by Zoe Dawson
“I took the Hippocratic Oath. Even though I’m no longer practicing medicine, it still applies. It’s an oath.”
“I gotcha. You said something about sitting up?”
“Yes, I need to remove your shirts so that I can assess your torso, especially for hematoma, and then get to work on your wound.” He started to sit up. “Let me do most of the work,” she cautioned. “Put your arm around my shoulders.” She had to get close to him, the heat from his body wafting against her skin. This close she could see his jaw tensing, and she slipped her arms under his back and helped him to rise to a sitting position. He groaned deep in his chest, the rumble vibrating against her, his hand bunching in her khaki vest. His face contorted, and he panted softly.
She scooted behind him and braced him against her. Slipping her hands under both the undershirt and his military shirt, she worked off first one side, then the other, trying to be as gentle as she could.
He expelled all the air from his lungs, then held his breath for a few seconds, then inhaled, holding again for a few seconds. Then he released the air in a controlled exhale.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Combat breathing. It helps.”
“Aw, okay,” she said. “Almost there.”
She pulled the clothing over his head and set it on the ground near his tactical vest. Her eyes went to his broad, heavily muscled back. She searched from his neck down to his waist. There were several bruises, but nothing to be alarmed about.
She slipped out from behind him to her knees while he continued breathing, then she helped him to lie back downbearing as much of his weight as possible. He was heavy, but that wasn’t a surprise. He had all that gorgeous, dense muscle on his tall frame.
When he was once again flat on his back, she moved to his wound.
“There are scissors—”
“I’ve got it. Just relax.”
“Mind over matter,” he said, his voice hitching with the pain. “I think the bullet bounced off my rib. It feels broken.”
Her hands went immediately to his lower ribs, and when she touched him there, he gasped. There was swelling, but it wasn’t bad. “Maybe bruised. How far away were you when you were shot?”
“I was in the air when they shot from the ground, so quite a ways.”
“That’s good. There’ll be less damage internally from the impact.” She bit her lip. Even with less damage, she still needed to retrieve the bullet, and to do that, she needed to find a place to safely open him up. She’d have to find some kind of medical facility, and they were too many miles away from any kind of modern city.
One step at a time. She pulled out her own first aid kit and opened it. Grabbing her scissors, she cut off the awkwardly placed bandage. She slipped on a pair of surgical gloves. He made a muffled gasp as she placed her hands on his six-pack abs and palpated his abdomen with her palms. She breathed out slowly in relief. No distention which meant he wasn’t hemorrhaging. She looked down at the wound, and it was sluggishly oozing blood.
“What do you carry in your pack for bandages?”
“QuikClot and Kerlix. There should be more in there.”
“We’ll use up yours. I also have the same stuff.”
He nodded.
“I’m going to clean out the wound.” She didn’t like how warm he was. She snagged her thermometer and slipped it under his tongue.
She pulled out her syringe and a fresh bottle of water from her pack. Dipping the syringe in, she pulled water in, then expressed it against the wound. There was another muffled groan and his whole body tensed. He tilted his head back and his breathing went ragged until he got it back under control. The thermometer beeped, and she pulled it out. His temperature was elevated. Damn.
“We’ll need to sit you up again so I can wrap this correctly.”
He nodded, and she helped him up once more.
She grabbed the kit beside him and picked up the QuikClot, cutting it to size and making a pad out of it, enough to cover the hole completely, then pressed it to his side. “Can you hold this?”
She braced him with her shoulder to his back, then wrapped the Kerlix around his middle and secured it with the Velcro. She reached for his undershirt and slipped it back over his head, helping him with his arms, the feel of his rounded biceps hot and hard through her gloves. She eased him back down.
“Do you have pain anywhere else?”
“My hip and ankle.”
She nodded. “We can take care of those after we see to your K9.” She folded and tucked the military shirt into his pack. “Do you have military pill packs?”
“Yes, I took one before you arrived.”
“Good.” She took a breath. “Now for Jugs.”
