by Lori Sjoberg
It was just, well, chalk it up to old-school sensibilities, but she wasn’t keen on the idea of stripping down in front of Dmitri. Especially since …
“I’m not wearing a bra,” she blurted, and her face flamed with heat. Mother Nature hadn’t gifted her with tons of cleavage, so she usually didn’t bother wearing one unless her shirt was sheer.
The hand on her back tensed. Dmitri didn’t speak for nearly a minute, and when he did his voice was low, guarded. “I promise not to violate your modesty. Now will you allow me to examine the wound?”
What other choice did she have? Gwen bit her bottom lip and nodded. She started to lift her arms, but a fresh jolt of pain brought them back to her sides. “I guess you’ll be cutting it off.”
“As you wish.” He retrieved the knife from his back pocket and pulled open the blade.
Eyes staring straight ahead at the clock on the wall, she tried to ignore the sound of fabric tearing and the feel of cool air against her injured shoulder.
“There’s no need to remove the entire shirt,” he murmured. Gently, gingerly, he probed the skin surrounding the entry wound, and then paused when she sucked air between her teeth. “That’s where the bullet came to rest. I’ll need to make an incision to get it out.”
That so wasn’t what she wanted to hear. “How deep?”
His fingers pressed just below her shoulder blade and she gasped at the pain searing the length of her arm. “Judging by your reaction, the bullet isn’t very deep, but I won’t know for sure until I get in there.”
Crap. Definitely not what she wanted to hear. A Russian with an axe to grind was going to perform surgery on her shoulder without proper equipment, lighting, or anesthesia. Good thing reapers didn’t have to worry about infection or she’d be in for a world of trouble.
“Have you ever done anything like this before?”
“What, you mean operate?”
“Yes.”
“Of course.” He sounded offended by the question. “About six months ago, I dug a bullet from my own leg. I’m certain this will prove much easier.”
His confidence did nothing to settle her nerves. A gunshot wound might not be a big deal for him, but it certainly was for her. Until tonight, she’d only been shot once.
In the chest.
By Dmitri.
How ironic for him to be treating her wound. She took a deep breath and let it out with a whoosh. “Just get it over with, okay?”
“Very well.” He pulled a chair under the light and spun it around. “Sit here. I’ll be back in a minute.” He turned on his heel and vanished through the doorway leading to the garage bays.
Following his instructions but moving slowly, she switched seats and willed her heart to settle. Her muscles ached with nervous energy, like a bowstring ready to be plucked. Minutes ticked by at a crawl, and the anticipation ground on her nerves. Maybe it would be better if she waited for the wound to heal. Eventually, her body would expel the bullet, and what were a few hours in the grand scheme of things? When Dmitri returned, she’d just tell him—
“You’re not getting cold feet, are you?” Dmitri set a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and a roll of paper towels on the table. His face showed no hint of emotion, but the challenge in his voice spoke volumes.
It was just what she needed to gather her courage. No way would she show weakness to this man. She’d never hear the end of it. “No, I’m good.”
With the flip of a switch, the small room flooded with light. “There wasn’t much in the way of supplies, but this should suit our needs.” He placed a pair of needle-nose pliers, an old first aid kit, and his knife next to the paper towels. After unscrewing the cap, he nudged the bottle in her direction. “Drink. It’ll calm your nerves.”
Reluctantly, she reached for the bottle with her uninjured arm. She hated the taste of whiskey, but she needed a little something to help her get through what was about to happen. With a feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach, she raised the bottle to her lips and swallowed a mouthful.
Dmitri chuckled when she gagged. “Sip slowly, zaika moya. I need you relaxed, not wasted.”
If her shoulder didn’t hurt so badly, she would have slapped that smirk off his mouth. But instead she kept quiet and did as she was told, taking small sips until the haze of intoxication dulled the pain in her shoulder.
“Much better.” Dmitri took the bottle away from her and set it back on the table. “How do you feel?”
