by Maggie Ryan
“Take off your clothes,” she said, placing another towel on the bedside table before opening the first aid kit she’d pulled from the duffel. Turning around and seeing that he was having trouble pushing down his pants, she came to him. “Here, let me help.”
In any other situation, Anson would have been thrilled to have a beautiful woman undress him. However, he was beginning to feel faint and a bit afraid that he’d pass out and fall on top of her. He couldn’t imagine her being able to lift him. It didn’t help his dizziness when he looked down and realized that the pants were not going to come off over his boots.
“I’m afraid that unless you want me to cut these off as well, you’re going to have to sit down.”
Anson managed a nod and she helped him to the bed. He was about to sit when she shook her head. “Wait a second.” Reaching up, she pulled down his pants, followed by his boxers. “No need to have to lift up,” she said, matter-of-factly. He couldn’t argue the point and she guided him to sit. Once he was completely nude, she helped him to lie back, turning him onto his left side. Only then did he sense the first bit of hesitation in her voice.
“How high is your pain tolerance?”
“Good,” he said, not sure if that was the truth or not. He’d never had a bullet dug out of him before.
“Seriously, Anson. This is going to hurt like a motherfucker. The bullet has to come out, but it can wait long enough for me to run out and get something to kill the pain.”
“No. I don’t want you out of my sight,” he said. “I can’t protect you if I can’t see you.”
“Anson, I hate to say this, but you can’t protect me now and I’m right here. Look, we are in the middle of a crowded area with lots of bars and such. Not even Montez can pull together a plan to find us this fast. I’ll just take a few minutes.”
“No! I won’t take the chance of losing you.”
He heard her sigh and was about to repeat his refusal when he felt her brush his hair off his forehead. “And I can’t take the chance that you’ll scream so loud that somebody breaks the door down. I can’t shoot and perform surgery at the same time.” She paused and then said, “You asked me to trust you and now, I’m asking the same. I swear, I’ll be quick.”
Anson hated that he had no choice but knew she was right. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”
“I will.”
“Pull one of my shirts over your dress. You already look like you’ve been in surgery and forgot your scrubs.”
“All right.”
He watched as she rustled through the contents of his duffel and pulled out an olive green t-shirt. Anson was a bit surprised when instead of doing as he’d suggested, she reached behind her to unfasten the halter and then began to pull the dress over her head. He almost groaned when she turned her back to him before continuing. Her skin was the color of bronze and though he admitted he would have loved to see her breasts, to discover the exact color of her nipples, he instantly felt his blood boiling. Sickly yellows and greens swirled together and he knew they hadn’t come from the gun battle. The unmistakable band of color that ran across her back could only have been caused by being struck by a belt or a strap. No, what he was seeing was physical evidence of Montez’s abuse. He wanted to sit up and pull her to him, to assure her that no one would ever harm her again, and yet he was as weak as a fucking kitten. Instead, he watched as she pulled the t-shirt over her head. It hung to her knees, one sleeve falling off her shoulder. Once covered, she turned back to pull his belt from the pants she’d helped him out of and put it on. He knew she’d be embarrassed if he mentioned what he’d seen, so he gave her a piece of advice instead as the belt fell from her hips the moment she let go after buckling it.
“Use the knife. Add another hole,” he suggested. And once she had, snugging the belt to her waist, a long length of leather hanging free, he added, “Natalia, take a moment to wash.”
“I don’t have time—”
“At least your hands, arms, and legs.”
She looked down and seemed surprised to find that dried blood was already flaking from her exposed skin. It took a few precious minutes but needed to be done. There was nothing she could do about her hair—that would take several good scrubbings. Instead, she twisted it up in a messy knot, shoving a pencil she found in the nightstand drawer into her hair to hold it in place.
“There’s money in my pants pocket,” he said.
She foraged for the money, pulling out a large roll and peeled off several bills. Picking the sheet up off the floor, she placed it over him, stopping short of his wound.
