Page 18 of Break For Me
I pull my wrist free and cradle it against my chest. I feel the blood rush back into the compressed tissue.
He blinks. His eyes find mine.
The wildness recedes, replaced by the heavy, sullen awareness of a man returning to a body that has failed him.
"Killian," he wheezes.
"He’s alive. Stable. I repaired the bowel. He’ll survive if the infection stays away."
He stares at me. His chest heaves.
His bandaged hand twitches against his stomach. Then his eyes roll back into his head and he’s gone again.
I find the handcuffs in his jacket pocket.
They are heavy steel. Law enforcement grade.
I hold them in my palm and feel the irony. A kidnapper’s tools for the kidnapper.
I loop one cuff around his right wrist. It barely closes over the thick bone.
I thread the chain through the metal frame of the cot and snap the second cuff on the crossbar. I tug it. It holds.
He doesn't stir. His breathing is deep.
His body is doing the triage. Shutting down the mind to fix the meat.
The handcuff is just a speed bump. A man this size could rip the frame apart if he wanted to. But it buys me seconds.
I sit in the wooden chair beside the cot. My bag is at my feet.
The cabin is quiet. Garrett is checking Killian in the other room. The generator hums.
My hands are shaking. A fine, high-frequency tremor I can't stop.
The adrenaline is leaving, and the fatigue is taking its place. It feels like a lead weight in my bones.
I look at the man on the cot. Handcuffed. Massive.
The Madonna tattoo rises and falls with his breath.
The sutures I put in his palm are hidden, but I can still feel the texture of his skin on my fingertips. The heat of him.
The Makarov is in the other room. On the floor.
I could pick it up. I could walk out into the woods and disappear.
I have no phone. No identification. But I have a head start.
Or I could pick up the gun and put a round into his skull. Then Garrett. Then the man on the door.
I could walk out as the only witness. The Russians would take me back.
Dmitri would be angry, but he’d see the logic. A surgeon who eliminates complications is a surgeon worth keeping.
I look at my hands. The tremor is fading.
The blood is still under my nails. His blood. Killian’s blood. It’s all the same now.
