I wash my hands in the bathroom sink as best I can. The water runs rusty for a second before it clears. I scrub like I’m about to step into an OR, even though I’m about to do this in a dusty bedroom with guns at my back.
When I come back, I pull on gloves. Double up if I can. I lay out gauze. I use alcohol to wipe anything that might touch him. I rip open the suture kit and stare at it like it’s a cruel joke.
I can suture.
I’ve sutured in emergencies under supervision. I’ve assisted. I’ve done wound care that would make most people faint. I even stitched up a stranger in my house before.
But removing a bullet? I swallow hard.
“Duke,” I begin, forcing calm into my voice. “I’m going to change the dressing. It will hurt.”
He nods faintly. One of the men steps closer.
“You make him scream, I’ll make you feel it,” he warns.
I look up at him, eyes steady. “If you want him alive, you let me do my job,” I state, and I’m amazed my voice doesn’t shake. “The rules here and expectations are out of line. You want him to live, I gotta do what I gotta do and it damn sure isn’t gonna feel good you fuckin’ tool.”
The president smiles like he likes the defiance.
“Do what you need to,” Duke tells me. “I’m not going back to prison.”
There is it. I’ve dealt with this in the Emergency Department. People not wanting to give names because they have active warrants and know being reported, like a gunshot wound, leads to lock up.
I peel away the towel slowly. The wound oozes. Not spurting—thank God—but seeping, steady. I press fresh gauze down, applying pressure. Duke groans, teeth clenched.
“Breathe,” I tell him. “In. Out. That’s it.”
My hands move like I’m back in the hospital, like I’m in control.
Except I feel anything but in control.
I’m a nurse in a room as a hostage with a man’s life under my palms and my grandfather’s life somewhere else in someone’s hands.
The president’s voice cuts through the air behind me. “You understand now, peaches?”
I don’t look up. I keep pressure on the wound. “I understand you’re desperate,” I state keeping my voice solid like steel.
He laughs softly. “Desperate enough to make you earn that ride you took on with your Hellion.”
The words twist inside me, hot and humiliating. How do they know about Miles? Who are these men? I clench my jaw. Miles’ face flashes in my mind—the way his eyes soften when he thinks I’m not looking, the way his touch is rough but careful like he’s learning how to hold something precious without breaking it. The way he blinks before he locks his gaze to mine when he comes. The intensity he doesn’t hide from me.
They’re taking me from him. They’re using me like leverage.
It makes me sad. It makes me furious. It makes something hard as iron form in my chest. Because I’m not going to let them write the ending.
Not if I can help it.
I keep working. I clean. I apply pressure. I assess. I try to think through what I can do without killing Duke.
The president leans closer again. “You do this right,” he taunts, “and maybe you get to go home.”
Maybe. The word is a lie dressed as mercy. “And if I don’t?” I ask, because I need him to say it. I need to hear the stakes in his voice so I can measure his cruelty.
He straightens, casual. “Then I kill your granddad,” he smirks. “Then I kill you, but you seem fun. So I’ll play with you first. Share you with my boys.” He pauses, and his smile returns. “And then I go find some other poor nurse who wants to live.”
The room echoes with low laughter again. But this time it doesn’t make me small.
It makes me cold. Because I hear what they’re not saying. They’re not saying they’ll let me live even if I succeed. They’re not saying Grandpa is safe even if I save their brother.