“Like I could sleep for a week.”
“Perfect.”
Still, she flinched when his hand touched her back. “Sorry. I guess I’m still a little tense.”
“I understand.” His hands moved up to her neck and began to rub small circles along the base of her skull. “Your muscles are very tight.”
Wow, he had great hands. His fingers felt like magic against her skin, warm liquid heat melting the knots of tension. Her head tilted forward as her eyes drooped shut, and it took every ounce of discipline not to purr. Relaxation blanketed her mind, her thoughts drifting… drifting … drifting …
She was barely awake when his hands left her neck. Lightly, he touched her bare skin near the bullet wound and a light ripple of pain swept across her shoulder.
“Gwen.” The deep resonance of his voice cut through the alcohol. “Gwen, I need you awake for this part.”
“Huh?” Slowly, she swiveled her head in his direction. She blinked a few times until the blurry double images merged into one. “Why’d you have me drink all that if you wanted me awake?”
“Because I need you relaxed.” His expression softened for a second before hardening back to the one she knew so well. “Now turn your head and stare at the vending machine. On the count of five. One …”
The blade dug into her skin. Gwen’s back bowed and she cried out in spite of her best efforts not to show weakness. “Shit, what happened to five?”
“I needed you prepared, but not so prepared you’d brace for the incision.”
The knife sank even deeper, and she bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste blood. Eyes squeezed tight, she took long, deep breaths to keep from hyperventilating. Her stomach roiled as her knuckles turned white against her death grip on the chair.
“You’re doing well,” Dmitri said, his voice even. He set down the knife and picked up the pliers. “Just a minute or two longer, and it will all be over.”
Oh, thank God. If he didn’t finish soon, she’d either puke or pass out. Or both. And wouldn’t that be too embarrassing for words? “Don’t stop talking. Please. It takes my mind off what you’re doing.”
His hands stilled for a moment before resuming their work. “What would you like me to say?”
“I don’t care. Anything. Tell me how much you hate me if you want, just keep talking.”
“I don’t hate you.”
In spite of the pain, his denial made her laugh. “You’ve spent the past fifty years hating my guts. Don’t insult my intelligence by denying it.”
Frustration seeped into his voice as he muttered something in Russian. He inserted the thin jaws of the pliers into the open wound, and the sound of metal scraping against what she hoped was the bullet nearly made her gag.
“I don’t hate you. I hate what you represent. There’s a difference.”
“Yeah, well, it all feels the same when you treat me like shit.”
Dmitri’s left hand tightened on top of her shoulder. The pliers twisted, pain spiked down her arm, and she gritted her teeth so hard it was a miracle her molars didn’t crack. Tears blurred her vision, and just as she was about to beg him to stop, she heard the plinking of metal on the table.
“Almost there,” Dmitri said. His fingers gingerly probed the skin around the wound. It hurt, but she was too worn out to protest. “Just one more fragment and we’re done.”
Gwen closed her eyes as a wave of nausea washed over her.
“For what it’s worth, I had no intention of killing you that night.” He paused to wipe the sweat from hi
s forehead. “You were the only person at the Pit who treated me with any measure of human decency.”
“What?” For a moment, she was struck speechless. “Then why the hell did you shoot me?”
“I was aiming at Speicher, but Myers grabbed my arm as I pulled the trigger. Hitting you was purely accidental. You, on the other hand, deliberately shot me.”
She twisted her neck so she could see his face. “Well, what did you expect? You shot me first!”
The needle-nose pliers dug back into the wound, and the pain and pressure were so intense she whimpered. A faint grunt escaped his lips, and then he placed a small chunk of metal next to the larger fragment. “Got it.”
She heaved out a sigh of relief as her head slumped. Any longer, and she might have embarrassed herself by crying like a little girl. Her shoulder throbbed and felt like it was on fire, but at least the worst was over.
