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“The doctor?” he said, his brow furrowed with confusion. If I didn’t have a man bleeding out on the floor, I’d have to laugh.
“That’s right, you sod. You thought I just magically knew how to stitch you up? That everyone just walks around with that kind of innate knowledge?”
I yanked my arm out of his grip and tugged on the gloves. This time, he didn’t stop me.
Time seemed to slow down as I leaned over the wounded man, took hold of his hip, and turned him partially onto his side, looking for exit wounds.
There were none. Both bullets were lodged inside him.
“Bloody hell,” I muttered under my breath as I laid him back carefully.
I grabbed packets of gauze and compressed both wounds, thinking.
“How far are we from a hospital?” I asked, turning to look up at my captor.
He pressed his lips together, silent. Of course, he wouldn’t offer up that information easily.
I huffed before I automatically schooled my face to professional composure. “If you want him to survive, I need to know how far,” I said, meeting his eyes with all the cool, clinical detachment I could muster. “The choice is yours.”
“Two and a half hours,” he said, his gaze never leaving mine like he was watching to see what my brain would do with that knowledge.
If either bullet had hit anything vital, my patient didn’t have that kind of time. I’d have to retrieve the bullets.
“Do you have more than one medical kit?” I asked my captor.
He nodded.
“Get it.” I spoke with the same calm and confidence I would have used to direct anyone in the hospital. And as much as they hated me there, my clinical assurance conveyed to everyone in the room that I had complete control and the ability to manage any situation that arose. It was no different tonight.
My captor nodded at the big, bald man who was still on his knees across from me, hovering over my patient. He got up and strode out of the room without a word, presumably to retrieve more medical supplies.
I grabbed the bottle of antiseptic from the kit and carefully cleansed the area around the wounds.
“What’s your name?” I asked my patient as I readied the anesthetic syringe. I didn’t often make small talk, but these were extenuating circumstances. I was going to have to operate with this man wide awake.
“Aurelio Carbone,” he said. His face was so pale, the deep lines of pain stood out in sharp contrast.
“I’m going to help you, Aurelio,” I said, “but I have no way to put you under right now. The anesthetic–” I held up the syringe. “–will numb the area. You’ll feel no pain, but you will still feel tugging and pressure,” I explained. “It will feel very odd.”
Aurelio nodded while I checked his pulse.
“I’ll need you to do your best to stay very still. Can you do that?”
He tried to nod, but it made him flinch. “I’ll do my best,signorina.”
I nodded, then turned away, running through a mental checklist of items I’d need.
“I need a torch or a cell phone light,” I said to the man from the room with the monitors. “Hold it on an angle from above, but not directly over the wound.” It was the best I could do to keep the area clear of contamination.
Then I looked around at the remaining faces, searching for the calmest one. Not surprisingly, it was my captor’s face that looked the most composed. Those amber eyes were worried, but his expression was calm, a calm that communicated itself to the men who were watching him.
“I need you to keep the surgical site clear,” I told him. “Stay on the other side of him, put on gloves, and be ready with gauze when I say.”
I looked back down, not waiting for his response. He was either going to help me or he wasn’t.
Fortunately, he moved around my patient, dropped down to his knees next to him, and retrieved a pair of gloves from the medical kit.
At the same time, the big, bald man reappeared from the hallway, and he placed a duplicate of the first medical kit down next to me.
