Ch.55: The Wound

Mia flinched. The gun dipped.

*Crack.*

The sound was deafening in the enclosed space. Not from Mia's gun. From the FBI marksman on the upper gantry.

Mia jerked back, her shoulder exploding in a spray of red. She dropped the pistol, screaming as she collapsed to the concrete.

"Secure the suspect!" Miller shouted. "Medic!"

Agents swarmed her. I watched as they cuffed her, as they pressed gauze to her wound. She was sobbing now, incoherent pleas for mercy that she had never shown anyone else.

I didn't feel triumph. I didn't feel relief. I felt hollow.

I turned to Julian.

"We need to—"

I stopped.

Julian was leaning against a crate, his face ashen. His hand was pressed to his side, and dark blood was seeping between his fingers, staining his white shirt a terrifying crimson.

"Julian?"

"I'm fine," he gritted out, his voice thin. "Just a scratch."

He took a step and stumbled. I caught him, his weight nearly dragging me down.

"You're shot," I said, panic rising in my chest like bile.

"Stray bullet," he gasped. "When I tackled you."

"Miller!" I screamed. "He's hit! We need a medic!"

Miller looked over. He saw the blood. His face hardened.

"The EMTs are five minutes out," Miller said. "But I can't let them take him."

"What?"

"Sterling has people in the hospitals," Miller said, moving closer, lowering his voice. "If Vane goes into the system, he dies on the operating table. 'Complications.' You know how it works."

"So what do we do?" I asked, gripping Julian tighter as his knees buckled.

"You run," Miller said.

He tossed me the keys to the APC.

"Take the back exit. It leads to the old rail yards. There's a safe house in Sector 9. I'll text you the coordinates."

"You're letting us go?"

"I'm securing my witnesses," Miller said. "Now go. Before my boss gets here and countermands me."

I dragged Julian to the armored truck. He was heavy, dead weight. I shoved him into the passenger seat and climbed behind the wheel.

"Stay with me," I said, slamming the door.

I gunned the engine. The APC roared to life, smashing through the rear loading doors and out into the night.

We drove fast, the tires screaming on the wet pavement. Julian was slumped against the window, his breathing shallow and ragged.

"Don't die," I commanded, my voice shaking. "You are not allowed to die."

"Bossy," he whispered, a faint smile ghosting his lips.

"I'm serious, Julian. You promised."

"I promised I'd save you," he murmured. "I didn't say anything about me."

"Shut up."

We reached the rail yards. It was a wasteland of rusted trains and overgrown tracks. I found a secluded spot under a bridge, shielded from the drones.

I killed the engine. The silence was sudden and terrifying.

"Julian?"

He didn't answer. His eyes were closed.

I scrambled over the center console. I tore open his shirt.

The wound was bad. Just above the hip. The bullet had gone in, but there was no exit wound. He was bleeding internally.

"We need a hospital," I said, panic clawing at my throat.

"No hospitals," Julian wheezed, his eyes fluttering open. "Miller was right. They'll kill me."

"You're going to die right here if we don't do something!"

"Then do something," he said. He grabbed my wrist. His skin was clammy. "You have to do it, Harper."

"Do what?"

"Get the bullet out."

I stared at him. "I'm a lawyer. Not a surgeon."

"You were a forensic auditor," he said, forcing a smile. "You're good at... finding small things... in messy places."

"This isn't a spreadsheet!"

"It's just plumbing," he gasped, pain spasming across his face. "There's a med kit in the back. Cauterize it. Stitch it. Just... get it out."

I looked at the wound. The dark, oozing hole.

I looked at his face. He was fading.

I didn't have a choice.

I found the kit. It was military grade. Scalpel. Forceps. Hemostatic gauze. Morphine.

I injected the morphine. Julian's eyes glazed over slightly, his breathing easing.

"Okay," I said, my hands trembling. "Okay."

I poured antiseptic over the wound. He hissed.

"Sorry," I whispered.

"Just do it."

I picked up the scalpel. The metal was cold.

I had to cut him. I had to cut the man I loved.

[Image of a bullet wound cross section]

I made the incision. Blood welled up, hot and sticky. I used the gauze to soak it up. I probed with the forceps.

"Deeper," Julian groaned.

I went deeper. I felt the metal scrape against bone.

"I found it," I said, tears blurring my vision.

I clamped the bullet. I pulled.

It slid out with a sickening squelch. A flattened piece of lead.

"Got it," I sobbed. "I got it."

I packed the wound with the hemostatic gauze. The bleeding slowed.

"Now the hard part," Julian whispered.

He pointed to the car's cigarette lighter. It was glowing red hot.

"Cauterize it."

"No," I said. "I can stitch it."

"Not enough," he said. "Internal bleeding. You have to seal it."

I looked at the glowing coil. I looked at his pale face.

"Do it, Harper."

I took the lighter. I took a breath.

I pressed it into the wound.

The smell of burning flesh filled the small cabin. Julian screamed—a raw, guttural sound that tore through me.

He passed out.

I dropped the lighter. I checked his pulse. It was weak, but steady.

I sat back, my hands covered in his blood. I was shaking so hard my teeth chattered.

I had saved him. But I had hurt him.

I cleaned him up as best I could. I stitched the surface wound. I covered him with a thermal blanket from the kit.

He looked peaceful now. Like he was just sleeping.

I brushed the hair from his forehead. I kissed his cold cheek.

Outside, the rain began to fall again, drumming on the roof of the APC. A lonely, rhythmic sound.

I looked at my hands. Red. Sticky.

His blood on my hands. Again. But this time I was saving him.