He didn’t speak as he cleaned the area around the wound with paper towels and rubbing alcohol. His touch was light as he dabbed at the blood, pulling back whenever she flinched. Finished, he used a few pieces of medical tape to fasten gauze over the incision. The pain began to subside gradually, replaced with an acute prickly sensation that signaled the start of the healing process. By morning, she’d be good as new.
Dmitri scooped up the wads of bloody paper towels and dumped them in the nearby trash can. He picked up the bottle of Jack Daniel’s, chugged the last little bit at the bottom, and tossed the empty bottle in the trash as well.
“How do you feel?” he asked. “You look pale.”
“I’m okay.” Actually, she felt like death warmed over. How fitting. She glanced down at her bloody, ruined shirt. A thin strip of fabric held up the right side and kept her breast from being exposed. “I need a fresh shirt. Could you get my bag out of the trunk?”
“Your bag’s on the floor by the back seat.”
“Huh?” That didn’t make sense. She’d placed it in the trunk herself. “How did it get there?”
“I needed room. The asshole that shot you—”
“Tommy.”
He arched one eyebrow. “You know him?”
She nodded. “Tommy Cooper. He’s one of the missing Charleston reapers.”
“Well, he’s not missing anymore. I locked the fucker in the trunk.”
“You caught them?” Why hadn’t he told her before? Probably because he was too busy digging a bullet out of her body.
Dmitri frowned. “The driver got away. He ran across four lanes of traffic and disappeared into the woods. His partner, though, made the incorrect assumption that a firearm gave him the advantage.”
“What did you do to him?”
“You mean aside from locking him in the trunk?” The grin he flashed was pure evil. “I broke all five fingers on his dominant hand as well as both arms. Then I bound him with duct tape and shoved him in the trunk.”
She blinked. Blinked again. “And nobody stopped or called the police while this was all going on?”
He shrugged. “If anyone called the police, we were long gone before they arrived.”
“Jesus.” Not thinking about her injury, she reached up to scrub a hand across her face and cringed at the slash of pain. “What do you want to do with him?”
He looked at her as if the answer was obvious. “Interrogate him. What else?”
Chapter 6
Interrogation. The word twisted Gwen’s stomach in knots.
The years peeled back in her troubled mind, to the days at the Pit when Dmitri was tortured. Strapped to the chair. Pumped full of drugs. Beaten and bloodied.
Unable to meet his steely gaze, she stared straight down at her shoelaces.
“If it doesn’t bother me, it shouldn’t bother you,” his deep voice rumbled from a few feet away.
She looked up at him, aghast. For a split second her vision flashed, and she saw him hanging from the ceiling by his wrists, his naked body covered in welts and his feet barely touching the floor. “How can it not bother you?”
“I simply refuse to acknowledge it.” There was an edge to his voice and a hardness in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. He could deny the truth all he wanted, but she knew better. “We have a job to do, Gwenya. Failure isn’t an option.”
She swallowed hard against the lump in her throat. If he could push the past aside for the sake of their mission, so could she. Gathering her courage, she tipped up her chin, squared her shoulders, and blew out a heavy exhale. “Okay. How do you want to play this? You want me to take the first shot at him, or would you rather do it?”
He rubbed one hand against the back of his neck. “Why don’t you go first? A woman playing bad cop might throw him off balance.”
Good point. Most men automatically placed the woman in the soft-touch role. And even though she hated to admit it, this was her area of expertise. All of her jobs at the Bureau had involved either protecting or extracting intelligence. “How hard do you want me to push him?”
“That’s up to you. It’s not like you have to worry about killing him.”
She mentally cringed. Another image of Dmitri bubbled up from her memory, this one from the time Williams beat him so badly he lost consciousness for a day and a half. No wonder Dmitri had killed the bastard first when he broke free.
In the name of duty she’d do as he asked, but that didn’t mean she had to like it. And she certainly didn’t want Dmitri to watch. That would be way too uncomfortable for both of them.
“All right, let’s get this over with,” she said. “Where is he?”
