Page 20 of Savage Saint

He pauses. More tension in his jaw. “No. He collapsed…lost consciousness for a few seconds.”

My stomach tightens at that, but I keep my expression neutral. “Any difficulty breathing?”

“No.”

“Complained of chest pain?”

“No.” He’s pushing me forward again; he still hasn’t released my scrub top. It’s starting to get uncomfortable, but I don’t complain. Instead, I let him walk us down the long corridor toward an open door at the end. I can make out two men inside, multiple hushed voices.

“Just to make sure. Two wounds?”

“Yes.”

I nod, filing away every answer he gives me.

Patient with reported gunshot wounds to the shoulder and a second injury to the right side. Possible through-and-through with heavy bleeding, brief loss of consciousness, but alert afterward. No reported respiratory distress.

Not nearly enough information, but enough to start.

He’ll need an X-ray at minimum, and depending on the trajectories of the bullets, his treatment might be far more than I can provide here. Saint’s rundown leaves too many viable possibilities in the air—I’m not comfortable with any of them.

“Is there a doctor you know or see…” I trail off again, unsure of the club’s protocols. Hospitals aren’t an option; I wouldn’t be here otherwise.

“Yes.”

Thank Christ. “Call him. Now.”

“He’s out of town.”

I stop walking for a moment, letting out a long sigh. One of my hands rubs my forehead, where a headache is forming. Tension. Stress. Sleep-deprived. It’s all of the above, and my eyes are paying for it: they feel swollen and dry. “Call him anyway. Please trust me on this.”

I fear the possibilities.

I’m a nurse, not a doctor, and this place will not have the medical equipment and supplies I’ll need.

“I already did. Sent him a message before picking you up.” Picking me up? That’s what he’s calling it now. He also doesn’t give me any further explanation.

My first instinct is to ask what was said.

If this doc had an opinion or a treatment plan?

But nothing comes out.

There’s a blank space between the hospital parking lot and waking up inside his SUV. Time I can’t account for because my body betrayed me and shut down. I don’t know where we are or how far from my apartment—my family—I am.

A realization that settles heavily in my stomach.

Will I see them again?

“Good. What do you have in there?” I manage to ask, pointing toward the doorway where I catch movement.

“Everything you will need. Now move. You’ve wasted enough time.”

…if he dies, I’ll bury you with him.

“Diosito, please get me out of this,” I mutter under my breath, trying to calm my racing heart and trembling hands as he pushes me forward. This is the worst time to crash. The fingers on my forehead shift to my right temple, and I rub the area in firm circles as the scent of antiseptic hits me.

Something about the familiarity gives me a second wind.