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Surely, we were keeping the hospital staff busy. Over eighty of our people were here. Some Harlem Crew, others Brotherhood.
Meanwhile, my gaze remained fixed on the large window in front of me that offered a glimpse into Maxwell’s room in the ICU.
A constant flow of professionals darted in and out of his room, their hands moving deftly as they adjusted IV lines, reviewed charts, or offered quick words to my mouse.
The air-conditioned breeze hit my bare, wounded skin.
On my left, a nurse worked meticulously to stitch a deep gash in my side where a bullet had lodged itself before being expertly removed.
She cleared her throat and looked up at me. “Please lift your arm, sir.”
I raised it.
My men guarded several feet away on both sides with their guns out, ready to shoot any cartel members attempting to finish what they started.
Besides the nurse stitching me up, another moved around to my right arm, cleaning cuts and abrasions with a gentle yet firm touch. The sting of antiseptic on my raw wounds forced me to grit my teeth.
The pain wasn’t just a single note; it was an orchestra of sharp stabs, dull throbs, and searing burns that played across my body, each wound a different instrument of torment.
But it all paled in comparison to the gut-wrenching sight of Emily’s anguish.
My heart constricted in my chest, aching at her suffering.
Mysh. . .
In Maxwell’s room, her silhouette was a study in despair, shoulders slumped and body quivering with sobs that even the thick glass couldn’t completely muffle.
I returned my focus to Maxwell, lying unconscious on the hospital bed.
My gaze roved over his bandaged chest, the IV lines snaking in and out of his skin, the heart monitor casting an eerie glow on his face.
Off to his side, he had a maze of wires and tubes connecting his body to other machines that beeped and whirred in a constant, grim rhythm.
It was the soundtrack to our current nightmare.
No sign of movement came from him, just the mechanical rise and fall of his chest.
I thought about the bullets that had torn through him, and this heavy weight pressed down on my sanity.
The one that hit his chest had been the most terrifying, given the proximity to his heart and other organs. His doctor was concerned about pneumothorax—a condition that could collapse his lungs.
One bullet hit Maxwell’s arm. Another pierced his thigh.
Thankfully, both went straight through.
No foreign objects were left inside, but the potential damage to muscles, bones, and blood vessels could not be underestimated.
The doctor planned to give us a more thorough report tomorrow.
Then, there was the bullet that struck his abdomen. The thought of it possibly damaging his liver or spleen was enough to send shivers down my spine.
The final bullet had been lodged in his shoulder. Fortunately, the dense networks of nerves and blood vessels were unharmed.
They shot you five times. That could not have been a coincidence. Did they know who you were?
The fact that Maxwell still hadn’t woken up yet could be due to the anesthesia, the shock his body was enduring, or the medications meant to keep him sedated and pain-free.
Regardless, the nurses had urged my mouse to be patient, explaining that waking up after such traumatic injuries and surgeries would take time and that they wanted to ensure he was stable and not in pain when he finally did awaken.
