Page 80 of Damned
Chapter Thirty-Four
Kruze opened his bleary, grit-filled eyes to find the whole gawddamned Sinclair family staring down at him. Chance on one side, Pagan on the other. Some stranger who smelled like sweat and antiseptic was all but sitting on his lap. Had to be a medic, since an oxygen mask was now plastered across Kruze’s face.
“There he is,” the guy said, like Kruze waking the hell up was a good thing. “He’s coming back to us. Good, good. Keep breathing. Deep breaths. Slow and steady. Pagan, can you hold that bag up a little higher? Thanks. Good tourniquet protocol, Chief. Sure glad you were here when he went down. That CAT was one hell of an extreme solution, but I don’t think we could’ve saved him if you hadn’t used it.”
Sandy brown hair, piercing brown eyes, the guy was jittery, running on adrenaline. He kept running his hands over Kruze, checking stuff. The stethoscope under his shirt. The damned blood pressure cuff squeezing the crap out of his upper arm. What felt like a rigid cast wrapped around his neck, suffocating the shit out of him. Whose idea was that? The CAT was essentially a woven nylon belt with an attached windlass, that could be tightened once wrapped around a bleeding wound. But Kruze had never heard of one being used on a guy’s neck before.
“Yeah, well, extreme conditions call for extreme solutions. Had to deal with the bleeder on his side,” Chance explained. “You scared the shit out of me.” He directed that accusation at Kruze. Were those tears in big brother’s eyes?
“Worried the crap outta Sullivan, too,” the medic added. “Glad I was on duty today. Damned helo hovered right over the top of you guys. Thought I was going to land in the river when I fast-roped down. That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever done.”
Kruze blinked up at his brothers. They both looked like shit, but Pagan was pale as a ghost. He’d turned into a walking, talking IV stand, holding two bags, one red, the other clear. Surgical tubing ran from his other arm. How the hell did he get here so fast? Was he donating blood? Now? Shouldn’t he be laying down?
“Kee-risssst…” Kruze tried to cuss, but the word came out too soft inside the oxygen mask, more like a whistle, not his style at all.
“No talking. Stay down, lay down. Keep still until we’re ready to move you,” the medic ordered, his big hand as heavy as a rock on Kruze’s chest, holding him flat to the ground. Not like that was hard to do. Kruze couldn’t even make his tongue and lips work right. “You’re hooked to three IV lines: one saline, one from your brother, and the last the O positive I bought with me. Got another bag if you need it, but I think your brother hooking you to himself the second he got here did the trick.”
Pagan thumped his chest. “You got the good stuff in you now.”
Kruze would’ve laughed if he hadn’t felt like crying.
“You’re severely dehydrated,” the medic continued. “It’s a good thing Pagan showed up when he did. You came damned close to knocking on heaven’s door, buddy.”
Kruze knew thatGuns N Rosessong, but whoever this stranger was, he had it wrong. Kruze wasn’t headed for heaven. Not even Valhalla. That legendary place was reserved for heroes who died in combat, not some bastard who let the people he loved die. He deserved to die alone. If not today, well, then it didn’t matter when. If his carotid was blown, death was a given. He was surprised he’d lasted this long.
One blink, and it seemed Chance time traveled. All of a sudden, he was blocking the sun and leaning over Kruze, damned near spitting in his face. “You’re not alone, gawddamnit. Why can’t you get that through your big, dumb head, brother? You were never alone!”
Kee-rist, did I think that out loud?
“You’re still dumb as shit, though,” Pagan muttered.
Kruze strained to see his baby brother, but there was so much gray fog blurring the view. “Hey,” he whispered, weak as shit. Still talking inside the mask.
He’d no more than uttered that one word, when Chance flipped the mask off his face and stuck a straw between his lips and ordered, “Drink. This here’s the PJ Sinclair sent, Jared Lock. Soon as you’re stable, he’s taking you back to Loring. A helo’s waiting nearby. Sullivan wants you in a hospital.”
“No.” Something was damned wrong with that picture. Kruze huffed through his nose and turned his face from the straw. “Bree. Where’s my Bree?”
Chance cocked his head as if he’d heard something interesting.
“She’s home,” Pagan spoke up. “She’s safe, don’t worry. Took her there myself.”
Kruze lifted up on his elbows as far as he could. He was missing something. Something he’d heard before. Something Vick said...
Bastard said he’d be here by now...
Not coming...
Got a problem to work out...
“Hafta go,” Kruze mumbled. He was pretty sure Bree was that problem, and Harvey Lantz was going after her.
Chance put a hand on his shoulder. “Be still, damnit.”
Kruze found himself looking at blue sky again. “No. Can’t lose her again.”
“You never lost Bree,” Pagan chimed in. “She’s at your house, waiting on your sorry ass.”
“He said‘again’, Pagan. I think he’s talking about someone else,” Chance said. “Aren’t you?” he asked Kruze. “Who else did you lose?”
