Page 75 of SEAL of Valor

“I need your help.” He rolls onto his side to face me, then takes my hand with the one that was propped behind his head. “On the car ride over here, I grabbed something off the belt of the guard next to me.” He presses something hard into my hand.

“What is this?”

“A knife. I need you to use it to re-open the stitches on my lower abdomen.”

“What? No!” I whisper louder than I probably should have. “Weston, you have already taken significant trauma to that side. You can’t take much more.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s already infected, so really, you’ll have to open it again anyway, right?”

“No. That’s not how that works.”

“If you open it and show that I’m bleeding, they’ll come in. It’s dark, which means we have a small window with minimal hostiles. If we’re going to escape, now is the best time. You trust me, right?”

“Of course, but⁠—”

He opens the knife between us and presses the handle into my palm. “Then I’m going to need you to open me back up, Doc.”

“I’m not a doctor. I’m a veterinarian.”

“Remember what Brenda said? I’m an animal.”

“You are absolutely not.”

“Please, Reese,” he urges. “We can’t waste any more time.” He guides my hand gripping the handle of the now-open knife closer to his body. “Right here, pretend you’re giving a shot.”

“I can’t do it.” My hand trembles. Is he serious? He wants me to stab him? What if they don’t come? What if he bleeds out?

“Brenda is going to kill me when this is over, Reese. It’s now, or I don’t walk away.”

That puts it into perspective enough to give me the strength I need to do what he’s asking of me. But it feels an awful lot like driving a blade into my own heart. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper, then plunge the knife into him. He groans, and warm blood trickles down onto my hand.

My stomach rolls, and bile burns my throat. “Oh no. Weston. I’m so sorry. Please—” Heart hammering, I pull the knife out and try to apply pressure, but Weston pushes my hand away and takes the knife.

“Alert the guards to the blood.” His voice is strained, every word a fight to come out. “My stitches reopened, but get out of the way so they can see, then when they come in, you stay on the ground next to the side, okay?”

“Weston—” I cry.

“Tell me you understand.”

“I understand,” I whisper.

He takes a deep breath, but it’s strained. “Okay. Let’s do this. Quick.”

“Help!” I scream as I get to my feet. I bang on the walls. “His stitches opened! He’s bleeding!” I turn toward the camera, then step out of the way as bile burns the back of my throat. Even though I can’t see him, I point in his direction. “He’s going to die if you don’t get me a first-aid kit!”

Seconds tick by until, finally, the hammering of bootsteps just outside fills my ears.

I move back behind Weston, kneeling at his side and leaning down. “Please don’t die.”

“Remember what I told you, Reese,” is all he says as he remains right where he is.

The latch on the door scrapes, and I drop down to the ground, covering the back of my neck.

Soft light floods the container, giving me a full view of Weston’s sweat-slicked skin and his labored breathing. Oh no.

“Seems you boys were a little rough,” Weston chokes out.

The men move in closer, the kit in hand. There are three of them. Three against one man who is barely breathing.