Page 60 of Savage Warrior

I’m dimly taking this in through the drugged stupor. “Why did they divert?” I manage. “Is Arina…?”

“Megan knows what she’s doing, bro.” Tony interrupts. He offers me a tight smile. “Hang on in there.”

We land on one of the huge X’s painted on the roof of the clinic. The other Caraksay helicopter is occupying the spot closest to the door, rotors whirling slowly. As we emerge, it takes to the air again.

Jack sprints across the tarmac to greet us, followed by two hospital orderlies wheeling a gurney.

“Where is she?” I croak as Ethan and Tony hoist me onto the stretcher.

“Emergency department. Megan thinks it’s her spleen. Internal bleeding…” Jack trails off, his medical knowledge exhausted.

Mine, too. I decide to save further questions for someone who knows about this shit.

“Why didn’t the helicopter wait?” Ethan demands.

“We took the bastard alive, the one who shot her,” Jack explains. “Well, just about. Shoulder and leg wounds. A lot of blood and pleading in Russian. Well, it sounded like pleading. Couldn’t understand a bloody word. Megan said he’d do for a while, until she can get back to the island to patch him up. Assuming we decide to bother with that. We could just despatch him, but I thought he’d be worth a little chat first.”

Ethan slaps him on the back. “Nice work. He’ll keep.”

I’m wheeled through the roof doors and into a lift. We emerge in a clinical white corridor where we are greeted by the doctor who normally deals with our trauma wounds. Mr Hussein, aka The Seamstress in reference to his skills with a needle, has sewn up more of our soldiers than I can count over the years. He’s good at his job, and there isn’t much he hasn’t seen. He greets Ethan by name, then turns his attention to me.

“Hmm, nasty,” he remarks when he examines my thigh. “Still, let’s see what we can do, shall we?”

I try to sit up. “A woman was brought in a few minutes ago. I need to know how she is.”

“I couldn’t say,” Mr Hussein tells me. “One of my colleagues is looking after her.”

“Can you find out?” I demand. “Ethan…?”

Ethan mutters something to Jack, who nods and strides away. I know I have to settle for that. For now. Grudgingly, I submit to the good doctor’s ministrations.

My thigh throbs like a bitch. I’m assured the wound was clean and the bullet went straight through. This is supposed to be a good thing, but I’m reserving judgement. Freshly bandaged, disinfected, and doped to the eyeballs on antibiotics and yet more painkillers, I insist on being brought down to the intensive care unit where Arina is being treated. She’s still in theatre, but Ethan manages to commandeer a side room where we can wait.

I’d pace the floor if I could but have to settle for pestering the staff for news at every opportunity.

Eventually, a doctor enters, still in surgical scrubs. “Are you here for our Ms Doe” she asks.

They have no details about their patient because the team who brought her in don’t know who she is. I simply nod.

“Perhaps you can provide some information, sir?”

“Yes. She’s Arina Kovalyova. Age nineteen. She speaks Russian and a bit of English.”

“I see. Is she related to you, sir?”

“No. I mean, yes.”

She raises an eyebrow, waiting for me to clarify.

“She’s my wife,” I blurt.

Now it’s Ethan’s turn to lift a surprised eyebrow, but he doesn’t contradict me.

“How is she, Doctor? Can I see her yet?”

“Of course. You must understand she is very poorly. She hasn’t regained consciousness yet…”

“I want to see her,” I insist. “I need to see her…”

---