“Thanks.”
“No. Thank you. I thought I was going to… Thanks for coming for me.” Grabbing the room key and going to the door, she reached for the knob but turned back. “Don’t you dare die on me, Steele.”
“Not likely, it’s only a flesh…” Seeing the expression on her face, he stopped making light of her obvious concern. “Sorry. I’ll try not to. Be careful, Natalia. Don’t you dare get caught.”
She nodded and left without another word. Anson closed his eyes and tried to imagine each step Natalia would take, every place she might stop before she returned.
“That’s enough.” Anson’s attempt to keep hold of the bottle failed as she easily pulled it from his grasp. “Hopefully, you’ll pass out, and I won’t have to fight to keep you from moving. I’d hate to slice more than necessary.”
“You’re not inshill… inshillwing… mush faith, Nata… Nat… woman.” He’d downed almost half a bottle of a ninety-proof fernet. It was the most disgusting liquor he’d ever drunk, tasting of licorice, and yet had obviously done the job as he knew what he wanted to say but his words were jumbled and very slurred.
“It’s not a good idea to disparage your doctor before surgery,” Natalia said. He felt her lifting his right arm above his head, propping it on a pillow. “It might cause her to not be so gentle.” As if to emphasize her words, he gasped and clutched the sheet as she upended the bottle, pouring a stream of liquor over his wound.
“Fuck!” He managed to say that word quite clearly after the immediate burn dissipated a bit.
“Don’t be a baby,” she said, her tone one that said she was teasing. He felt her stroke along his arm, pausing short of the area she’d be probing. “I’ll try not to hurt you too much. Try to relax.”
Fat chance. And yet, he said, “Go for it, doc.”
His vision was a bit fuzzy but he watched as she poured alcohol over the small blade she’d purchased and then flicked a lighter. A flame ran over the metal and he had a fleeting thought of steel going into a Steele. He actually chuckled and then gasped as he felt the blade, still hot from the extinguished flames, touch his skin. He felt a pressure and knew she’d begun. Closing his eyes, he gritted his teeth, determined not to make this any more difficult for her. She worked steadily, telling him what she was doing every step of the way. That, and the copious amounts of alcohol he’d consumed, helped distract him from the pain.
“Don’t move. I see it. It’s buried pretty deep in your triceps muscle. You’re going to have some pain straightening your arm but at least it didn’t shatter any bones.” He groaned as she began to probe in an effort to dig the bullet from him. Every movement of the tweezers caused him to see stars and had him fighting not to pass out.
“Don’t fight it, Anson. There’s no need for you to be a hero… you’ve already been one today. Let yourself go. I’ll be here to keep us safe.” He wanted to argue but his body knew better. As he felt the first tug, he slipped into unconsciousness.
“Welcome back.”
Anson groaned. His head was throbbing, as was his arm. He squinted, the light in the room stabbing into his eyeballs. “I’m not dead?”
She laughed, and that sound made all the agony bearable. “Oh, ye of little faith. No, Anson, you’re not only alive, you are bullet free.”
He groaned as he attempted to sit, and she immediately placed a hand around his shoulders. “Easy. I don’t
want you to pop any stitches.”
He looked but could see nothing but the several layers of gauze she’d wrapped around his arm. “You sewed me up?”
“Of course.” She poured some water into a cup and lifted it to his lips. “Slowly,” she admonished when he tried to gulp the water down. “It won’t be pleasant if you throw it up.” She patiently helped him until he’d finished most of the cup.
“Thanks,” he said. He looked up and saw that she had obviously showered and changed. Her hair was no longer stiff with blood or twinkling with glass, pulled up into a high ponytail that swung with her every movement. Instead of his t-shirt, she was wearing a dark blue t-shirt that fit her so much better and yet wasn’t anywhere near as tight as the dresses he’d seen her wearing. The shirt was tucked into a pair of jeans that hugged her ass quite nicely. She had a pair of hiking boots on her feet.
