Page 97 of Guarding Bristol
“The doctor,” he ordered, not giving a shit about what she was saying.“I wanna talk to the doctor.”
An annoyed frown appeared above the bridge of her nose covered by the surgical mask, but she nodded.“I’ll go get him.”
The surgeon entered the room, still dressed in scrubs.“How are you feeling?”
“Well?”Jordan demanded.“What happened?”
He hesitated, and Jordan’s heart plummeted.“What?”he snapped.
“I did what I could to repair the bones and joint surfaces and stop the bleeding.A neurosurgeon was able to repair the radial nerve.”
He remembered him naming three before.“And the other two?”
“He did his best.But it’s unlikely that the medial and ulnar nerves will heal.And it’s also unlikely that you’ll ever regain full range of motion in that shoulder.You were lucky we could save the arm at all.”
A cold sweat broke out across his skin.“What does that mean?”he rasped out.
“It means you’ve lost function in your arm and hand.”
“It’s...permanent?”
“Yes, in all likelihood.I’m sorry.”
Sorry?Sweat beaded his face, his heart racing out of control.“I’ll have more surgeries.I’ll find someone else who can actually fuckingfixme.”
Those steel blue eyes chilled to chips of ice.“You’re welcome to try.But it’s not likely to change your prognosis.”He straightened, his expression dismissive.“My staff will take care of the billing before you leave.Best of luck to you.”
Jordan was left lying there, helpless, while a chaotic tornado of emotion tore through him.Denial.Rage.Bitterness.Hatred.
Jon was dead.Barros and Angel, probably.But he wasn’t certain.He needed to be certain.Needed to fix this mess.
He glanced down at his bandaged arm, felt a wave of terror and grief break over him.Paralyzed.Never able to play the piano again.Never hold a phone or a glass of whiskey.Or wipe his own fucking ass with it.
And now that he was a liability, the cartel would come for him.
His only chance was to leave everything behind.Escape the country and start over somewhere else.Live out the rest of his days a hunted man, always looking over his shoulder, caught between the cartel and the US government.
He opened his mouth, let out an enraged scream that echoed off the terrifyingly sterile white walls surrounding him like a tomb.
When it faded, exhaustion hit.He listened to the beeping of the instruments.The sound of the pump working quietly near his head.
Jordan startled when the door opened.His heart seized, a wave of terror washing over him when a man stepped inside.
The man walked up to his bedside.Stood there for a long moment staring down at him with cold, black eyes.“You don’t look so good, Jordan.”
Jordan swallowed convulsively, the monitor next to him beeping faster along with his galloping heart.He wished he was hallucinating, that this was just because of the drugs.But the ice spreading through his veins told him otherwise.
How the fuck had the head of the cartel found him here?
That awful black stare continued to bore into his.“We’ve got an unfortunate situation here, Jordan.You and I both know there’s only one way this can go.”He glanced down at Jordan’s bandaged arm.Shook his head and made atskingsound that was completely devoid of empathy.“Damned shame.But lucky for you, your other one still works.”
Before Jordan’s terror-stricken brain could process that, his boss reached up and placed something on Jordan’s lap.“It’s your choice, of course.”His dispassionate expression made Jordan’s guts congeal.“You’ve got fifteen minutes to do the right thing, or we handle it for you.”He walked out, the door closing behind him with a metallic click that seemed to echo through the cold room.
Jordan stared at the thing on his lap, a sense of dread taking hold as he picked it up in his fingers, feeling like he was in a waking nightmare.
A plastic baggie full of pills.A hysterical laugh snagged in his throat, escaping as a strangled sound.
Fentanyl.
