Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98121 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98121 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
“Is this why you always wear black?” she asks. I raise my eyebrows, not wanting to show how foggy I’m getting. “Hides the blood I guess.”
I take in the cuts on her face, the smears of blood from the glass. It could have been so much worse.
“Jet, I really think we should go to the ER.” She pulls the coat back. “You’re bleeding through your hand.”
“It’s a flesh wound,” I say, looking down at the mess on the elevator floor. At least it’ll be easy to wipe up. No carpet here. “I’ll be fine. Promise.”
The lights flicker just as the elevator reaches the seventh floor and the doors slide open.
When we step out, I almost go down, but a soldier is waiting for us, and he comes to my other side.
“Jesus, Jet! Please!” Amal cries out.
I grit my teeth. We head toward the suite. Amal fumbles with the lock just as the door to the stairs flies open. I have my hand on my weapon in an instant, fresh adrenaline coursing through my veins. But it’s one of my men. He’s new and young.
“Christ! You have a fucking death wish?” I bark.
He puts his hands up. He’s holding a bag from a pharmacy. “I ran back,” he says, which explains why he’s soaked through.
Amal opens the suite door and we move inside, one man standing guard outside.
“Get on the bed,” Amal tells me, walking me to the bedroom.
“Bathroom may be better, considering.”
“I said bed.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say with a salute.
She peels Malcom’s coat off and I remember mine is back at the shop. I liked that coat. I drop onto the bed wincing. The holster comes off next. She sets it on the bed beside us. “We need to get this off,” she says, tugging at my sweater.
I groan as the fabric pulls, stuck to the bloody wound. “Scissors.”
She nods, looks around at the soldier who is turning a little green. He empties out the contents of the bag which contains a suturing kit, extra bandages, alcohol pads, scissors. Amal grabs the scissors and begins to cut away my sweater.
“Too bad about that sweater. It was new,” I try to keep it light, the metal cool against my skin. “Careful now,” I tell her as she begins to peel the fabric away.
The knife wound is low on my hip and on my right side.
“Go get him a whiskey,” Amal tells the soldier who is staring open mouthed at the wound. Once he’s gone, she turns to me. “He looks like he’s going to pass out.”
“How are you not?” I ask.
She shrugs a shoulder.
The man returns with the whiskey and a glass but I take the bottle from him and swallow three gulps before lying down.
“Better,” I say. Amal fumbles with my belt. “Sweetheart, now’s not the time.”
“Shut up and lay back. Jesus. Why did you toss your gun away? You should have killed him,” she says.
Her eyes fill with tears at the sight of the mess. “It looks worse than it is,” I tell her, trying to reassure her as she cuts away my jeans. Once they’re off, she starts on my boxers, but I capture her hand to stop her. “Too close.” I peel the boxers down a little, just enough to expose the wound fully.
It’s bad, but it could have been worse. If I hadn’t shifted my weight when I had, things would be very different right now.
“You idiot,” she says, wiping tears with the backs of her hands. “You could have died.”
“Shh, honey.” I reach up to touch her face. “I didn’t die. I’m right here. Hand me the suturing kit. We’ll need to disinfect it first. I need you to do that part. I’ll walk you through.”
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Jet?”
“Look at me. You think this is the first time someone’s tried to kill me?”
Her eyes widen but she knows this because last time, it was her father. Amal stands up straighter, taking a deep breath in. “I’ll go wash my hands.” She hurries into the bathroom and returns a moment later carrying a damp towel. She gently cleans around the wound, and I drink another swig of whiskey.
She reaches for the holster and takes the gun out.
I place my hand over hers. “What are you going to do, put me out of my misery?”
“This isn’t a joke. If they come back—”
“First of all, you’re not going to have blood on your hands. Ever,” I tell her, sliding the gun from her and setting it back down. “Second, they won’t come back. Not tonight.”
“How do you know?”
“I know. Let’s get this done.”
“If they do, I will kill them.”
“Fine,” I agree only because I know for a fact IVI men will not be showing up at the door tonight. They’ll wait. They have time. They’ll want to think through my punishment for having killed their soldiers. For having nearly exposed them yet again.