Am I in the Twilight Zone?
I don’t know what to do with myself as the men work, so I just stand in the kitchen, sipping a glass of water. My thoughts are all over the place. From the excitement of getting to teach the girls at the club, to where in the hell I should take Celia and Rona that will be far enough away. Safe enough from Michael’s reach. Is there such a place? We’ll definitely have to leave the country.
And then I’m back there. At the house the night we escaped.
Celia had risked her own life to help us, so there was no way I was leaving without her. Besides, she’d practically raised Rona from birth since Michael only allowed me limited visits with our daughter, and only as a reward for obedience to him. Rona was attached to her, and I knew Celia loved her back. I wasn’t about to rip away that bond from either of them.
Someone clears their throat and my eyes snap up, bringing me back into the present.
Lenny is standing by the door. “The sink is fixed.”
Gar emerges, walks to the thermostat, and then gives me a thumbs up. I hear the air kick on and a blissful stream of cold air blows down from the vent.
“Just a clogged condensate line. You’re all set,” he says.
“Thank you, gentlemen.”
I move to the door so I can lock it after they leave.
Lenny turns to me. “Can you let Mr. Donnelly know everything’s fixed?”
“Mr. Donnelly?” I ask.Does he know Mac?And then it hits me. The sudden service. The black eye. The fear.Killian.
There’s a lump in my throat as I nod.
I lock the door and then lean my back against it. Did Killian really go find Lenny and make him fix my air conditioning? I puff out a laugh. It was ridiculous. Why would he care? But he did. He must have. Something warm floods my stomach. No one has ever stuck up for me before.
Except Michael. But that was just manipulation.
Was Killian doing the same thing? He’s made it clear he doesn’t like me. So, this actually makes more sense than him doing something to help me.
Whatever warmth I’d felt cooled into a hard rock in my gut. I can’t forget he’s not my friend, and I can’t let my guard down ever again.
***
The buzz of a cellphone brings me out of a nightmare. I’m still half in Michael’s clutches as I blink and try to focus on the text that just came in.
It says:Warehouse. ASAP
Shit.
Tossing off the sheets, I pull on a pair of yoga pants and T-shirt that are laying on top my laundry pile, grab my go-bag,a rolling suitcase of medical supplies I keep packed for these situations, and check the time as I rush down to my car. A little after 2 AM.
Navigating Tampa roads looks much different in the early morning hours. There’s very little traffic, so it only takes me nine minutes to reach the warehouse. Three blacked out Range Rovers sit menacingly in the parking lot. I breathe the damp night air deep into my lungs, blow it out slowly, and roll my bag up to the door, knocking my knuckles against the steel. I’ve been here twice before. I know what I’m going to see. I just don’t know if I’ll be able to unsee it.
An Italian soldier opens the door, his right hand clutching a Glock. He waves me inside with it.
The warehouse is stuffy. The tangy mix of gasoline, body odor and blood hangs in the air. There’s a wall of stacked boxes a few feet in front of me. The soldier leads me around them, and I immediately spot the man hanging by his arms deeper in the warehouse. He’s naked, his face is swollen and streaked with dried blood. By the way his chin is tucked into his chest, I know he’s unconscious.
Three more Italian soldiers mill around him, sweaty and pissed off.
Rocco is making his way down the stairs from the second-floor office and lifts a hand in greeting. We reach the unconscious man at the same time. Rocco’s expression is grave as he rests his hands on his hips, gray eyes dark with intent as they hold mine. “I need this guy to stay alive, Doc.”
I clutch the handle of my roller bag harder. I know what that means. It doesn’t mean stay alive until they set him free. It means stay alive until they get whatever information they need from him.
This is the part of this job that I struggle with as someone who took an oath to do no harm. Patching someone up to stay alive long enough to be tortured more isn’t why I spent eight years in medical school. But I don’t exactly have a choice here. If I refuse to do what they ask of me, I’m of no use to them and will be kicked to the curb. So, I have to look at it like I’m saving my little girl’s life.
I nod. “Understood.” With a sigh, I pull gloves from my roller bag and sweep an assessing gaze over the man’s form as I pull them on. His upper body has obvious signs of trauma, but his thighs and calves are swollen and purple. I pull out a blood pressure cuff and pulse oximeter and approach him.