“It would be much safer if you just untied him and let him come over to the sound of my voice.”
“All right.” She rose, removed her gloves, and brushed off the dirt and jungle debris from her shorts and legs. Jugs had been lying down with his head on his paws, but the moment there was movement, his ears pricked, and he rose to all four paws. He was panting heavily in the still air. She took a deep breath.
“He won’t hurt you. I promise. On some level, he knows you’re helping me. Just approach him slowly and untie the leash. Let me know when you’ve done that, and I’ll call him.”
Gathering her courage, she stepped over the heavy brush obscuring the SEAL from his partner and slowly walked toward him.
“Hi, Jugs. We’re going to be friends now. There’s more delicious fish where that earlier meal came from.” He had the most intense, almost feral, eyes, a fierce copper, and they were trained on her with the kind of laser focus that made her nervous.
When she came close to him, he watched her as she went past him to the tree trunk. He knew she was going to release him. He started to strain against the leather.
“Whoa, boy,” she whispered, pulling a bit to get some slack to untie the lead.
“It’s done,” she called.
“Jugs, hacke,” the SEAL said firmly.
The K9 took off and disappeared into the brush. She walked back over and slipped through to find the dog, his tail wagging, licking the man’s face.
“How is he with medical procedures?” she asked.
“A trooper. I can hold his head.” He reached into one of the pockets of the vest and pulled out the K9’s medical kit and handed it to her. “We’ll keep the muzzle on him for now, but as soon as you’re finished, we’ll need to remove it so he can drink and pant to cool off.”
“Sounds like a plan,” she said.
He lifted up on his elbow and secured the dog around the neck, tucking his head out of sight.
“I’m just going to fix you up, Jugs,” she crooned as she knelt and touched his flank. Max talked to him in German again and the dog relaxed.
“He’s so well-trained.”
“He has to be. I need his immediate compliance, especially on missions.”
“Of course. Makes sense.” She saw that the kit had veterinary tissue adhesive. She took off her vest and spread it on the ground and set the supplies she would need within easy reach. The SEAL had to focus on keeping the dog calm. Donning a new pair of gloves, she cut off the bandage and used her scissors to cut off the fur around the long bloody gash. Then she used water and a syringe to irrigate the area. There was no anesthetic inside the kit, so she used her topical spray. It was the best she could do to minimize the pain. Starting at the far end of the ragged laceration, she applied the adhesive along the cut and glued the ends of Jugs’s flesh together. The dog whimpered, but he didn’t struggle.
“What is your name?” she whispered, glancing up at him. He blinked, drawing attention to those long, sooty lashes and his vivid blue eyes.
“Max Keegan,” he said. “My call name is Mad Max.”
She smiled. “That fits.” She glued some more of the cut. “I’m sure you’re Special Forces.”
“You are?”
“You’re not a Marine,” she sa
id, reaching the center of the gash. “You’re doing great, Jugs.”
“How do you know that?”
“Your hair is too long and beard stubble pretty thick for a day in the jungle. I’ve never seen a Marine look that way. You’re a Navy SEAL. Also, SEALs employ the Malinois breed exclusively.”
“I am a SEAL, but that’s all I’ve got to say about it.”
“Okay,” she said, finishing up the gluing and applying an antibiotic ointment. Then, using the petrolatum gauze and the black, flexible self-adherent bandaging tape, she secured the wrap.
She pulled off the gloves and rolled everything up into the fish plastic wrap and stowed it in her bag, then placed Jugs’s first aid kit back in his tactical vest compartment.
Max let go of Jugs and took off the muzzle, which he put in one of the K9’s pack slots. She reached for two bottles of water. She handed one bottle to Max and poured Jugs a generous amount from the other into his nylon bowl.
“Max was right,” she said. “You are a trooper.” She drained the remaining water from the bottle and set the empty back in her pack.
With Jugs taken care of, she turned her attention back to Max and eased off his boot. She wound the elastic bandage from his first aid kit over his swollen ankle.
