Page 8 of Ride the Whirlwind

From where he was, still protecting Ardan, Brodie heard the sound of the car doors opening and saw two pairs of dress pants-clad legs getting out from it. Gathering all his courage, he raised his head, examining the faces of the two men who were looking at him and Ardan with undisguised curiosity.

“Help him, please.” Brodie raised a bloodied hand in a pleading gesture. “Take him to The Base. I think he's bleeding internally. His husband is a doctor, he'll...” He moved his lips a few times, but the words refused to come out, then he collapsed on top of Ardan.

“What base? Hey, stay with me, my friend.” The older of the two men touched Brodie on the shoulder, making him burst into a violent coughing fit without waking up. “He's in bad shape, and I suspect the one underneath him is even worse.” he turned to the other, younger man. “We need to get them to the nearest hospital.”

“Master, you’ve always allowed me to speak freely.” The younger man dipped his head. “We don't know anything about these men and can't take them to a hospital and just leave them there. Besides, our flight would be delayed for a few hours, which wouldn't be so much if it wasn't for the other two delays. Our men back home are worried.”

“Yes, you’re right,” the older man, who seemed to be the other one's boss, nodded. “We’re lucky to have Doc Douglas with us. He'll take care of the two during the flight, keep them hydrated, and will give them painkillers if needed. Go get the boys and let's move them into the plane, I'll message Doc to get his first-aid kit ready.”

The younger man nodded respectfully, headed to the plane, and came back ten minutes later, accompanied by four solidly built men. “Let's move them as carefully as we can, ladies, Doc Douglas won't be happy if we bring him two dead bodies.”

“Viggo is right,” the boss said in a deep, rich voice. “Both of them are in pretty rough shape, especially the one underneath. Let's make their last hours a little more comfortable, if nothing more.”

Without a word, the men transported Brodie and Ardan to the jet with utmost care, as if they were made of glass, and laid them on the couches in the plane's lounge area. A man in his early-to-mid-forties appeared from somewhere in the back, carrying a large bag, and gasped in shock at the sight the two injured men.

Mumbling something about him not being a god, he checked the men's vital signs, shaking his head in disbelief when he felt that Ardan still had a pulse. Then, the doctor opened the bag, retrieving two syringes and a few vials from it. That should keep them alive until we arrive at the villa, he thought, sighing, although this poor fellow here is almost at the gates of heaven or hell.

Over the almost two decades he’d spent in the service of his best friend and benefactor, Doc Douglas, as everyone called him, dealt with a lot of wounds and traumas inflicted by brutal beatings. However, the injuries of the man with dirty-blond hair told a horrible story of the immense hatred and anger directed toward him. It was like his attackers tried to annihilate the guy, to destroy any trace of his existence from the face of the Earth.

Hadn't he miraculously escaped, the aggressors would have turned him into a heap of bloody flesh and crushed bones, impossible to identify even by his closest relatives. Until he arrived at his friend's villa, the doctor couldn't accurately assess the blond and establish the severity of his injuries, but after a superficial examination, he wasn't sure the man would survive more than a week.

Like he could read the doctor's thoughts, the man let out a barely audible groan, then tried to speak. Right then, the doctor was busy taking the other patient's temperature and didn't notice the actions of the blond. Ten seconds later, he froze in place when a hand grabbed him by the gown, and he gasped in shock when he met the blond's unusual turquoise eyes.

“Hang in there, my friend. We’re on our way to San Francisco. Once there, I'll do everything in my power to get you back on track. You'll be back to your old, troublemaking self in no time.” Doctor Douglas offered his patient a professional smile, hoping his words didn't sound false and hollow.

The blond inhaled sharply, tiny beads of sweat breaking on the surface of his forehead's and neck's skin. “I want...home,” he whispered. “Spitfire will fix me. Please,” he said in a tired voice.

“You can't go home, not in this state,” the doctor gently spoke, putting one hand on the patient's forehead. No fever yet. Maybe he doesn't have any internal bleeding, he thought, sighing in relief. “What's your name?”

“Ardan MacNamara. Please.” The blond closed his eyes. “Spitfire...the children... Pater...they'll be worried. Call them. they have to know...” A grimace of pain contorted the man's face, and his head lulled to one side as he convulsively squeezed the doctor's hand.

“Ardan, are you all right?” Panic crept in Doc Douglas' voice as he checked the patient's pulse. “I don't understand,” he murmured, touching the man's skin, now hot as fire. He was fine a few minutes ago. Internal bleeding, the doctor thought, terrified, He's as good as dead.

CHAPTER 7

Graeme McGowan, or Master as almost all his subordinates and associates called him, stared at the phone for the thousandth time since Fadyen, one of his protegees, messaged him that the jet had landed at the small private airport he used. One more hour, he thought with a serene smile on his face, and my most beloved Keith will be home.

It was the last mission Graeme entrusted him with, a relatively simple one, but waiting for him to come back was a torture. The man took his wallet from the small coffee table, opened it, and pulled out a small photo, running the pad of his thumb over the image of a honey-blond young man with big, turquoise eyes and a melancholic smile.

Keith. The greatest present life gave Graeme, his pride and joy, the one he chose as a successor. The organization his grandfather, father, and he had put so much time, sweat, and blood into building couldn't be in more competent, firmer hands, the man thought, a smile of satisfaction and fatherly pride stretching across his face.

For the last twenty years, Graeme watched over Keith with the affection of a father, taking care of his needs and helping him in every way he could. However, no matter how much he offered his young protegee, he couldn't forgive himself for not being there for him during the first five years of his life where he was subjected to a cruel, degrading treatment.

The soft sound of shoes on the plush carpet pulled Graeme out of his thoughts, making him raise his head. Doctor Douglas MacNabb, his lifelong, most trusted friend, was standing in front of him, looking tired and defeated. “Poor guy has a lot on his plate. He’s in dire need of a break, a very long one,” Graeme said to himself.

“Any news from the boys?” Douglas' question was spoken in a barely audible voice. “Tell me they are all right and on their way home. I don't want to hear more bad news. I've had my fair share lately.”

“Fadyen messaged me about half an hour ago that the jet just landed. Both of them are in top shape and most likely hungry like a pack of wolves.” Graeme smiled again, his stern features softening.

“Aren't they all always hungry? Fadyen, Viggo, Camlann, even me... I never understood your compulsion to gather all these unwanted, abandoned souls, give them a home, and take care of them. Well, Camlann is an exception, but what about the others?”

“Why did you become a doctor?” Graeme smiled at the expression on his friend's face. “That's right, to heal people, to treat them so they can have a normal life again. Speaking of, how are your patients?” The man's voice became concerned when he said the last part.

“The brown-haired older one slips in and out of consciousness, always asking about his friend. His wounds are healing nicely, and he will be completely out of danger in a couple of weeks. However, the other one...” The doctor plopped down on an armchair, sighing. “In all these years, I’ve never seen someone who fought for his life more desperately than this guy, with a greater, stronger will to live, but...” The doctor stopped, his stare blank.

“But what? Let's give him this chance. I trust your abilities, always did. If someone can bring the fella back, you are the one.” Graeme's voice was passionate, his eyes shining with admiration for the one in front of him.

“Our blond friend may be a hell of a fighter, but he needs care around the clock. I'm sorry to disappoint you, Master, but you'll have to find someone else for the job. I'm needed at home.” Doctor Douglas lowered his head, making great efforts to stop his hands from shaking.

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