Even though I can’t imagine how anything survived a controlled crash landing that tore apart a steel jet, within a few minutes he’s collected a promising pile of supplies; a black tactical bag he’d stored behind the pilot’s seat, part of a first aid kit with bandages and some medical equipment, some bottles of water, blankets, and a jug of amber liquid that I’m guessing is scotch, based on the reverent way he’s holding it.
While he claims he’s not hurt, his sweater’s torn with an ugly red streak across his chest, and one sleeve is ripped off, showing a detailed sleeve of tattoos marred with bloody cuts. He cleans himself up with quick, precise movements that tell me it’s not the first time he’s had to patch his own injuries.
“Here-” I scoot a little closer, “let me fix your forehead, you can’t see it.” He silently hands me the first aid kit. Once I’ve got his cut cleaned up and held together with some butterfly closure strips, I look over his shoulder and nearly pass out. “You’ve-” I cover my mouth; I can’t throw up. Not now.
He twists, trying to look, and winces. “What is it?”
“There’s a… you’ve got a piece of metal sticking out of your back.” I dry heave and I’m so angry at myself for being such a wimp.
“It’s okay, I can get it.” He smiles reassuringly, which makes me feel like an even bigger asshole.
“No! No, I can do it. Turn around.” The metal shard drove down just under his shoulder into the skin. I can see the razor-sharp tip of the other end poking out about six inches down. “How can you not be screaming about this?” I ask, “This looks incredibly painful.”
“Adrenaline. You’d be surprised how long it can take to feel an injury.”
“It sounds like you speak from experience,” I say. “Give me the gauze. Do we have any more rubbing alcohol?”
“Nah, but we have somethin’ better.” He picks up the jug of whiskey and drinks three big gulps before handing it back to me.
“You know, I thought they just did that whole booze thing in the movies,” I babble, trying to work up my nerve. “Just sit very still, please. I’m going to pull it straight up, just the way it went in. Hopefully, I won’t cause any more damage.”
“You’re doin’ fine.”
How can he sound so calm and reassuring? He’s the one with the metal sticking out of his back!
“Okay… okay… okay… here we go. Ready?” Gritting my teeth, I pull on the metal shard and to his credit, he doesn’t move a muscle, even though it must hurt like hell. At first, the skin around it stretches out grotesquely, like it’s going to hang onto the jagged bit of metal, then it slowly slides out, sending another stream of blood down his back.
“Splash the whiskey on the cut and then pack it with the gauze,” he says, maybe gritting his teeth just a bit.
“I’m sorry!” I moan, flinching as I pour the alcohol over the bleeding cuts and quickly press the bandage against it. I’m praying it stops because I don’t think we have any more steri-strips. After plastering piece after piece of gauze over his back, blood stops blooming on the fabric and I sag in relief. “I’m gonna tape this in place, I’ve almost got it.” He takes the whiskey, getting another swallow or two before I pull it away. “Give me that. I should have had some before to steady my nerves but no time like-”
My first swallow burns down my throat like a stream of lava and I drop the jug.
“Careful.” He grabs the booze before it spills over the rocks. “This is the strong stuff.” Shuffling around, he eyes me with amusement. “Ya okay, then?”
“I think my esophagus is melting,” I wheeze.
“Eh, you’ll be fine.” He pats my cheek and stands up with a groan. “It’s gettin’ dark. Temperatures in the Cairngorms drop like a rock when the sun sets. We need a fire.” He looks over at what’s left of the cockpit. “That’s likely our best shelter for the night. We’re lucky the fuel tanks didn’t rupture. Pile all the blankets in there while I gather some wood.”
“Wait!” I’m following him like an anxious duckling. “Won’t somebody be coming soon? You got a message out about the crash, right? What country are we in?”
He grins rakishly, a flash of white teeth in the dark of his beard. “Well, the good news is that we made it to Scotland. The bad news is, we’re in the steepest mountain range and a hundred miles from civilization.”
Chapter Twelve
In which we learn that summer camp is not adequate preparation for getting lost in the mountains.
Sloan…
I wish he’d stopped at the good news part. My outdoor experience was limited to summer camp, where they had valets to carry our luggage, and the most outdoorsy I’d gotten was brushing and grooming my horse and a single night out under the stars at the end of the season. They didn’t even trust us to build the campfire.
Huddling in the makeshift shelter of the cockpit, I watch Ethan quickly gather wood to build a fire. “Sloan, see if ya can find any food. I’ll need to get enough wood to last us the night.”
“I’ll try,” I say, looking dubiously at the wreckage. The stink of jet fuel is still eye-watering near the wings, but they’re far enough away to risk the campfire. The jet’s galley kitchen had been ripped into three pieces and I travel between them, picking up two bottles of champagne. “Well, that’s useless,” I mumble. I hit the jackpot on the third piece of wreckage, I find the little fridge; it’s heavily dented but still intact.
Piling everything in a blanket, I drag it back to the cockpit. My ribs are screaming in agony, but I have to prove to Ethan that I’m capable of doing something to help keep us alive.
Though, this is all his fault, really. If he hadn’t kidnapped me, I’d be back in Naples, safe and sound and he’d be off conducting meetings or murders or whatever his mafia does.
