Wasn’t that the sort of shit the Agency ought to have known?
Beside him, Gabriela whimpered in her sleep—then jerked awake.
Dylan took her hand. “It’s okay, Gabi. You’re safe.”
She pressed a palm against her side, pain on her face. “Where are we?”
“We just passed a sign that said Arincón. It shouldn’t be long now. You’ve slept for about two hours.”
“Sorry. I should be doing something useful.”
“You’ve done enough.”
They pulled into Maracaibo just after sunrise. Dylan checked them into a cheap motel just off the highway—no security cameras, no elevators, no questions asked. The room wasn’t fancy, but it was clean and had a private bathroom and AC.
Gabriela took off her blood-stained shirt and jeans. “I want a shower.”
“You can wash your hands and face, but no shower—not for at least twenty-four hours. That wound needs time to heal first.” He set his backpack down. “I’ll give you some morphine, clean it, and stitch you up.”
“Morphine?”
“Believe me. It will be better that way.”
She washed her hands and face and set her bloody T-shirt and jeans in the sink to soak. “I think I’m going to need new clothes.”
Dylan laid a towel across the bed and got what he needed from the first aid kit—gloves, sterile tweezers, suture kit, morphine. “Get comfortable.”
“Have you ever done this before?”
“I trained to be our Team’s back-up medic, and the answer is yes.”
“Is it going to be bad?” She lay down, centering herself over the towel.
Dylan put a pillow beneath her head. “I have to remove the bullet fragments, or you’ll get an infection. That’s what the morphine is for.”
She watched him, clearly nervous. “I trust you.”
He twisted the top off the auto-injector. “This is going to make you feel sleepy and light-headed. It won’t take all the pain away, but it will help. Ready?”
She nodded.
He punched the auto-injector into her quadriceps.
She gasped at the prick, and then her eyes went wide.
She reached for him. “Dylan?”
He took her hand. “It’s just the drug. Have you ever had morphine before?”
“Never. It feels … so strange.”
“I’m going to wash my hands now while it kicks in. I’ll be right back.” He walked into the bathroom, turned on the tap, reached for an unopened bar of soap.
“Dylan? Will I see you again after we get home? You can’t just pop into my life like this and then disappear. I don’t want to say goodbye.”
His pulse picked up. “I don’t want that either.”
Part of Dylan wondered if he would come to regret saying that, but it was the truth. Then again, she was on ten mgs of morphine. She probably wouldn’t remember this conversation anyway.