Total pages in book: 217
Estimated words: 207224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1036(@200wpm)___ 829(@250wpm)___ 691(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 207224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1036(@200wpm)___ 829(@250wpm)___ 691(@300wpm)
I smile to myself. Beau saves his life every day.
It’s like the homecoming of Christ when we make it back to shore. The relief on all their faces is palpable. I feel it. One look at Ringo in question and he jerks his head toward the cabin, telling me the women are all inside being fed and watered. “Len’s bringing another car and Doc.”
I nod as James gets off the jet ski and pulls his wetsuit down his chest as he wades out of the water. Beau is waiting for him on the shore, her arms crossed, her eyes scanning every square inch of his body as he approaches her. “Are you okay?” she asks as he lifts an arm, silently ordering her into his side.
He kisses the top of her head when she settles there, seeming to breathe her into him. “I’m okay,” he assures her.
“Fuck.”
I turn and see Brad easing himself off the ski, his face pained. “What’s up?” I ask, watching as he yanks down the zip of his wetsuit and wriggles out of the sleeves on plenty of hisses. “Shit,” I whisper. Blood. Lots of it. My curse pulls James to a stop, makes Ringo throw a few fucks too, and has Otto dashing toward Brad with me, seeing his eyes rolling. “He’s going,” I yell, as he hits the water face first, passing clean out. I splash my way back into the water and turn him over, dragging him to the shore.
“Blood loss,” Otto grunts, assessing the bullet wound in Brad’s shoulder. He lifts him, turning him slightly to see his back. “Straight through.”
I look up when I hear tires, seeing Higham’s car skidding across the gravel. He gets out and paces over, looking as stressed as he should be. But not as stressed as I am. “I said no fucking kills! What the fuck happened back there?”
I’m up in his face like a rabid dog, snarling, probably foaming at the mouth too. “Ten drugged-up, battered, and raped young women, that’s what fucking happened.”
His eyes widen and he wisely backs up, clocking Brad on the ground behind me. “Fuck.”
“Yeah, fuck. Now are you done, ’cause I’m kinda busy?”
“Fuck!” he bellows, kicking the gravel. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
I leave Higham having a fit over the unexpected turn of events and go back to Brad, kneeling beside him with Otto. “Will he be okay?” I ask, assessing his pasty face.
“I’m no Doc.” Otto remains, applying pressure to Brad’s shoulder. “He’s lost a lot of blood.”
I hear a car speeding across gravel and see a Mercedes joining the fleet of vehicles already here. Len jumps out, and I’m relieved to see Doc struggling out of the passenger seat with his brown leather bag. “Here,” I yell, waving him our way. I very nearly go to the old boy, pick him up, and carry him the rest of the way.
Doc creaks down to his knees and starts doing all the things, humming, mumbling, poking, prodding, assessing. “The bullet?” he asks.
“Exited,” Otto says.
“Good. Very good.” Doc slips a line into Brad’s arm and hold up a bag of fluids. “Where was he shot?”
I look at him like he’s stupid. Where the fuck does he think he was shot? His arse? “His shoulder.”
“No,” Doc mutters. “I can see very well he’s been shot in his shoulder, Danny. I’m asking where? Here? Can I work on him, or are we in danger?”
“We’re safe.”
“And how long ago? So I may ascertain what I’m dealing with. Fast blood loss, slow?”
“Oh.” I frown, trying to get my brain working.
“About twenty minutes ago, at a guess,” James says, joining me on the ground. I see Beau lower by Brad’s head and stroke his wet hair out of his eyes, true concern splattered across her face. “It was a hairy escape.”
“Adrenaline,” Doc concludes. “It’s quite a fuel when the body needs it.” He stands with effort, holding the bag of fluids, and wags a finger at all of us. “Let’s move him into the car so I may take him back to the house and get some blood in him.”
“You have blood?” I ask, taking Brad’s feet as James gets him under his arms.
“I have everything, Danny,” Doc says, walking alongside us to the car, never taking his eyes off Brad. “Conditioning myself to expect the unexpected has been quite a godsend since I became the private doctor for the world’s most wanted.”
“That’s not official,” James grunts. “We’re not even on the list.”
“And I pray you never are, because I can save you from bullets, burns, and broken bones, but not when you’re behind bars.”
James catches my eye, and he raises his brows, as do I, silently amused.
And quite sobered by Doc’s statement.
We place Brad into the back of one of the Mercs, and Beau tries her hardest to get him comfortable, huffing and puffing, not happy with his position. “I’m going with him,” she declares, slipping into the seat and lifting Brad’s head onto her lap. It’s an endearing sight. Seeing her worry. Seeing her care. Sadness and appreciation in equal measure wash over me. Appreciation for our women. And sadness that Brad hasn’t got his own to fret over him. He has ours, though. Always.