“You save them,” the first guard says tightly.
I glance up at him flatly.
“With what?”
He throws a medical bag onto the table beside me.
Not terrible supplies.
Not enough either.
“You save.”
I open the bag anyway.
Because no matter who these men are—
I’m still a doctor.
And that’s both my greatest strength and my greatest weakness.
Outside, another explosion shakes the warehouse hard enough to rattle dust from the ceiling beams.
One of the injured men curses sharply in Arabic.
The younger guard near the doorway looks nervous now.
Good.
Nervous people make mistakes.
I move carefully while cleaning the abdominal wound.
No anesthesia.
No proper equipment.
The injured man nearly bites through a leather strap while I work.
“You’re lucky,” I mutter quietly.
His glare sharpens.
“I do not feel lucky.”
Fair again.
Another burst of gunfire erupts outside.
Closer this time.
The guards exchange quick looks.
Something’s changing out there.
The firefight is moving toward us.
My pulse kicks harder.
