Dax clearly aimed to burn with that comment.
Ben visibly flinches and he flicks his eyes toward the wall giving me a welcome reprieve from his laser-beam stare.
“Ben, if Jules had done what you said and minded her own business, Tom would be dead. You weren’t there to save him. She was, and I, for one, am glad she was there. So, from now on, we will address her with respect. Is that clear?” Ben nods feebly, Dax continues, “If I think there’s anything you need to know, I will tell you. It is not your place to question her.”
“Yes, Sir.”
The atmosphere shifts; the air growing awkward and tense. I press my back into the chair and feel the reassuring brush of Dax’s thumb against my shoulder blade.
“Sir,” Aiden breaks the silence, pressing the earpiece deeper into his ear, listening to someone at the other end. “The surgeon is here.”
“Let him in. Jules, do you wish to stay or go home now?”
“Um…I’d like to know how it went…”
“Of course.”
The surgeon enters, haggard and worn from hours in surgery.His scrubs are stained, his elastic cap sits askew, black tufts of hair peek out beneath it. He pulls it off as he enters and then stops in the middle of the room, looking at each of us. He gravitates to Dax, recognising his status and shuffles on his feet.
“Well? You were about to tell me how it went,” Dax reminds him.
“The surgery went as well as could be expected. He was weak and his stats were on the floor when he arrived, but we got those to climb once we repaired the damage to his stomach and the internal bleed. He will remain in intensive care until we see a significant improvement in him, but these first twenty-four hours are critical.”
“He might not survive?” Sylvie snaps, pushing herself so far forward in her seat she risks falling off.
The doctor sucks in a deep breath before he speaks. He tries to avoid eye contact with Sylvie, but Dax’s stares boldly until the surgeon turns back to him. I watch the man squirm as he speaks, once again ignoring everyone else in the room.
“There’s the possibility that he sustained too much damage from blood loss.” His words are almost a question. Does he lack confidence, or does he fear relating the information to Dax? There is no doubt of who holds the power in the conversation when the surgeon gifts it to Dax.
“Was it my fault?” I blurt. Dax shakes his head and lowers his outstretched arm to take my hand. He squeezes it.
The surgeon bothers to look at me for the first time since entering the room. I get the feeling my presence is a surprise. “Are you the one who found him?”
“Yes.”
“You probably saved his life.” He speaks without emotion, but I’m overwhelmed with relief. I slump into my seat and allow a breath out.
“The ballistic trauma resulted from two close contact gunshot wounds. The first bullet travelled through in a sharply diagonal trajectory that narrowly missed most vital organs but causedsubstantial blood loss and a rupture to the stomach. We irrigated the possible contamination to the peritoneum and closed up the tear. The second gunshot to his shoulder will have detrimental effects on the mobility of the arm. He may need further surgeries to repair potential damage. When he arrived, he was presenting with stage four hypovolemic shock. We have him on a ventilator. He’s been given a transfusion and IV antibiotics, but trauma like this—”
“You think he might not wake up? At all? Ever?” Sylvie interrupts again, jumping to the worst conclusion.
“We need to wait. We won’t know the extent of the blood loss damage to his organs and systems for a while. We are monitoring him closely.” The surgeon’s response sounds practised and insincere.
The room falls quiet as everyone takes in what the surgeon has said. Dax slices through the silence with a question that has us all turning our heads. “How long until he is safe to move?” I wonder whether he listened at all or perhaps he just doesn’t believe things are as bad as they sound?
“Ex-excuse me?” The surgeon stutters, shaking his head. “No. You need to understand, moving him now is far too dangerous. He is in a critical—”
“Yes, I heard all that and, of course, I’ll wait twenty-four hours to see how he does, but I want him moved. I don’t know who did this yet and, until I’ve found them, I want to know he is safe.” Dax isn’t seeking permission. My presumptions were wrong. He knows exactly how serious things are and will do whatever he needs to keep Tom safe.
“I honestly can’t advise you on that, Mr Nagano. Perhaps we would be better discussing this once Tom shows definite signs of improvement?” the surgeon urges, his eyes wide and palms held out in a halting gesture.
“Fine,” Dax concedes. “Until then, he needs to be guarded and monitored around the clock.”
“We simply don’t have space or the staff—”
“My men will stay with him, and I will send a private nurse,but I expect you to work with her seamlessly, do you understand?” Whether the surgeon understands, he nods, and I nod along with him. The authority that rolls off Dax is heavy and intimidating. The soft, oblanceolate curve of his eyes becomes sharp and penetrating when he narrows them. His thick pouted lips thin as he rolls them inward with a frown. He is two different men; the soft, kind, and funny one, and the sharp, determined one. I like the first and have a fearful admiration of the other.
“Good. Then I’ll let you make arrangements with your hospital’s administrators. Alex, go with him and report back to me when it is done.” The door guard secures the strap across his holstered gun and adjusts the radio clip in his ear. He gives a small nod and jerks his head toward the door for the surgeon to follow. Hurrying out of the waiting room without so much as a squeak, I sense the surgeon is relieved to go.
