The president’s voice cuts through the air behind me. “You understand now, peaches?”
I don’t look up. I keep pressure on the wound. “I understand you’re desperate,” I state keeping my voice solid like steel.
He laughs softly. “Desperate enough to make you earn that ride you took on with your Hellion.”
The words twist inside me, hot and humiliating.
How do they know about Miles? Who are these men?
I clench my jaw. Miles’ face flashes in my mind—the way his eyes soften when he thinks I’m not looking, the way his touch is rough but careful like he’s learning how to hold something precious without breaking it.
The way he blinks before he locks his gaze to mine when he comes. The intensity he doesn’t hide from me.
They’re taking me from him. They’re using me like leverage.
It makes me sad. It makes me furious. It makes something hard as iron form in my chest. Because I’m not going to let them write the ending.
Not if I can help it.
I keep working. I clean. I apply pressure. I assess. I try to think through what I can do without killing Duke.
The president leans closer again. “You do this right,” he taunts, “and maybe you get to go home.”
Maybe. The word is a lie dressed as mercy. “And if I don’t?” I ask, because I need him to say it. I need to hear the stakes in his voice so I can measure his cruelty.
He straightens, casual. “Then I kill your granddad,” he smirks. “Then I kill you, but you seem fun. So I’ll play with you first. Share you with my boys.” He pauses, and his smile returns. “And then I go find some other poor nurse who wants to live.”
The room echoes with low laughter again. But this time it doesn’t make me small.
It makes me cold. Because I hear what they’re not saying. They’re not saying they’ll let me live even if I succeed. They’re not saying Grandpa is safe even if I save their brother.
They’re saying do it or die. While this very well might be do it and still die.
Which means my survival isn’t in their plan. So I need a plan of my own. I glance around the room while my hands keep moving. I catalog details like I’m building a map in my head.
There’s a window behind the covered sheet—maybe nailed shut, maybe not. There’s a dresser with drawers half-open. There’s a door to the hallway. Three men in the room with me and the victim, one with a gun, one with arms crossed. I don’t have a count of the men on the other side of the door.
The president moves to stand in the doorway, watching.
Others in the hall, I can hear them shifting, murmuring. No easy exits. But exits aren’t always doors.
Sometimes they’re time. Sometimes they’re opportunity. Sometimes they’re mistakes.
I focus on Duke.
If he crashes, they’ll panic. If they panic, they’ll move. If they move, someone will slip. Letting him suffer goes against everything I have been trained to do. I took an oath to do no harm. Can I do this?
My stomach turns with the ugliness of it, but I can’t afford morals right now. Not with Grandpa’s face known by these men. Not with Miles out there, probably tearing up highways, probably blaming himself, probably furious enough to burn down the world.
I press a new bandage into place.
Duke’s breathing is still fast, but he’s more present now, eyes cracked open.
“Duke,” I whisper, low enough the men might not catch it. “Do you know where your people took my grandfather?”
His eyes flicker, confused. “What?” he rasps.
I shake my head slightly, a warning not to answer if it’s dangerous. Never mind.
Think smart.
One step at a time. I look up at the president, meeting his gaze for the first time since we entered the room.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
His eyebrows lift like he’s entertained.
“You don’t get to know my name.”
“I need to call you something,” I state evenly. “If you want me to help your brother, I need communication.”
He smiles wider. “Call me whatever you want. You wanna call me Daddy, I won’t complain, Peaches.”
My stomach rolls in disgust. I nod slowly trying to keep my composure. “Fine,” I retort. “Then I’ll call you President.”
A few men chuckle.
The president’s eyes sharpen, but he doesn’t correct me. Power likes to be known and acknowledged.
“President,” I begin, keeping my tone clinical, “if you want him alive, I need to know if the bullet is lodged or if it passed through. I need to know if anyone saw the trajectory.”
“No one saw shit,” someone snaps.
“Then we’re guessing,” I state. “Guessing can kill him.”
The president steps into the room, closer now. “You ain’t here to make excuses,” he replies sharply. “You’re here to make it work.”
I stare at him, letting my fear show just enough to look real, not enough to look weak. “I’m here to keep him alive,” I state. “But you need to understand—if he starts vomiting blood, if his belly turns rigid, if he can’t breathe, he’s dying. And I can’t fix that in a house.”
The president’s jaw tightens.
“He ain’t dying,” he states like it’s a command.
I nod once. “Then help me to help your brother.”
His gaze drops to my hands, to the blood on the gloves. “You got five minutes,” he orders. “Then you start digging for that bullet.”
My stomach flips.
“Five minutes isn’t—”
He leans in, voice low and deadly. “It is,” he says. “Or I make a call.”
My throat closes. I look back at Duke. His eyes are on me, hazy but aware. I can’t tell if he’s scared of dying or scared of what his own people are doing.
Maybe both.
I take a slow breath and steady my hands. If I have to do this, I do it as safely as I can. I ask for clean towels. I ask for the flashlight. I ask for someone to boil water—anything to increase sterility even a fraction.
They move, grumbling, but they move.
Because they want him alive. Because they want to believe they have some sense of control.
As I prep, my mind keeps reaching for Miles like a lifeline I’m not allowed to touch. Miles, with his rough hands and his steady gaze. Miles, who promised—without even saying it—that if I ever needed him, he’d show up. Miles, who is probably tearing up the world right now trying to find me.
The thought makes my eyes sting. Anger burns hot behind it. These men took me from him. From Grandpa. From Josie, Justice, and little Journey. From my life. From my future.
And they’re calling it necessity like it makes them righteous. I set my jaw. I don’t know how I’m getting out of here. But I know one thing with the same certainty I know how to start an IV in the dark, and I’m not dying in this room.
Not while I still have air in my lungs. Not while Grandpa might still be alive. Not while Miles might still be riding toward me.
I lean toward Duke, voice steady. “Okay,” I tell him. “Stay with me. I’m going to do everything I can, but it’s gonna hurt.”
Then, quieter, just for myself, I add the only promise that matters.
And I’m going to get home.