“I saw three drop.”
“So two?” I ask. “Assuming the hits were fatal.” Brad nods, and I swear I see him wince. “You okay?”
“Dandy,” he grunts, taking the handlebars. “But I really need a fucking drink.”
“Me too,” I mutter. And a Marlboro or twenty.
“Me three,” James adds. “Take me home, mate.” He smacks my shoulder and then massages into it a little. “And thanks.”
Has anyone ever saved The Enigma’s life? Apart from Otto and Goldie, of course.
I smile to myself. Beau saves his life every day.
It’s like the homecoming of Christ when we make it back to shore. The relief on all their faces is palpable. I feel it. One look at Ringo in question and he jerks his head toward the cabin, telling me the women are all inside being fed and watered. “Len’s bringing another car and Doc.”
I nod as James gets off the jet ski and pulls his wetsuit down his chest as he wades out of the water. Beau is waiting for him on the shore, her arms crossed, her eyes scanning every square inch of his body as he approaches her. “Are you okay?” she asks as he lifts an arm, silently ordering her into his side.
He kisses the top of her head when she settles there, seeming to breathe her into him. “I’m okay,” he assures her.
“Fuck.”
I turn and see Brad easing himself off the ski, his face pained. “What’s up?” I ask, watching as he yanks down the zip of his wetsuit and wriggles out of the sleeves on plenty of hisses. “Shit,” I whisper. Blood. Lots of it. My curse pulls James to a stop, makes Ringo throw a few fucks too, and has Otto dashing toward Brad with me, seeing his eyes rolling. “He’s going,” I yell, as he hits the water face first, passing clean out. I splash my way back into the water and turn him over, dragging him to the shore.
“Blood loss,” Otto grunts, assessing the bullet wound in Brad’s shoulder. He lifts him, turning him slightly to see his back. “Straight through.”
I look up when I hear tires, seeing Higham’s car skidding across the gravel. He gets out and paces over, looking as stressed as he should be. But not as stressed as I am. “I said no fucking kills! What the fuck happened back there?”
I’m up in his face like a rabid dog, snarling, probably foaming at the mouth too. “Ten drugged-up, battered, and raped young women, that’s what fucking happened.”
His eyes widen and he wisely backs up, clocking Brad on the ground behind me. “Fuck.”
“Yeah, fuck. Now are you done, ’cause I’m kinda busy?”
“Fuck!” he bellows, kicking the gravel. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
I leave Higham having a fit over the unexpected turn of events and go back to Brad, kneeling beside him with Otto. “Will he be okay?” I ask, assessing his pasty face.
“I’m no Doc.” Otto remains, applying pressure to Brad’s shoulder. “He’s lost a lot of blood.”
I hear a car speeding across gravel and see a Mercedes joining the fleet of vehicles already here. Len jumps out, and I’m relieved to see Doc struggling out of the passenger seat with his brown leather bag. “Here,” I yell, waving him our way. I very nearly go to the old boy, pick him up, and carry him the rest of the way.
Doc creaks down to his knees and starts doing all the things, humming, mumbling, poking, prodding, assessing. “The bullet?” he asks.
“Exited,” Otto says.
“Good. Very good.” Doc slips a line into Brad’s arm and hold up a bag of fluids. “Where was he shot?”
I look at him like he’s stupid. Where the fuck does he think he was shot? His arse? “His shoulder.”
“No,” Doc mutters. “I can see very well he’s been shot in his shoulder, Danny. I’m askingwhere? Here? Can I work on him, or are we in danger?”
“We’re safe.”
“And how long ago? So I may ascertain what I’m dealing with. Fast blood loss, slow?”
“Oh.” I frown, trying to get my brain working.
“About twenty minutes ago, at a guess,” James says, joining me on the ground. I see Beau lower by Brad’s head and stroke his wet hair out of his eyes, true concern splattered across her face. “It was a hairy escape.”