Page 59 of Duty Devoted
“What the fuck?” I dropped to my knees beside her, combat medical training kicking in. “When did this happen?”
“During the fight.” Her voice was steady despite the pain etched on her face. “The guy got a shot off. It’s just a graze, but it won’t stop bleeding.”
“And you didn’t tell me?” Fury and fear tangled in my chest as I carefully lifted the blood-soaked cloth. The wound was a deep graze along her ribs, worse than she’d admitted. The bullet had carved a furrow through skin and muscle. “I’ve been pushing you for miles with a gunshot wound?”
“We had to keep moving.” She winced as I probed the edges of the damage. “You said it yourself—stopping would get us killed.”
She was right, but that didn’t stop the rage at myself for missing this. I was supposed to protect her, supposed to notice when she was hurt. Instead, I’d been so focused on speed that I’d failed to see what was right in front of me.
And more than that, it had been because I’d been trying to create distance between us after last night. Unacceptable on every count.
I crouched down and cupped her cheek. “I’m sorry. I wish you would’ve told me, but regardless, I should’ve noticed.”
I should’ve known right away when she was dragging that it was something serious, not just her being lazy at the most critical moment.
“We made it. That’s the most important thing. And this wound isn’t critical. I’m not a martyr. I would’ve told you if it were more serious.” Her smile was tight, trying to reassure me. “But I’m not going to make it to the safe house without help. I don’t even think I can get up without help.”
My plan had been to use speed and evasive maneuvers to get around town, maybe even circle to the opposite side. That wasn’t an option now. We needed to get her to the safe house, off her feet, and get this wound cleaned. The blood was…
—blood pouring out of James’s neck, all over my hands. Blood on the concrete, blood fucking everywhere?—
No. I pushed the memory back. Not now. We could not afford for me to have some sort of psychotic crack right now.
I cleared my throat. “We’re not far from the safe house. We’ll keep to the shadows. Sun is almost down, so that will help.”
“Okay. I’ll make it.”
We couldn’t get spotted because if we did, we were fucked. She had no more running left in her. The fact that she’d made it this far—with a goddamned bullet wound—was beyond impressive.
I scooped up a handful of dirt from the floor, mixing it with debris and storm water to create a grimy paste.
“I’m afraid to even ask what that’s for.” She rearranged her makeshift bandage so a piece of cloth that wasn’t already saturated with blood was pressed against her wound.
“Your hair. Blonde stands out here. This will help at a distance.” I slopped it over her strands, then brushed as much of it out as possible for her comfort. When I finished, her honey-colored hair was dulled to a muddy brown. “Not perfect, but better. We can’t run, so we’ll want to make sure we don’t draw any undue attention to ourselves.”
Early evening was casting long shadows through the damaged buildings. We needed to move—we didn’t want to be seen, but being on the streets after dark would multiply our risks.
“Can you walk?”
“If you help me up.” She held out her hand, and I grabbed it with one of mine and wrapped my arm around her hips to help her the rest of the way. She swayed, catching herself against my chest. “Okay. Maybe I need a little help walking too.”
I kept my arm around her, taking most of her weight. “The bar’s only three blocks. We can make it.”
The streets of Puerto Esperanza were chaos. Residents picked through the storm wreckage, salvaging what they could. Most were too focused on their own disasters to pay attention to two more storm refugees.
My PTSD clawed at me as we entered more populated areas. Too many people, too many angles to watch, too many potential threats in my peripheral vision. A woman dropped a metal pot, the clang sending my hand toward my weapon before I caught myself.
Not a threat. Just storm cleanup. Keep moving.
We stayed to shadows where possible, avoiding the main thoroughfares. Lauren leaned heavily against me, her breathing shallow but determined. Blood was already seeping through the bandage—we were running out of time.
A black SUV turned the corner ahead, moving slowly through the debris. I froze as I recognized the deliberate patrol pattern, as if the choice of vehicle didn’t give them away. Cartel.
I pulled Lauren into an alley, pressing us both against the wall. She bit back a gasp as the movement pulled at her wound.
“Silva’s men,” I whispered. “Looking for us.”
The vehicle crawled past, occupants scanning both sides of the street. I held my breath, one hand on my weapon, the other keeping Lauren upright. If they stopped, if they got out to search…
