Page 22 of Tango
The pain in my arm is substantially worse today than yesterday.
I drop the handful of medical supplies I managed to grab while in town earlier on the bathroom counter then search for the bottle of rubbing alcohol amidst the pile. Slowly, I unravel the soiled bandage and study the wound. It’s on the side of my arm, and from what I can tell, the bullet didn’t actually go inside.
I don’t think.
Then again, this is my first gunshot wound, and I could absolutely be wrong. There’s discharge oozing from part of it, and the area around the wound is red and raised. My entire body even feels flushed. I may not know much about gunshot wounds, but I know that this is infected.
Great.
It’s not like I can just go to the doctor. Not when they’re mandated to report all gunshot wounds to the police. The last thing I need is additional attention. So I take a deep breath and open the bottle of alcohol.
You can do this, Alice. It’s just a scrape. Mom helped you with scrapes all the time. Remember what she always said? “Easy peasy, Alice. Easy peasy.” Mini pep talk completed, I lean over the sink and pour alcohol on the injury. Burning pain shoots through my arm, radiating from the wound then traveling down through my hand and up through my shoulder. It takes everything I have in me not to scream.
The neighbors are far enough away that they probably wouldn’t hear, but there’s a popular hiking trail right behind the cabin, and there’s no telling who’s on it. The last thing I need is some poor family of four rushing in here to rescue me from myself.
So I bite down on the inside of my cheek until the coppery tang of blood is all I can taste as I wait for the stinging to stop.
As soon as it’s bearable, I retrieve the tube of antibacterial cream and squeeze it onto a piece of gauze, then press the gauze gently against the wound before tearing an ACE bandage wrap open with my teeth.
After tucking part of it under my arm, I wrap it around, covering the wound, then secure it back to itself.
As soon as it’s done, I take a deep breath.
“Not so bad,” I mutter to myself before sinking down on top of the toilet to catch my breath. As soon as I’m sure I can stand without falling over from the pain, I get to my feet and head into the main room of the cabin.
It’s not much, but the two-bedroom cabin is as close to home as I can safely get. It holds so many great memories, and since I can’t physically be anywhere near my parents right now, this helps me still feel close to them.
I remove my laptop from my bookbag, set it on the table, and open the lid to power it on. Once I’ve grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator, I take a seat and open up a tracking software I’ve used a handful of times.
Normally, it’s how I track down hackers who’ve attempted to breach our software, but this time, I change the parameters to track my dad’s cell phone number. I’d lingered close enough to see them climb into Tucker Hunt’s truck and drive off. Therefore, I can surmise that he took them somewhere safe. Where that somewhere is, I’m not sure yet.
Seconds tick by as the program works on locating my dad’s phone. Then it pings, and a green dot shows up on a map. I take a drink of water as it closes in on the location. As soon as I have it, I open a secondary program and plug in the coordinates.
Hunt Family Ranch, Pine Creek, Texas.
So he did take them with him. Question is, did he do it to protect them like he promised? Or leverage their location to get to me?
“What else can I find on you, Tucker Hunt?” I ask aloud to my empty cabin. Then, because I’m genuinely curious, I open a third program and type his name into a database I have absolutely no right accessing.
But since there’s no one to stop me and I have no intention of causing harm by what I find, I do it anyway.
“Tucker Hunt.” I say his name aloud again as I type it into the search bar. Ramiro used to tease me because he said there could be no one else in the room, and I’d have a full conversation with myself. He’s not wrong. Talking out loud is just something I’ve always done. Even when I was a kid—likely because of all the time I spent alone.
My thoughts drift back to my friend, and a fresh wave of grief washes over me. The fact that I’ll never see him smile again breaks my heart. He had the greatest smile. His entire face would light up.
And while he’d always wanted more between us, he’d respected that I didn’t feel the same. Our friendship was far too important to risk what likely wouldn’t have worked out, given my past track record with relationships.
Look at Logan, for example. Granted, that was more because of how close Ramiro and I are. Were, I correct. How close we were. Tears burn in my eyes, but I blink them away, refocusing my attention on the task at hand. Learning all I can about Tucker Hunt before deciding whether or not I can trust him when I finally do find what I’m looking for.
A handful of boxes pop up, each with different information on the handsome hero who saved my family.
He spent eight years in the army, working his way up from a private all the way to a staff sergeant before leaving the military behind and returning to his family ranch. He has his own army of medals behind him and spent most of his career in the Special Forces.
There are no disciplinary actions in his file, and he was nothing but exemplary while in service.
Next, I move to the search and rescue team he and his brothers operate off their ranch. There are only a handful of articles that talk about them, though I have my suspicions that they’ve done a lot more than what’s mentioned here. One of the many times Ramiro talked about them, he said they do most of their work in the shadows to avoid media attention.
He’d even joked about joining them or his uncle at one point, saying he’d like to do more with his life than sit behind a computer.
