Authors: Monette Michaels
Cold Day in Hell (27 page)
She waved a hand toward the woman. A short, sharp pain bit her shoulder where her tote bag straps rubbed; she probably got hit by shrapnel from all the flying bullets. She’d have Risto look at it later when he had calmed down some. “I was being human and helping another. I know it was crazy, but…” she eyed the moaning woman as the hotel desk clerk competently took over from Risto, “…she was nice to me and she didn’t deserve to lie there and bleed to death. Plus, I knew you’d have my back.”
“Next time let me save the innocents, okay?” Risto grabbed her by the arms and shook her. “You could’ve been killed.” She winced and let out a groan. “Callie?” His slitted gaze swept over her front, then he turned her and swore as only a marine could.
“You’re fucking shot!”
Risto tore off the long-sleeved shirt, forcing her to drop her tote. The straps abraded the wound as the bag fell.
Holy shit that hurt.
Do not faint, Calista Jean. It’s just a
scratch.
She angled her head to look over her shoulder and saw a bloody gouge across the upper part of her shoulder. “I’m fine.” She bent over to reach for her bag, but Risto’s iron grip on her arms held her still. “Risto,” she smoothed a hand over his tense jaw, “my injury can wait until we get to the boat.” She broke away from his hands, picked up her bag, and started toward Dario. The wound hurt like a throbbing sore tooth, but it was bearable—just. She dug deep into reserves she never knew she had and headed for the back way out of the bar.
Risto pulled her back to him, this time avoiding her wound. “Don’t ever fucking pull away from me, woman. Now, drop the fucking bag, hold the fuck still and let me look at it. You’re bleeding like a stuck pig.”
He was exaggerating since she knew the wound only bled sluggishly. But with all the f-bombs flying, she decided she’d better do as he said. The usually calm and controlled soldier was well on his way to freaking out. Pissing off an irate marine never produced good results. She wouldn’t be surprised to see steam pouring off his body.
Risto held her uninjured arm and angled her so he could see the back of her shoulder.
Despite his anger, he was exceedingly gentle as he pulled away the fabric of her tank top and probed what she knew was only a deep graze. If a bullet or shrapnel were in her, she’d have more pain and wouldn’t have been able to drag the woman as she had.
As Risto swore and fussed, Callie checked the injured woman’s status and found pain-filled golden-brown eyes fixed on her. The woman’s lips formed the word
“
gracias.
” She nodded and whispered, “
de nada
.” Risto’s sigh of relief was hot on her bared shoulder. “Only a graze. It needs to be cleaned and treated because even scratches can fester in the tropics, but otherwise it looks minor. It will scar, though.” His thumb massaged the arm he held.
She threw him an incredulous look over her shoulder. The room swirled around her but instantly settled. She mentally swore not to move so quickly again. “You think I care about that? A life is far more important than a scar. I’d do it again. I was closer. She could’ve died before you got me to safety and then went back for her.” Risto’s gaze still held fire, but the kiss he placed on her good shoulder was gentle and even if he wouldn’t admit it, loving. “I know. But you gave me quite a scare.” He shook her. “Don’t fucking do it again.” He released her. He cleaned the wound with something the hotel clerk handed him. She bit her lip so she wouldn’t cry out at the sting of the antiseptic. Risto applied some pressure and taped something over the wound. “This gauze pad will help control the bleeding until we can get to Teo’s mother’s house. My first aid kit is in the duffle in the dugout.”
Dario waved at them. “Come. It is as safe as it will get. You must leave now. Some local men are here to help you get to your boat safely.”
“But why? Shouldn’t they be taking cover?” asked Callie.
“The woman you saved is the Mayor’s wife. The people of Ungaía are in your debt.
They will protect you as much as they are able. Go now. Quickly. And safe journey to you both.”
Callie allowed Risto to lead her from the hotel kitchen. The sound of gunfire, which had been muted by the thick adobe walls and the metal kitchen equipment, was now louder. It sounded as if World War III had begun in this small backwater of South America. Twenty locals formed a perimeter around them as soon as they exited the building. All of them armed to the teeth with older model submachine guns and hunting rifles and lots and lots of knives and machetes. Risto sheltered her with his body as he hustled her along the rutted ground.
