Page 82 of High Velocity

“This one is alive too,” Jonas informs us. “Although barely, he’s got a fucking hole in his head the size of a golf ball.”

“It’s going to take too long to get an ambulance here,” I point out, as I pull my shirt off over my head. I’m not concerned about that piece of shit, he can croak, but I’m worried about Stephanie. “The volunteer ambulance service in Troy was shut down last year. We’re gonna have to drive them out.”

I hand my shirt to Ma as Jonas gets to his feet.

“I’ll go for the truck; we can fit both of them in the back. Call Ewing, get him to organize Life Flight into Kalispell. With the explosion in Libby, the hospital will already be overwhelmed. They fly Koalas and should be able to take two patients at once. Tell them to land at the Troy airfield, we’ll meet them there.”

“What explosion in Libby?” Ma asks, but her husband is already running out the door, and I’m busy trying to get the sheriff on the line.

Less than five minutes later, I’m in the back seat with Stephanie, and Jonas is loading Mitchel Laine into the cargo space with the help of the deputy who followed my stepfather’s Yukon here. The guy tried to make noise about us leaving the scene, but Jonas took care of that in a hurry. He’s now agreed to stay put and guard the crime scene until Junior Ewing—who is on his way—gets here.

Since one of the dead bodies is that of an FBI agent, I’m sure the feds will be crawling all over this place in no time. I have no doubt they’ll want to talk to me, since I’m the one who took that man down, but I don’t give a flying fuck, they’re going to have to wait until I can get Stephanie looked after.

Ma crawls in the back with Laine and Jonas gets behind the wheel. He doesn’t mess around; three minutes later we pull onto the small airfield.

I had my fingers resting on her pulse the entire time.

Stephanie

The first time I opened my eyes, there was a man in a helmet, hanging over me and the noise was overwhelming. I don’t remember anything after that.

This time when I open my eyes, I see the friendly smile of a woman in surgical scrubs.

“Hello there. You’re at Logan Medical in Kalispell. You may feel a little groggy, but that is normal since you just came out of surgery. There is a call button clipped to your gown if you need anything, and a doctor will be in shortly to talk to you.”

She’s gone so quickly; I doubt she heard my whispered reaction. “Surgery?”

I had surgery? How did I end up in Kalispell?

I try to lift my right hand to find this call button she mentioned, but it won’t move. Then I notice my heavily bandaged arm and shoulder. My head starts to pound when I try to remember what happened, so I close my eyes.

I must’ve dozed off again, because this time when I wake up, my entire right side is throbbing with excruciating pain. I quickly close my eyes as a moan escapes me, and I try to find the call button I remember the nurse telling me about.

“Here.” The button is pushed in my hand, as I blink open my eyes and find Jackson’s face hovering over mine. “Welcome back, Hotshot. I think it’s probably time for some pain meds.”

I try to nod but it shoots a sharp pain to my shoulder, which already feels like it’s on fire. My thumb finds the call button and I hold it down until a nurse rushes in a few moments later. She administers something through my IV, and it thankfully doesn’t take too long before the pain becomes more manageable.

“Is that much pain normal?”

She smiles at me. “With this type of surgery, I’m afraid so, but when the doctor gets here, she’ll probably put you on a pump. That way you don’t have to wait for us for your next dose, you can manage the timing yourself.”

The surgeon, a woman I’d guess to be in her mid-to-late fifties with gray hair curling out from under her surgical cap, smiles sweetly as she approaches my bed. She looks more like a cookie-baking grandma than she does someone who cuts open people for a living. As soon as the thought enters my brain, I’m embarrassed to realize I’m stereotyping and how shortsighted it is.

She sits down on the edge of my bed and introduces herself as Dr. Littleton, oblivious to the fact I just mentally placed her in a flour-dusted apron instead of the surgical scrubs she’s wearing.

“You were brought in late yesterday afternoon with a gunshot wound to the shoulder. You’d lost a great deal of blood and were in shock, which we dealt with first. As soon as we safely could, we took you up to surgery to find the bullet ended up lodged in your right scapula. Shoulder blade,” she clarifies.

I’m still trying to come to terms with the fact I apparently lost a substantial chunk of time somewhere, when her next words draw my focus back.

“We were able to recover the bullet, but it had done extensive damage. You had a break in your shoulder blade that required plates and screws to stabilize. There was also damage to your soft tissue, muscle and such, all of which will heal over time. But the most serious damage was done to your brachial plexus.” She uses her hand to illustrate as she explains. “It’s a collection of nerves that runs down from the neck and shoulders into the arms and hands, controlling movement and sensation. Sometimes nerves can regenerate but your case required surgical repair, which involved an entire team. Now, we were lucky we happened to have a neurosurgeon available to step in, because the sooner these repairs can be done, the better your chances of recovery. We were able to harvest a nerve from the back of your right leg and graft it into place in your shoulder. The harvested nerve was a sensory nerve, which means there will be a section of your skin on the back of your leg that no longer has sensation. However, in its new place, it should be able to return some, if not most, of the function of your right arm.”

“Wait,” I interrupt, my heart rate going a mile a minute as my ears start ringing. “Some function? I’m going to have permanent damage? When you say some function, what exactly does that mean?”

Jackson picks up my good hand in his and gives it a little squeeze. It’s a small gesture, but it helps me stay grounded. I immediately start breathing in through my nose, trying to regulate my breathing.

Dr. Littleton offers me a sympathetic smile and a gentle pat on my leg.

“Like I said, the injury was substantial, and even though we were able to get in quickly to do repairs, there is no way to tell to what extent the damage is lasting. But I have to be honest with you; complete, full function is not expected with this type of injury. Recovery will require patience and resolve on the part of the patient. It’ll be a long road of rehabilitation to gain small, incremental steps forward.”

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