A chunk of concrete sails toward my feet, followed by another, and another. They’re bloody. Why are they bloody?
Darkness creeps closer, and the silence terrifies me. “Tell my mom… Austin? Tell her… I’m sorry.”
He grabs my shoulders, terror clouding his eyes, and I think he’s shouting at me. I can almostfeelit. But I can’t fight any longer.
The light fades away, and with it, the pain.
* * *
My fingers are clenchedso hard, they ache. It’s still quiet, only a dull hum somewhere in the background.
Forcing my eyes open, I see nothing but muted beige walls.
Hospital.
I need to find Pritchard. But when I try to sit up, my left arm sends white hot pain racing all the way up my shoulder. I can’thearthe sound I make, but I’d guess it’s not that different from someone strangling a duck.
The door flies open, and a man in blue scrubs races in. He rests a hand on my right arm and holds me down until I can breathe again. “You…made your point. Not moving,” I manage.
Every word I can’t hear raises my panic another dozen notches, but what sends me over the edge? Catching sight of my left arm.
And the thick bandage wrapped from the top of my bicep to a few inches above where my elbowshould be.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
The man hovering over me shimmers as I fight not to lose my shit completely. He picks up a small whiteboard and starts scribbling. I don’t want to read it, but I have to.
“I’m Dr. Winster. Both your eardrums were perforated.”
“My arm…”
I don’t give a shit about my ears. Not when I’mmissing half my left arm.
The doctor erases the board and starts over as I force myself to breathe.
“Tourniquet above your elbow stopped you from bleeding out, but your arm was crushed, and with no blood flow, we couldn’t save it. I’m sorry.”
I’m fucked. Completely and utterly fucked.
“Surgery went well. You’re a good candidate for a prosthetic.”
At the moment, a prosthetic is the least of my concerns. “I can feel my hand. And it hurts like a motherfucker.”
“Typical. Phantom pain. The specialist will come see you in a couple of hours. He’ll give you some tricks to try to manage it.”
“And my hearing? How long?”
Winster writes slower than a turtle, but at least his handwriting is legible. His eyes darken, and a furrow deepens between his brows. “Not just your eardrums. I’m sorry, Griffin. The hearing loss may be permanent.”
If I had anything to throw, I’d lob it hard enough to punch a hole in the wall. Winster rests his hand on my right shoulder for a long moment, but I can’t meet his gaze. Don’t want to.
What the hell am I supposed to do now?
* * *
The hazefrom the painkillers is pissing me off. All I want to do is sleep, but no one will tell me a damn thing about Pritchard, the rest of our team, or the Ambassador and her kid.
In the few hours I’ve been awake, I’ve at least pieced together a rough timeline. The attack occurred at 1600. I was in surgery until 0400, and the clock on the wall currently reads 14:30.