“Still locked in the trunk. Where do you want him?”
Quickly, she surveyed the interior of the shop. “How about that little office in the back?” Rounding the counter, she flipped on the light and peered inside. There wasn’t much to see besides an old wood desk, two mismatched chairs, and a three-drawer beige file cabinet. A calendar with bikini girls hung on the wall behind the desk, right next to a corkboard cluttered with pictures and papers. “Think you can secure him to that chair by the cabinet?”
“It shouldn’t pose a problem.”
“Good.” She glanced down at her ruined shirt. “I’ll change while you get him in place.”
In the time it took Gwen to remove her bloodied shirt and put on a clean tank top, Dmitri had hauled Tommy out of the trunk, dragged him into the office, tied him to a chair, and covered his eyes with a bandana. Her shoulder ached from the simple act of changing, and her wound had bled through the bandages. Dmitri took one look at her as he emerged from the office and shook his head.
“What?” Was her tank top on backward or inside out? She glanced down to check.
“You’re bleeding through your shirt. Come here.” He walked behind the service desk and retrieved the first aid kit. Placing the little plastic box on the counter, he pulled out the gauze and medical tape. Gently, he pushed aside the strap of her top. “Hold this.”
With a nod, she gripped the fabric with her left hand and pulled it away from the wound. Dmitri worked quickly, his touch light as he removed the old dressing and cleaned the area with an antiseptic wipe.
“I feel better knowing you’re uncomfortable with the prospect of interrogating Cooper,” he said without looking at her. There was a hint of warmth in his voice that let her know he was being sincere. He placed a fresh bandage over the wound and secured it with a few pieces of medical tape.
“What kind of person would I be if I enjoyed this?”
“The kind I was expecting.” He met her gaze, and something flickered in his eyes that she couldn’t quite identify. Before she figured out what it was, he turned his head and cleared his throat. “Limit your movements with this arm for the next hour or so. Otherwise, it’ll take longer to heal.”
“Okay.” With her good arm, she reached out and touched his hand. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Several moments passed while he stared down at her, his eyes hard and uncompromising, but not without compassion. “Are you sure yo
u’re up for this?”
“Yeah.” The casual lie rolled off her tongue. The injury and the alcohol had left her shaky, but she refused to admit weakness to Dmitri. “Anything in particular you want me to ask?”
He shook his head. “Just find out what Ziegler’s up to.” Rounding the counter, he put the remaining supplies back in the first aid kit and put the kit away. “Hold on, there is one thing.” He dug a hand into his back pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “I found this when I searched his wallet.”
Gwen unfolded the sheet to find a picture of what appeared to be a circular stone artifact. The surface looked polished but the edges were rough, with a series of etchings covering every square inch. Holding the paper closer, she studied the intricate markings. A vague sense of familiarity swept over her, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was. Egyptian? Sumerian? Honestly, she had no idea. It was going to drive her crazy until she figured it out.
Or until she ripped the answer from Tommy.
She folded the paper and shoved it in her pocket with a renewed sense of determination. “I’ll find out what he knows.”
“Anything you need?”
“Just my bag.” Normally, she’d carry it herself, but the injury to her shoulder made that impractical. “I left it in the bathroom. Could you move it to the desk for me?”
“Not a problem.”
“Oh, and one more thing,” she said as he started to leave.
“Name it.”
Averting her gaze, she stared at the wall above his head. “I … I can’t have you in there while I’m doing this. It’s … well … you know … too weird, I guess.”
What looked like relief flashed over him and disappeared just as quickly. “As you wish.” He grabbed her bag and placed it in the room. When he came out, he asked, “How will I know if you need me?”
“Is there any chance he’ll get loose?”
He looked insulted that she’d considered the possibility. “No.”
“In that case, I won’t need you.”
He arched a brow. “And how will I know when he’s ready to talk?”
She caught his gaze and held it. “Trust me, you’ll know.”
