Men were funneling through the front door, some supported between two others, some holding injuries.
“What the hell?” I hurried down the stairs and gawked as the men lay their friends down on the marble floor and inspected wounds. Fear walked across my spine like a spider. Where was Nate?
George still stood watch at the front door, though he helped some of the injured through to spots on the floor. A man wearing baggy khakis and a polo walked in, his wrinkled skin going extra-wrinkly as he stared around at the carnage. He carried a doctor’s bag, the black kind from the movies.
“We need triage. Who’s the worst off? I’ll start there.” His paper-thin voice barely reached my ears, but some of the men raised their hands and waved him over to the injured.
I hurried past the doctor as he said, “Phil’s gone. Damn. Who’s next?”
I tapped George on the shoulder.
“Yeah?” He stared out at the cars in the drive.
“Is Nate okay?”
He shot me a contemptuous look. “Afraid your meal ticket got popped?”
“What?” I wanted to shove him, but his rifle told me to keep my hands to myself. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“I’m busy.” He turned his back and opened the door for another batch of bloodied men.
“Is Nate okay?” I wouldn’t leave until he answered me.
“He took a slug in the arm.” He didn’t even turn to say it to my face. “He’s on his way.”
Relief swelled inside me as I backed away.
“You.” The doctor pointed at me, though his eyes were focused on the young man lying in front of him. “Put pressure on this wound.” He pointed to the man’s thigh where blood soaked through his jeans.
“I’m not trained or anythi—”
“Do it or Will’s going to bleed out!” The doctor reached inside his bag.
I dropped to my knees and pressed my palms against the wound. Will, not much older than I was, winced and took a labored breath.
The doctor yanked up Will’s shirt and shook his head at the bloody spot on his abdomen. It didn’t look like much, though blood trickled from it.
“Keep pressure on him, I’m going to see if the bullet went straight through.” The doctor eased his hand behind Will’s back and felt around. He swore and pulled his hand away. “Came out up past his lung. Probably did all kinds of damage on its way through.”
Will was pale, paler than a person ever should be. My hands began to shake, but I leaned harder on his leg, trying to stanch the flow of blood.
The doctor pressed a bloody hand to his forehead. “Everything’s going to be fine.” He smiled, exuding a sense of comfort I knew he didn’t feel. “We’ll have you patched up in no time.”
Will nodded, his breaths becoming quick and shallow.
The word no played on repeat in my mind. I wouldn’t let Will die. I didn’t know him, had no idea what sort of man he was, but I wouldn’t let him die. This wasn’t happening. No. The doctor reached out to me and pushed me away. I fell back on my ass as Will’s blood began pouring faster.
“Hey!” I struggled forward and replaced my hands on the wound. But it was too late. Will took a gasping breath. I waited for him to take another. It never came.
The doctor pointed at Will’s leg beneath my bloody hands. “We were only prolonging his pain. Better to let him go.” His voice still held comfort, but I didn’t want it.
Someone yelled, “Doc Friar! Jimmy’s hurt bad.”
The doctor rose and attended to the next patient as I sat and stared at the dead man in front of me. Gone. Murdered by someone’s—probably Dmitri’s—bullet. I’d seen so much death that I thought I was numb to it. I was wrong. Will was no one to me, but his death still shook me to my roots.
“Sabrina.”
I looked up. Nate stood above me, and I realized he’d been calling my name and grabbing my shoulder.
He glanced at Will, then the blood on my hands. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Tears spilled down my cheeks. “He’s dead.”
“I know.” His tone gentled, and he knelt down. “Come on.” He pulled me to my feet and walked me up the stairs. Turning into my room, he continued to the en suite bathroom and switched the water on.
“Wash up.” He guided my hands under the faucet. Will’s blood sloshed down the drain, leaving my hands until the water ran clear and the crimson was gone.
“Come here.” He pulled me against his chest. The smell of gunpowder, his cologne, and blood rested on him.
Blood. I realized he was only hugging me with one arm. Pulling back, I inspected his left arm, but couldn’t see much for the suit jacket. “Take this off.”
“It’s okay. Really.”
“No, it isn’t.” I ran my fingers along his shoulders and slid the jacket off. “Oh, god.” Blood had soaked through his light blue dress shirt. “Off.” I hastily unbuttoned his shirt as he offered some weak protests. Once he was bare, I inspected his arm. A small bullet hole along the front of his arm bled. Taking a note from the doctor’s playbook, I lifted his arm and checked along the back of his arm for a matching hole.