“Let’s see your hip,” she said. She reached for his pants, suddenly aware of how really muscular he was, and unbuckled the belt and pulled down the zipper. The man felt like granite. She swallowed at the feel of his hot skin and couldn’t seem to keep her eyes off the line of dark hair that disappeared tantalizingly into the waistband of his briefs.
She grasped the elastic of his undershorts, and he made a hissing noise.
“Ouch.”
She pressed around the huge, discolored hematoma on the flat side of his hip, grasping him under the knee she worked his leg, eliciting several grunts from him. “It’s severely bruised, but nothing seems broken or dislocated. The blood will get reabsorbed into your body. There’s nothing else that needs to be done. It’s obvious how you landed from that fall.” She glanced at the dog. “You were protecting him against the impact.”
“I was.”
Her heart hitched and she smiled. “Someone else is quite the trooper too,” she murmured. “Okay, now we get you guys ready to move.”
Before she could rise, Max reached out and snagged her wrist. “Hey,” he said gruffly, “Thanks.”
Max rested his upper torso and head back to the ground, looking exhausted. Her chest got tight and she said, “You’re welcome.”
She got up and searched the brush until she found four sturdy branches, which she brought back to where Max lay. Using her climbing rope, she tied the shorter branches to the longer ones to make a crude frame, then threaded it through to make a crude “mattress” to support Max as comfortably as possible. She laid her sleeping bag over the frame and ropes.
“You’re making a litter? Doc, that’s a lot of weight to pull.”
“I know, but we don’t have any choice. It’s our only alternative. You can’t walk.”
“I can damn well try.” He struggled to sit up and she quickly knelt down to stop him.
Max, you’ll injure yourself worse than you already are. Don’t be stubborn.”
She got him settled onto the litter and he laid back with a disgruntled look on his face. Satisfied, she picked up the litter poles and started to pull him. The way was hard as hell with so much debris on the jungle floor and obstacles to go around. But there was no alternative. He would die if she didn’t keep going.
She had to keep moving.
Each day rolled into the next, and she worried that she wouldn’t get Max to medical attention fast enough to save him. Sweat poured off her, her legs burned, and her chest ached from her heavy breathing as she hauled the gear and Max. On the third day, she stopped and set him down to give her blistering palms some relief. Pulling out water, she drank thirstily, poured some for the limping dog, and handed the rest to Max. He looked pale, his features tight with pain. Regardless of her patching him up, he wasn’t going to last long with that bullet still in him. He could succumb to sepsis. It wasn’t an if, either. He would get an infection.
“I’m sorry this is so rough, but I think we’re near a road. It should be easier going.” She wiped at her brow and sank down to the ground to rest.
The chatter of indistinct male voices sounded from the road, and they both froze.
3
“Anna, what are you doing here?” Dodger’s hoarse voice showing his stress at seeing her. He had planned to stay away from Max’s family because Max got too agitated, and it messed with their brotherhood and team cohesiveness, which was often precarious. He felt like crap whenever he ignored calls from Gina, Rhonda, or their mom.
“It’s good to see you, too, Oliver.” Her tone was frosty. “I need to speak with Fast Lane.”
“2-Stroke. Go get Fast Lane, but be discreet about it.” He didn’t know what to say about Max. SEALs were supposed to be prepared for all contingencies, but Anna was one hell of a wild card. Max had been missing for almost twenty-four hours. He could be injured or worse. He shook off that thought. He wasn’t going to think about his teammate out there alone and dying. An urgency gripped him by the throat, and he wanted to punch something. They would get this sorted out and go after Max. Why the hell was Anna here?
“Copy that.” 2-Stroke took off at a run and disappeared into the building.
She made a soft, irritated noise and sent her hands into her hair, ruffling it into a tousled silky mess around her face. The mass framed her exquisite features and added to her exotic look. Her complexion was smooth and creamy, and she possessed the kind of lush lips that inspired all kinds of provocative, X-rated fantasies. When he met her gaze, her smokey silver eyes gleamed impudently, triggering him into remembering that he had many questions.