“My tote!” It had all her identification and supplies they might need, including the submachine gun Risto had given her in Cartagena and her Ruger and holster.
“Fuck the tote.” He kept her moving along.
“But my passport, the guns…”
“Here is your bag.” A young man had caught up to them. He handed it to her and smiled shyly. “You saved my mother. Thank you, Risto’s woman.” Callie smiled as she accepted the bag which Risto immediately took from her with a muttered oath about clueless women. “I hope your mother will be okay.”
“With God’s grace.” The young man stayed by her side, his hand on his weapon, his too-old eyes scanning for guerillas.
She chanced a glance at Risto who also scanned for imminent danger, his Glock in his free hand. He must’ve sensed her gaze, because he looked down, a look of concern in his dark eyes. “You hurtin’, sweetheart? Want me to carry you?”
“No, I’m fine.” Of course, at the moment of her denial she stumbled on the uneven ground and jarred her injury. She gasped as blinding pain shot through her. The wound hurt worse now than it had when it occurred. Risto and the teenage boy both reached for her before she fell to her knees.
“Fuck!” Risto swung her up into his arms and began to run. He yelled at their escort.
“Cover us.”
For several minutes, all she could do was hold on with her good arm and bite her lip against the moans and whimpers threatening to erupt from her throat. Damn, she’d managed the incessant pain just fine until he’d picked her up and began his marathon run.
Instead of an occasional throb, now the pain came in unceasing waves. “I … was…” she gasped, “…doing fine.”
“Like hell.” His words came out on a snarl. “You’re in pain and I won’t have it.” She decided nothing she could say would convince him otherwise, so she just laid her head on his shoulder and held on the best she could, hoping they’d stop soon before she threw up.
Finally, she spied a woman waving at them in a hurry-up motion in front of a small, pink shack built out over the river. Their boat, now equipped with what looked like a new and powerful motor, was tied to the dock attached to the small river house.
Risto carried her into the small house and laid her on her good side on an over-stuffed sofa covered in a brightly colored, flower-print fabric. He ripped her tank top off and tossed it to the floor.
Callie squeaked. “No, I’ll get the couch all bloody.” She sat up, covering her naked breasts with her crossed arms, and refused to lie on what had to be the woman’s pride and joy of the scantily furnished house.
“Is okay.” Teo’s mother smiled and placed a thin olive-drab blanket behind Callie.
“Please. Lie down. We clean wound, yes?” The woman looked first to her then to Risto.
“Yes. Get my black duffle,” Risto instructed a worried-looking Teo who stood just beyond the sofa. The teen got an eyeful of her breasts.
Callie buried her face in the blanket. “Naked here.” Well, not exactly, she still wore her jeans, but still.
Risto swore. “Forget you saw those breasts, Teo, or I’ll … never mind.” He took the duffle the boy had retrieved and swung it, one-handed, over the top of the couch and Callie’s body. Knowing how heavy it was, she was impressed. “Thanks, Teo,” Risto said.
“Keep watch, would you?”
“Sí,
Risto. I hope your woman is okay. She is a heroine in our village. We will all pray for her.” The youth left the room.
She could still hear gunfire, but it sounded as if it was getting farther away. She must have spoken her thoughts out loud because Risto answered. “The FARC guerillas realized they’d ticked off the villagers when they accidentally started a war in the middle of the fucking plaza on market day, so they took their fight outside of town into the hills and the forest. The ELN could care less, but the FARC rely on this town for shelter.” Teo’s mother gently cleaned Callie’s wound with something cool and herbal smelling. She nodded her head and added, “The Mayor … he is related to the local FARC
leader. There will have to be … what is the word…” she spoke rapidly in Spanish.
“Reparation,” Callie supplied a second before Risto did. She looked over her wounded shoulder and smiled. He closely observed what the Colombian woman was doing to her, ready to take over. “I guess we’re both pretty good with Spanish.” Risto’s face lightened somewhat from the grim, angry—and worried—man. “Yeah.
