Page 59 of The Devil

“He’s in no state for this. We should take him to the ER.”

“I’ve seen him dig a bullet out of his thigh,” Malcom tells her, and while she processes, turns back to me. “Through the kitchen there’s an elevator. I’ll see you upstairs as soon as I park the SUV. One of the boys is on his way back with a suturing kit.”

I wrap an arm around Amal, and she puts hers around my waist. I’m leaning some of my weight on her because each step is fucking excruciating, but the wound is low and more of an inconvenience than anything else.

We move swiftly through the kitchen, getting a few glances. Luck is on our side, and a man is just returning after room service deliveries. He stops, his cart half-out, when he gets a look at us.

“Um…”

“Get out,” Amal says, standing taller and moving slightly in front of me.

“The guest elevator is⁠—”

“I said get the fuck out,” she tells him and gives his cart a shove.

I chuckle because it’s funny but pay for it immediately and press my hand harder to my hip. Amal pushes the button and the service elevator groans, climbing to the seventh floor. I press my shoulder against the wall, leaning my weight into it. I’m going to need to sit down pretty soon.

“Is this why you always wear black?” she asks. I raise my eyebrows, not wanting to show how foggy I’m getting. “Hides the blood I guess.”

I take in the cuts on her face, the smears of blood from the glass. It could have been so much worse.

“Jet, I really think we should go to the ER.” She pulls the coat back. “You’re bleeding through your hand.”

“It’s a flesh wound,” I say, looking down at the mess on the elevator floor. At least it’ll be easy to wipe up. No carpet here. “I’ll be fine. Promise.”

The lights flicker just as the elevator reaches the seventh floor and the doors slide open.

When we step out, I almost go down, but a soldier is waiting for us, and he comes to my other side.

“Jesus, Jet! Please!” Amal cries out.

I grit my teeth. We head toward the suite. Amal fumbles with the lock just as the door to the stairs flies open. I have my hand on my weapon in an instant, fresh adrenaline coursing through my veins. But it’s one of my men. He’s new and young.

“Christ! You have a fucking death wish?” I bark.

He puts his hands up. He’s holding a bag from a pharmacy. “I ran back,” he says, which explains why he’s soaked through.

Amal opens the suite door and we move inside, one man standing guard outside.

“Get on the bed,” Amal tells me, walking me to the bedroom.

“Bathroom may be better, considering.”

“I said bed.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say with a salute.

She peels Malcom’s coat off and I remember mine is back at the shop. I liked that coat. I drop onto the bed wincing. The holster comes off next. She sets it on the bed beside us. “We need to get this off,” she says, tugging at my sweater.

I groan as the fabric pulls, stuck to the bloody wound. “Scissors.”

She nods, looks around at the soldier who is turning a little green. He empties out the contents of the bag which contains a suturing kit, extra bandages, alcohol pads, scissors. Amal grabs the scissors and begins to cut away my sweater.

“Too bad about that sweater. It was new,” I try to keep it light, the metal cool against my skin. “Careful now,” I tell her as she begins to peel the fabric away.

The knife wound is low on my hip and on my right side.

“Go get him a whiskey,” Amal tells the soldier who is staring open mouthed at the wound. Once he’s gone, she turns to me. “He looks like he’s going to pass out.”