Talia’s exactly where I left her, silhouette tense in the doorway. She doesn’t speak when I return, just looks at my arm with those amber eyes, already calculating.
“Inside.”
The factory’s break room still has intact windows, blacked out with years of grime. Perfect. No one can see in, but enough streetlight filters through to work by. I flip a dusty table upright, test its stability. Good enough.
My go-bag hits the table with a thud. Medical supplies always packed on top—lesson learned in Syria. Bandages, sutures, forceps. Morphine I won’t use because it’ll make me useless. Local anesthetic that might help. Antibiotics to prevent the infection that kills more operators than bullets.
I check the windows again. The doors. Then, once more, because my focus is sliding, and paranoia keeps you alive.
Finally, I can’t delay any longer. I sink into a metal chair that creaks but holds. The adrenaline’s fading, leaving behind a deep, throbbing agony that pulses with my heartbeat. My jacket peels away, sticky with blood. The shirt underneath is ruined, dark red from shoulder to wrist.
Talia’s breath catches—a small, sharp inhale. Her hand rises toward the wound, then stops.
“Not as bad as it looks.” I cut the shirt away with my knife, exposing the wound. Neat entry hole in the bicep, no exit. The bullet’s lodged against bone, sending fire through my entire arm with each movement. “Though it’s not great either.”
She moves to my side, hands hovering uncertainly. Then her jaw sets with determination. She points at the medical supplies, then at me. A question without words.
“Ever removed a bullet before?”
Her eyes widen. She shakes her head.
“I’ll talk you through it.”
She stares at the forceps, then at me, then back at the forceps. Her hand moves toward her pocket where her phone would be—hospital, ambulance, normal person response. I catch her wrist.
“No hospitals. Mandatory reporting. Phoenix has people everywhere.”
She processes this, then nods. Once. Decisive.
“Wash your hands. Sanitizer’s in the bag.”
She does, her movements careful and thorough. Watching her shift from theoretical to visceral, from analyst to field medic, amazes me. Makes me hard. There is nothing sexier than a brilliant woman adapting to the impossible. Her face sets with the same focus I’ve seen when she’s working through data.
“Gloves.” I nod at the box.
She snaps them on, and something changes in her posture. Armor on. Ready.
“Clean it first. Saline, then Betadine.”
She uncaps the saline, hesitates for a moment, then pours. Ice and fire. I lock my jaw, breathing through my nose. She works carefully, leaning close enough that I smell vanilla through the blood and antiseptic. Her free hand rests on my shoulder—steadying herself or me, maybe both.
The Betadine comes next, painting my skin rust-orange. Each touch sends lightning through the nerves, but there’s something else. Her fingertips are gentle against undamaged skin. The careful way she holds my arm is arresting.
Like I matter.
“The bullet’s not deep.” I examine the wound as best I can. “Maybe an inch in. Probe with the forceps, find it, grip firmly, pull straight out.”
She picks up the forceps, takes a breath. Looks at me. I nod.
She inserts the tips.
Agony whites out my vision. I grip the chair with my good hand, knuckles white, breathing harsh. She doesn’t apologize, doesn’t narrate; just works with implacable concentration. Her face inches from mine, completely focused.
A strand of hair escapes the Angel Fire hat, brushing her cheek. Even through the pain, I want to tuck it back behind her ear.
Her gaze flicks to mine. She’s found it.
“Grab and pull,” I manage through clenched teeth.
