"I…" I had trailed off with a groan as she had indicated for the goons to tilt me onto my side while she stapled my exit wound shut, irrigated it, applied a salve, and taped a clean bandage over it. "Fuck me, ouch. I do not blame you, doctor. I understand how Pugli operates."
She did not staple or suture the entry wound, only cleaned it out and applied the same salve and a clean bandage. "You will be fine. Movement will cause discomfort for quite some time, but so long as you are cautious, you are in no danger."
"Assuming I survive him," I tilt my head toward Pugli, "How long till I'm back to normal?"
"Easy and gentle movements within two weeks. Three months as a rule for total healing."
"Treat a lot of gunshot wounds as a vet, do you?"
She rolled her eyes at me. "I was a medic in Kosovo. Now I treat animals. They do not curse me for saving them. People are ungrateful."
"Well, I am grateful," I said. "Thank you."
She'd snorted. "I am afraid if he has his way, I have fixed you only so that he may kill you later."
"I am aware," I said. "But he has his plans, and I have mine."
She'd nodded as if I'd said something particularly sage. "Do not we all have our own plans, hmm?"
She'd tossed a glance over her shoulder: the goons were engaged in a shouting match over what sounded like someone cheating, and Pugli was on the far end of the building having a conversation of whispered intensity in rapid-fire French.
“I was a doctor of people first,” she said. “I took the Hippocratic Oath, which means honor demands I must help you. I can do nothing about his intentions for you, and I do not have to like any of this, but I cannot let my cousin die. What can I do, hmm?"
"I understand. Really. Pugli is a master of manipulating situations to his advantage. You are doing all you can."
Another shrug. "Perhaps." Another surreptitious look around, and then she presses a pill against my lips. "Here. Swallow. For the pain."
I press my lips together. "I was a heroin addict, many years ago. I do not like opiates."
"I only can offer you acetaminophen, then, which will help only a small amount."
"Better than nothing and better than a relapse. It is unlikely, I admit, but I refuse to take that chance."
"With such things, the pain is a better demon to face." She pressed several med kit-sized packages into my hand. "Every few hours."
"Thank you, doctor."
"Do not thank me." She pressed something else into my hand. "My card. If you should need further…repairs, on a cash basis. You understand?"
"Yes." A pause. "Your name?"
"Doctor Petra Georgieva."
"I am Jakob."
A glance at Pugli had her features hardening; she gathered her things and rose to her feet, accepting a thick envelope from Pugli before departing.
Once she was gone, they had—-again, none too gently—wrestled me onto a folding chair, zip-tying my wrists and ankles to the chair in such a way that I am unable to move. I had managed to vanish the card and Tylenol into a hip pocket before they bound me to the chair. How I'm going to get a hand loose to take the meds, I'm not sure.
That's a problem for later.
For now, the problem facing me is the pounding agony rippling through my torso. For "just a soft tissue wound," it hurts like a bitch.
Throbbing, throbbing, throbbing. The blood loss has me dizzy and weak. The pain is making me nauseated and, frankly, angry. The more time that passes, the angrier I get.
The goons play cards. Pugli paces and jabbers on his three cell phones. I suffer.
An hour passes. Two.