“You clean up nice, doc,” he said. She looked surprised at the compliment. “Thanks for everything, Natalia.”
“You’re welcome. Are you hungry? I’ve got some food—”
“You left again?” he interrupted, then saw her face harden and changed his tone. “I could eat.”
Natalia nodded and prepared his plate, cutting his food into bite-sized pieces. Anson figured he could feed himself but when she held a fork of rice to his mouth, he decided that he wasn’t above taking advantage of a gorgeous woman’s bedside manner.
“I heard some news when I went out,” she said softly, offering him another bite. “It’s not good.”
Anson nodded, just now realizing that the hand that had been so steady holding the scalpel was now trembling as it held a plastic fork. Something told him he knew what she was going to say. “Fuck, the bastard is still alive, isn’t he?”
Chapter 8
“Montez survived,” Natalia said with tears of frustration and rage burning her eyes. “The son of a bitch is still alive.”
“Fuck,” Anson said, rage washing over his face. “He must have been wearing a bullet-proof vest. Like a god damn cockroach, you stomp on him but he’s impossible to kill.”
“There’s also a bounty on your head, and mine. A high one.”
Anson nodded. “That’s expected. I did just try to kill him and stole his woman.” Grimacing when he moved his body too much, he added, “We have to get out of here now. We aren’t safe.” He shoved the plate of food away.
She placed her hand gently on his chest to prevent him from moving too fast. “We aren’t safe anywhere in Argentina. Montez’s reach is wide, and with the amount of money he is offering, there isn’t a soul we can trust.” She stood up and went for a pile of fresh clothing of Anson’s that she pulled out of his suitcase that wasn’t covered in blood. “Let’s get you dressed so we can leave.”
Anson raised an eyebrow and smirked. “You say that as if you have a plan.”
“I do,” she said as she dropped the t-shirt over Anson’s head, once again finding her eyes going to the thick black lines and swirls that were inked onto his right bicep. She hesitated for a moment, wanting to know the meaning of the tattoo, but shook away her curiosity and gently lifted his right arm to guide it through the shirt’s armhole. Evidently, she’d taken too long as she felt Anson swiping her hand away lightly.
“I can dress myself.” Groaning as he lowered the shirt, he asked, “Care to fill me in on this plan of yours?”
“There’s this old, abandoned house about fifty miles outside of Rosario. It’s heavily buried in the jungle. My family once used it for a hideout, and my father met with people there in secret. Very few people knew of its location, and after my family’s death… well, let’s just say I don’t expect it to be very kept up, if it’s standing at all. But I do hope it will give us shelter, keep us hidden, and allow you time to heal and get your strength back.”
“We need to get out of Argentina and, babe, Rosario is south while freedom is north.”
She nodded, rolling her eyes as she tossed him his pants. “I know the geography of my country, and while we do need to get out of Argentina, that’s easier said than done. And right now, you have a bullet wound so you’re not exactly up to staging an escape.” She started toward the bathroom to steal the towels and toilet paper since she knew their hidden bungalow in the jungle would offer sparse comforts, if any at all. “If you need help getting dressed, just holler,” she said over her shoulder, knowing he would be in a lot less pain if he allowed her to offer a hand. The sounds of his groans and the creak of the bed let her know he was getting dressed, no doubt stubborn pride getting in the way of asking for help.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she called from the bathroom, “that I took the cash out of your wallet and loaded the Jeep with as much food and supplies as I could.”
“That was risky of you but smart.”
Natalia could hear the grimace in his words as he struggled with his pants. She walked back into the room as he was finishing getting dressed. “Will you at least allow me to help you with your boots so you don’t reopen the wound I just stitched up?”
Without waiting for a response, she reached for his boots and knelt at his feet. Lifting his foot and wiggling the boot on, she looked up into Anson’s eyes. “I owe you an apology.”
He remained silent, but his face softened.
