Page 79 of Trapped With the Secret Agent

Blood, so much blood.

Another bang, and something whizzed by her head. She glanced back. Three men in Middle Eastern garb with rifles were firing at them.

Raw anger flared, scorching her from the inside out, melting the terror that had her in its frozen grip.

Without conscious thought she lifted the gun hidden by her sleeve, thumbed the safety off, pointed it, and squeezed the trigger. One man went down. She focused on the chest of another and fired, squeezing over and over again, till nothing happened but an emptyclick,click.

Someone grabbed her from behind. She fought the hands—she would take no more from these people.

“Ma’am,” someone yelled at her. “We have to go!”

A young man in an American military uniform snagged her arm, pulled the empty gun from her hand, and towed her to the chopper. She resisted until she realized Peter was gone, that they were loading his inert form into the helicopter.

She stopped struggling and ran. Three men in army green, automatic rifles cradled in their arms, crouched around the doorway of the chopper, firing at the two remaining terrorists. By the time the chopper lifted off the last two terrorists lay on the ground, their blood-splattered clothes flapping in the turbulence.

* * *

Peter woke up knowingsomething was wrong. He hurt everywhere and couldn’t get his eyes open. Finally, his heavy eyelids rose enough for him to make out walls and a ceiling.

The last thing he remembered was running toward a helicopter.

He looked up.

Yep, that’s definitely a ceiling.

Missing memories weren’t a good sign. He moved his head to one side. Hospital equipment came into view. An automated IV with a bag of clear fluid hanging from a hook, the tubing snaking a trail under the blankets at the foot of the bed, heart monitor, and some other machine with a black rubber hose-type tube running from one side toward him. He followed the trail to his arm, which was encircled by a blood pressure cuff.

Something thin, cold, and hard rubbed against his cheek. He raised one shaky hand to his face, feeling along the tube he found there. His fingers found tape wrapped around it and his nose. A stream of air spilled out of his nostrils.

He looked at his other arm, starting at the shoulder. Nothing, nothing, then...IV tubing sprung from the back of his hand, a red trail leading to another pole standing on that side of the bed. A bag of blood hung from the top of it.

Peter slowly took stock of the rest of his body, or at least the parts he could see. Blankets covered him from mid-chest on down. It didn’t look too bad from his angle, though his entire body, from his toenails to his hair, hurt. How did he get here, and why was he attached to all these machines?

Where was Georgia?

A nurse came in, writing in a binder. She glanced at the machines then jotted down something. She approached his bed, looked at him, and smiled.

“So, you’re awake. Good. How do you feel? Groggy? Upset stomach?”

Peter tried to tell her that he was fine, but no sound came out. His vocal cords didn’t appear to be working. He tried again.

“I’m fine.” His voice sounded raspy and weak. “Where am I?”

“You’re at the US Airbase in Koutu. As soon as the doctors give the ok, you’ll be on your way home.”

That was nice to know, unhelpful, but nice.

“What happened to me? The others, are they ok?”

The nurse put a calming hand on his arm, but he shrugged it off. The effort it took to do so winded him. Peter didn’t like that one bit. Something was very wrong here.

“There’s no need to get upset,” the nurse said. “You had surgery to remove a bullet. All the other people who came in at the same time as you are fine.”

Bullet?

“Where was I shot?”

“I think I’ll let the doctor explain that to you.” She smiled at him as if he were no older than three with a skinned knee. “I’ll just let him know you’re awake.” She disappeared.

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