Page 29 of Break For Me
I inventory our options. Two handguns—the Makarov I took from the hallway, plus a Glock 19 that Garrett keeps on his hip. The shotgun. A bolt-action hunting rifle I found in the bedroom closet, with five rounds. Maybe forty rounds of mixed ammunition total.
Against a Russian ground team that will come with suppressed weapons, body armor, and the operational understanding that leaving witnesses is a liability.
"We can’t fight here," Garrett says, his voice grim.
He’s right. The cabin is a box with four walls and two exits. If they surround us, we’re dead. If they breach, we’re dead. The only way we survive is if we’re not here when they arrive.
"The truck?"
"Gassed up. I topped it off from the jerry cans in the shed yesterday morning."
I look at Killian on the table. One hundred and ninety pounds of dense muscle on a door that’s six feet long. Abdominal surgery less than a week old. A body that will split open if it’s handled wrong.
"We need to move him."
Adrian appears in the bedroom doorway behind me. His medical bag is already in his hand. The surgeon is back on duty.
"Moving him risks dehiscence of the surgical site," Adrian says, his voice sharp and clinical. "If the anastomosis fails, he will go septic. Without a sterile environment and proper equipment, I can’t repair it a second time."
"If we stay here, the Russians put a bullet in all four of us and burn this shack to the foundation. Which scenario gives Killian better odds, Doc?"
He doesn't answer. He doesn't need to. The math is the same math it’s always been in my life—bad options measured against worse ones.
"Garrett," I bark. "Get the truck backed up to the porch. Fold the rear seats down. We need a flat surface in the back."
Garrett moves. The front door opens and cold morning air floods the stale cabin. I hear the truck engine turn over, the low, powerful register of the V-8 vibrating through the floorboards. Tires crunch on gravel as he reverses toward the porch.
I walk to the table. I look down at Killian. My brother’s husband. The man I drove ninety minutes through the dark to save. He’s breathing. His pulse is visible in his throat, a slow, steady beat that Adrian’s hands put back in order.
I slide one arm under his knees. The other under his shoulders. I brace my feet. My left hand screams—the sutures pulling hard, the wound bed compressing. It’s a bolt of white heat that shoots from my palm through my elbow and into my shoulder socket.
I lock the arm. I shove the pain behind the same internal wall I’ve been locking things behind my entire life.
I lift.
Killian comes off the table. The full weight settles into my frame—my legs, my hips, my lower back absorbing the load. One hundred and ninety pounds. My arms have carried more. My body has carried more.
But my body wasn't running on four days of fever and significant blood loss. My dominant hand wasn't held together by seventeen delicate stitches. The difference is immediate and catastrophic.
My vision tunnels. My quadriceps begin to shake uncontrollably. I can feel the warm wetness inside the gauze on my palm. The sutures are letting go, one by one. The tissue is separating. I can feel the blood seeping through the thick dressing and running between my fingers.
"Put him down." Adrian is beside me.
He doesn't ask. He grabs my right forearm. His grip is firm, a surprising strength in those thin, clean fingers.
"You’re tearing the repair. Put him down and let me stabilize his incision before you move him."
"There’s no time."
"If you carry him to that truck and his wound opens in transit, he will bleed into his abdomen and die in the back seat. Two minutes. Give me two minutes to reinforce the dressing and clamp the drain."
His eyes are wide. It’s the first time I’ve seen him look truly urgent. Not afraid, but intensely focused. The surgeon seeing a catastrophic outcome and knowing exactly how to prevent it.
I lower Killian carefully back onto the makeshift table. My arms are vibrating like plucked wires. My left hand is dripping—a steady patter of fresh blood hitting the plank floor. Each drop sounds like a drum in the sudden silence.
Adrian moves with blinding speed. He pulls the sheet back, checks the dressing, and applies additional pressure pads over the long incision. He tapes them down with quick, precise motions—war-zone triage muscle memory. He clamps the bloody drain tube. He disconnects the IV and caps the line.
"He’s ready," he announces. "But he needs to stay horizontal. Minimal jostling. And you—" He looks pointedly at my hand. The gauze is now completely soaked red. "You cannot carry him. Your grip will fail."
