“Yeah, he made a deal with Peters, nothing that concerns us.” Stalin heaves as he gets up, and I quickly tiptoe back towards the master bedroom, then walk down the hall as though I’ve not just eavesdropped in on their conversation. Stalin appears, looking peaky as hell. I’d been so stunned by their conversation, I had completely forgotten why I was hurrying to get him. Callan.
Chapter Twenty-One
“Callan looks off, pale,” I say quietly. Like you, I want to add, but don’t. Callan is putty-coloured compared to Stalin, and I’m sure he lost more blood.
“Okay, I’m coming,” he says. He stares at me and clears his throat. “Maybe put some more clothes on.” His suggestion sends my cheeks pink. I’m wearing a camisole and thong.
“Shit. Yes.” I hurry back to Callan and search his walk-in wardrobe. I pick up a pair of gym shorts, tugging them on just in time. Both men wander in, and we all stand over Callan. “I mean, usually he’d have leapt up by now and pointed his gun at us,” I whisper, eyeing them both.
Stalin walks around to lean and press a hand to him.
“Tone, give Jefferson a call. He may need a transfusion.” Tony doesn't wait for further information. He is pulling his phone out and talking rapidly into it. Stalin persists with lifting Callan’s eyelids and nudging him. “Cal, can you hear me? Wake up, you stubborn fucker.”
Nothing.
“Oh, God. We should have done something last night. We left him all this time,” I say tearfully. What if he dies? I crawl onto the bed and try to wake him, too. “Callan, open your eyes. Can you hear me? You’re scaring me?” After a few minutes and the barest of mumbles from Callan, we are waiting tensely for this Jefferson bloke to arrive. I can’t help but pace. I move from him to the en-suite and back again. I’m too scared to touch him, terrified to be too far away, and his pallor is rapidly decreasing. The door goes thirty minutes later, and Tony leaves the room to let Jefferson in.
Two heavy sets of feet pound down the hall and come rushing in. Without a word, both of Callan’s men begin putting together an IV stand and the new guy, Jefferson, who is tall, bald, and aged, begins taking Callan’s vitals. He is focused only on the man in the bed.
“Pulse is weak. He has a low fever too.” He looks up, and his eyes fall still on me.
“I stitched his stomach. I didn’t know what I was doing. His arm is bad.” I chew my lip and drop into the wide chair in the corner.
The doctor guy nods. “I’ve seen him in worse conditions. This isn’t his first rodeo.”
“Jefferson!” Stalin snaps.
Without a word, the older man turns his attention back to Callan.
“He needs antibiotics and possibly a transfusion. I’ll administer antibiotics first and then an intravenous of fluid. If that doesn’t do the trick, then we’ll look at a transfusion. I have his blood type on hand,” he says before moving about to hang the drip and insert a cannula into his arm.
The room is silent and tense as we all wait around for Callan to miraculously spring back into action.
“How much blood loss?” Jefferson asks.
“A lot,” Stalin admits gruffly, eyeing me cautiously.
“Car was swimming in blood, and the place looked massacred when I arrived last night,” Tony adds carelessly.
“Oh god.” I breathe, rubbing my stomach. There was so much blood, but the place is spotless now. If it weren’t for the unconscious man in the bed, no one would suspect a thing.
“Tony, get Zara a drink before she passes out,” Stalin snaps, his tone warning the other man to keep his tongue in check. With an irritated look in my direction, Tony stalks off, and silence settles once more.
Although Jefferson is here for Callan, I can’t help but worry about Stalin, too.
“Will he be okay?” I ask, looking at Jefferson.
“Sure will. He’s in good health. Nothing some meds and rest won’t cure.” He is polite and concise, clean and kind. I would never assume or suspect he was messed up with the likes of these three criminals. His own shock at my presence makes me think he feels the same about me.
“Okay, good.”
“You’ll get your freedom,” Stalin spits, firing daggers at me. My mouth drops open and morphs quickly into an angry scowl.
“I wasn’t concerned about that!” I shout back. “Stalin was injured. He looks pale too and probably needs checking over,” I say in a rush to the doctor and head out of the room. I can’t be in there, not when Callan is so lifeless. His silence and unresponsiveness reminds me just how human he really is. He’s always seemed larger than life, immortal and untouchable that I forgot he is just a man. He bleeds like the rest of us, and seeing him in such a state gives me the wake-up call I need to realise turning to him for help was a selfish and cowardly thing to do. I should fight my own battles. Win my own wars. Escape my own past without inflicting harm on others. I find Tony in the kitchen and slip onto the stool. Wordlessly, he passes my green tea.
“Thanks.”
“Sure.” He doesn’t even look at me, but walks off back to his boss. Does he blame me? Is this related to Yovenko’s? Why won't they tell me if the Russians are here in London?