How’s the pain, sweetheart?”
“Bearable now that I’m not being jostled.” She laid her head down on the couch, leaving her shoulder tilted so the Señora and Risto could finish tending to it. “It’s just a dull thud now. Whatever the Señora used is numbing it somewhat. I feel sort of woozy.” She’d bet there was some narcotic in it which her open wound allowed to get in her bloodstream. At the moment, she could care less. All she wanted to do was sleep.
“It is a local remedy.” The Señora probed the wound gently. “Looks clean. What do you think, Señor Risto?”
Risto’s much hotter fingers poked and prodded. “Looks good. I’ll put an antibiotic cream on it and we’ll tape it up so nothing gets into it. I’ll check it again when we stop for the night. In this environment, I don’t want to take a chance. Insects will be attracted to the smell of blood.”
After about a minute, Risto came around to the front of the couch. He helped her lie against the cushioned sofa back. Then he pulled the blanket under her around to cover her breasts once again. She clutched at the covering and wished he would hold her; she wanted his heat and touch. She was so very cold all of a sudden and to prove the point she shivered.
Risto sat on a low table in front of the couch and handed her a couple of tablets.
“Take these.”
“What are they?” She took them and examined them for any markings.
“One is a pain killer and the other is a Levaquin. I’m not taking any chances. We’ll treat for infection ahead of time.”
She nodded and absently wondered how the painkiller would mix with the stuff the Señora had used on her wound. She tossed the meds back, took the plastic cup the Señora offered, and drank whatever was in it to help swallow the tabs. It was an icy cold Pepsi.
Callie raised her eyebrows. “Where did this come from? I dropped mine to help the Mayor’s wife.”
Risto cracked a smile for the first time since their interlude in the hotel restroom.
“The Mayor’s son ran back and got you a fresh one.” He sat next to her and pulled her uninjured side against him, then brushed some stray hairs from her cheek. He kissed her hot forehead, his lips felt cool and refreshing. “You have a devoted admirer—and that was before Dario told him you were the world-famous Calista.”
“Well, there goes anonymity.” She felt the pain killer take effect and kind of liked the floating feeling the drug cocktail in her body provided. She yawned, then took a sip of the Pepsi, careful to use both hands so she didn’t drop the cup.
“It would’ve been gone anyway,” she arched a questioning brow and Risto laughed,
“all the soccer fans at the bar recognized you. Those swimsuit issues find their way all over the world.” He rearranged the blanket so none of her upper torso showed at all. She wrinkled her nose at his possessiveness. “Baby, do you have any other clothes in that bottomless tote bag of yours?”
“Not clean and I don’t think…” her words trailed off and she frowned. She couldn’t think. Damn, the drugs had knocked her on her butt.
“No, we don’t want anything which could possibly infect the wound. We’re fighting time and nature in this climate as it is.” He yelled over his shoulder. “Teo, bring me my backpack,
por favor
.” He turned to her and swept a finger down her nose and tapped the end. “You can wear one of my T-shirts and cover it with another of my long-sleeved shirts. I always pack extras for just these sort of situations—except I’m the one usually getting shot. We also need to reapply the insect repellant.” She licked her lips. Why was she so dehydrated? She could barely swallow. And what had she wanted to tell him? Oh, yeah… “Um, I’ll swim in your T-shirt.” She took another sip of her drink and sighed at the cool liquid as it slid down her too-dry and suddenly too-tight throat.
“Tough.” He looked out the doorway. “Plus it’s started to rain again. We need to keep you—and especially the wound—as dry as possible.”
She yawned. A gray fog had sneaked into the edges of her visual field. She tried to reassure Risto that she hardly ever got sick, but words took too much energy. She closed her eyes and let her head fall onto his shoulder.
“Callie, honey, you okay?”
Risto’s voice came from far away. She could feel his arms holding her, feel his blessed heat and smell his unique male scent. She was safe. He would take care of her.
He started to swear again—and the fear in his voice made her want to reassure him, but the grayness in which she floated turned to black.
* * * *
