Page 163 of Dark Night of the Soul

I ripped off the tactical vest and threw it aside, then tore my shirt over my head, leaving me in nothing but a tank. I didn’t care. I pressed the fabric against his side, holding pressure with shaking hands.

“What do we do?” I demanded.

Ludwig didn’t answer.

His face had gone grim. Pale.

I lifted my gaze to his. “What do we do,” I barked.

“We’re at the safe house,” Ulrich called.

The van screeched to a halt. He was out in a second, doors flying open. The two of them hauled him up between them and out and started for the stairs.

I stumbled up the steps after them, my own pain forgotten.

All I saw was the way Kincade’s head lolled against Ludwig’s shoulder. The way his boots dragged. The way his blood smeared dark across the steps.

They got the door open—Ulrich fumbling with the key to get it in the lock. Then we were in.

They laid him out on the kitchen table—because of course it was the kitchen table, scarred wood and bad lighting and nowhere near sterile enough—and my hands were on him again. Pressing. Holding. Refusing to let go.

“He needs a doctor,” I said. My chest was tight, burning, hot.

“I don’t—” Ulrich started, as if he was going to object.

I let go for one second, turned, and fisted his shirt front in my bloody hands.

“You get a doctor here right now,” I said, low and shaking, “or I will rip you both apart with my bare hands.”

“She… means it.”

This from Kincade behind me.

Ulrich blinked once. Then he was on the phone, making calls—trying to find someone. Anyone. In the dead of night.

Ludwig found kitchen towels to press against his side. But they were quickly turning red.

“You don’t get to die and leave me here,” I said. But his eyes were closed, and I wasn’t sure he heard.

It didn’t matter. I wasn’t moving.

“Anna, you’re bleeding,” Ludwig said.

“I don’t care.”

“You’re going to care when you pass out,” he said.

And the second the words were out of his mouth I swayed on my feet.

Ulrich wrapped a hand around my arm and guided me to a chair. I was lightheaded. Adrenaline. Blood loss. Shock catching up.

I leaned my elbows on my knees, my eyes never leaving his face. The slow rise and fall of his chest. And that fear that he might die lodged deep and hot inside my chest.

Ulrich pressed a towel against my shoulder. Firm pressure. That was all.

“How long?” I asked.

“Five minutes give or take,” he said.