Page 27 of Brutal Truths

I stare into eyes that have no life behind them now. Blood gushes from his wound, the metallic scent hitting me almost instantly as it spreads a bright red pool across the bedspread.

The air crackles with a loud, terrifying scream.

Mine.

My throat burns raw, each sound scraping on the way out, the pain feeding the pounding in my head. Each beat a deafening drum.

In the doorway, the man from before stands.

Our eyes meet.

The sharp scent of smoke curls from the gun in his hand. It mingles with a bone-chilling coldness that permeates the air. I stumble backward, collapsing against the mattress, my muscles weak and trembling.

The world dissolves into a hazy mess as a wave of shock floods my senses.

The last thing I see before my vision fades is the man grabbing the other Russian by his throat, his gun pressed against his forehead.

After that…

I don’t know.

I’m not sure I want to.

Chapter 8

Isabel

The metallic tang of blood still fills my nostrils, sharp and acrid, blurring my mind. I don’t know how long I’ve been lying here after watching a man die right next to me. It’s long enough to replay the incident so many times it feels like a loop I can’t break.

My throat burns, raw from the scream that ripped from my lungs as the bullet tore through the neck of the motherfucker who clocked me in the parking garage. The shock of it knocked me backward just before he hit the bed inches from me, blood bubbling from the wound as it soaked the new comforter, the metallic scent reminding me of the first time I learned what death smelled like.

It was a few months into my surgical rotation. The procedure was supposed to be routine. It was anything but. There’s always a risk when you put someone under, and this patient had an undiagnosed heart condition and an allergic reaction to the anesthesia.

An hour in, everything went tits up.

I lost my first patient on my table.

Death has a scent, and it’s one I’ll never forget—no matter how much I wish I could.

The sharp, pungent scent of smelling salts jolts me upright. A movement I instantly regret. The sudden shift sends the room spinning, nausea roiling through me as my vision blurs and my stomach revolts.

I gag.

A trash can is shoved in front of me, and I grab the cold metal, barely making it in time before I vomit. When it passes, I sit there for a minute, trying to steady myself before I lift my head and survey the unfamiliar room. The chilling silence is broken only by the faint tick of a clock I don’t recognize.

I’ve been moved.

Unlike the room I was in, this one’s been updated.

The walls are painted a deep, nearly black crimson, a shade that’s hard to determine in the faint light. It’s offset by dark cherry wood.

A fire crackles in front of me. Its glow warms the room as I lie on a soft leather couch. The flames keeping the darkness at bay.

A shadowy figure looms, his form indistinct in the dim light as he extends a hand, offering a bottle of ice-cold water.

“Drink slowly.”

The dizziness returns the moment I nod, instantly regretting it. Once it passes, I ask, “What do you want from me?”