“I didn’t expect you to be here while we’re on an op. Did Max—”
She stiffened, pinning him with gray eyes as cold as a dark winter sky. He felt the chill to the bone. Anna was pissed at him for refusing to engage with her at the wedding. He’d slipped out on the sly, dodging like he usually did when faced with an untenable position. Better to bail.
“Max would never reveal his location to me, and I wouldn’t ask. I know it’s classified.”
“Then how—”
“I understand you have questions, but I was instructed to talk only to Lieutenant Nixon,” she snapped. He knew that Keegan look. It mimicked Max’s, and there was no prying any information out of her.
Fast Lane came out of the building. He stopped in front of Anna. “What’s going on here, Ms. Keegan?”
“Who are you?” the pencil neck from the Paraguayan government demanded, barreling up to them.
“Watch out, mate,” Dodger said, shoving his hand against the guy’s chest and making him take a couple of steps back. He told himself he was just protecting his teammate’s sister, nothing else. He had no feelings one way or the other about Max’s sister. That was his story and he was sticking to it.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m Anna Keegan. My brother is Max Keegan, and I’m looking for him. My mother’s ill, and he needs to get home.” Her eyes teared up, but the guy was such a wanker. He didn’t even look contrite.
“Identification, por favor, señorita?”
She pulled out her passport and handed it to him. He looked it over.
“You’ve been in the country for a week?”
“Yes, I work for National Geographic, and we’re doing a large spread on Iguaçu Falls.”
“You have National Geographic identification then?” He looked at her with open skepticism, his eyes narrowed.
She pulled that out and offered him the badge. “What are you doing to find my brother?”
Dodger looked over the guy’s shoulder. The ID badge looked legit, so her credentials supported her story, the camera also adding credence to her explanation. He gave Fast Lane a slight nod and his LT looked as
skeptical as the pencil neck. Finding Max on a black op was about as easy as finding a needle in the proverbial haystack. If Max hadn’t told her exactly where he’d be, there was no way she could have known. Unless…
He handed the documents back to her, lifting his hands and trying to look apologetic and failing miserably. “We’re working on it.”
“Right, got it,” she said, her tone as skeptical as his look had been moments ago.
Something was up, and Dodger’s dodging senses were tingling. His motto was you were only in trouble if you got caught. He made sure he never got caught.
Clearly, Anna was spinning a woven tale for this guy’s benefit. He lifted his gaze to hers, and Dodger experienced a remembered feeling that only made him wary, as if he was looking into the face of his ideal match. The hair on the back of his neck stood up and his gut churned. Nope. Not happening. Even if she hadn’t been Max’s sister and he wouldn’t be committing team suicide, he would go running in the other direction. He remembered all too well Pitbull’s confession to them and the feeling of betrayal he’d experienced when he’d found out Pitbull had been intimate with Myerson’s wife and fathered a child. It was during the couple’s separation in preparation for divorce, but it had still been a violation of trust.
After Hermione, he couldn’t see himself ever giving his heart to anyone like that ever again. Losing her had shown him there was a dark side inside him that he never wanted to give free rein. He was happy where he was, loved being a SEAL and part of this team. Never did he want to spiral like he had after he’d lost Hermione. She’d cut out his heart and left it in pieces somewhere between that dark place and now.
“Are you done harassing my teammate’s sister?” Fast Lane growled, bristling like a bear. His dark eyes narrowed dangerously, so intense it made the guy step back a few more steps, his face going pale. What a wanker weasel.
“Let me remind you that you’re confined to this base, and any attempts at leaving or circumventing my authority will be met with force.”
Fast Lane stepped into his space, getting into the guy’s face. It didn’t help that he was holding onto his M4, his index finger along the trigger, giving armed and dangerous a whole new name. He didn’t say a word, but the tension in the air was as thick as the humidity.
