Once the lower edge is pulled up, I see a piece of metal sticking into him right above the waistband of his jeans. “Oh, my God. You’ve got something cutting into you.”
His hand reaches back and grabs the metal shard.
“Wait!”
My command registers too late. Instinct causes him to pull the jagged piece out. Blood sprays from the wound.
Oh, God.That’s a lot of blood. You need to stop it fast.
“Stay still.” I shove his t-shirt against the wound and press hard.
He sucks air through his clenched teeth. The pressure is painful.
“I’m sorry. I have to do it.” Looking down, I examine his skin. The pressure I’m applying has temporarily stopped the bleeding. “Call an ambulance.”
“An ambulance? Nah.”
“This cut needs to be explored and stitched.”
His tongue parts his dry lips, moistening them. “We’ll go to the ER, but I’ll drive.”
“You’re not driving. I can’t hold pressure if we’re in your truck. And what if you get lightheaded? Ambulance, definitely. If you won’t call, I will.”
“Arya—”
“Hey, daughter of a trauma surgeon here. Also, I can see this wound, and you can’t. Call please, or I will.”
He looks annoyed at being told what to do but drags his mobile out. It actually serves two purposes because he can also report the bomb.
“I think the bomb detonated wrong,” I say. “Shouldn’t it have either exploded when I touched it or waited to explode until we opened it? It looked like a mail bomb. It shouldn’t have gone off from just being moved, right? Or it would’ve exploded during the mail sorting and delivery process.”
“Yeah. Unless he’s watching from a distance and detonated it when we got close to it.”
“Oh, right.” Looking around sharply, I try to figure out where Casanova could wait unseen.
Sirens blare, growing closer, and Erik glances in their direction and then toward the door.
“I want to look at the remnants.”
“Should we get close? What if there’s something else?”
“Stay here.” He doesn’t wait for my agreement before he walks away.
Scowling with concern, I watch him stride over to the site. At least the ambulance is on its way because if he passes out, there is no way I’ll be able to lift him.
Within minutes, police, firefighters, and paramedics are all on the scene. When the EMTs see blood has soaked the bottom of his shirt down to his jeans’ pocket, they move quickly.
“Arya, come on,” he calls. Slamming the truck’s back hatch closed, he waits for me, resisting the medic’s attempts to get him in the back of the ambulance.
I jog over. “I could’ve followed in the truck.”
“With me, come on.” He steps into the ambulance and lifts me inside.
Giving the paramedic an apologetic look, I say, “Where should I stand to be out of your way?”
“It’s all right,” the man says, moving a seat so I can sit next to him.
“Can you look at the wound?” I ask. “It might need a dressing now.”