“We wouldn’t be here, with you shot, if it weren’t for my stupid willfulness. You were trying to rescue me, and I foolishly turned you away. I was just so focused on revenge. I am truly and deeply sorry.”
“Revenge can be very powerful. More consuming than any drug.”
She nodded as she put on his second boot. “Yes, well everything I worked for is all for nothing. I failed.”
“You did not fail.”
She stood as she struggled to fight back the tears threatening to fall, refusing to be weak at a time when she needed to be strong. “Yes, I failed. I didn’t kill Montez. He didn’t suffer and will be able to go on living life as the monster he is.” Grabbing hold of the duffel, and flinging it over her shoulder, she said, “But we don’t have time to sit here and discuss how I fucked everything up. The Jeep is ready to go. Are you?”
He groaned loudly when he attempted to use his hands to push up from the bed, and Natalia ran to his side to offer her assistance. “Wait, just sit for a moment.”
“I’m fine—”
“I know, but I still want to immobilize your arm. The less you jar it around, the quicker it will heal.” Reaching for his belt buckle, she ignored his quirked eyebrow and pulled the leather from around his waist. Within a few minutes, she had his arm against his chest, the additional hole she’d added to the belt the day before allowing her to secure it tightly. “How does that feel?”
“Better,” Anson admitted as she helped him to stand. “I don’t even know what time it is,” he mumbled as he took a moment to catch his breath. “Are we safe walking out this door?”
“It’s still a couple of hours before sunrise. I think if we can get off the main roads by then, we will be okay.”
As they reached the Jeep, Anson stopped and studied the bullet holes in the back. “Fuck, I didn’t realize the Jeep took such a beating. Is it running all right?”
“Yes, I wasn’t going to tell you until later, but…” she looked at him as his worried expression took in the condition of the vehicle, “your bag that had your satellite phone—”
“Shit! Don’t tell me,” he interrupted.
“Didn’t survive. The bag looked like Swiss cheese.”
“Fuck.” He swung the back door open and shuffled some of the boxes of supplies around until he found his bag. Unzipping the duffel, he pulled out the phone and examined it. “Fuck!” he swore again, having to hold the phone close to his chest in order to use the fingers of his right hand to turn the dials, just to be sure that the bullet holes in the metal had truly destroyed his only form of communication back home. “Fuck,” he said again, tossing it into the Jeep and slamming the door shut.
Without saying anothe
r word, she guided him toward the passenger side, happy he didn’t object. Clearly even his pride knew its limits. Once she had helped him in, she ran over to the driver’s side, glancing around to make sure no one was watching them. As far as she could see, they were the only people awake this early in the morning.
As she drove down a side street—trying hard to avoid the main thoroughfares—she noticed Anson hadn’t said a word. He appeared pensive, but very alert. He examined everything around him with a furrowed brow.
Two hours of silence had gone by and still not a single word from Anson.
“You all right?” Natalia asked, leaning forward a bit in order to look over and scan his arm for any signs of blood. The sun had risen, and the bright light helped her in scanning his body for any signs of distress.
“Fine. Just thinking.” His words were short, and he never even glanced her way.
“About?”
“Nothing.”
His sudden change in demeanor from the man in the hotel room surprised her. “Are you mad at me?”
“Why would I be mad at you?” His question almost dripped with venom.
“I don’t know. But ever since we got into the Jeep, you haven’t said a word to me.”
“What would you like me to say?” he snapped. “That we are fucked? That we are trapped in a country with no way out? That we are driving down a fucking road and could get shot any minute? Or that our only means of communication to reach people who could actually help us out of this fucked up situation has been filled with bullet holes? Or shall we discuss that I saw you have a couple of days’ worth of food tops, and then after that we can starve to death in the jungle unless you know how to hunt panther or boa. Or maybe you know how to trap and cook up spider all while I nurse my fucking wound that could easily get infected and kill me in the god damn jungle you are driving us to?” He turned and glared at Natalia. “What is it you are wanting to hear?” He slammed his left fist on the dash and shouted, “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”
