Brad Thor - The Lions Of Lucerne

Harvath’s belt was made of woven black leather, the type whose buckle can be placed anywhere. He removed it from his cargo pants and quickly wrapped it around the upper section of his left arm, pulling the belt tight, his eyes pinched shut in response to the pain. He looked at his watch and marked when he would need to release the tourniquet. He covered his arm with the bloody windbreaker, hoping to prevent any blood from seeping outside of the jacket, cleaned his hands as best he could, and left the restaurant.

With a snowboard under his right arm, the jacket zipped all the way up, and the helmet and the goggles on, Harvath had his best disguise yet. He moved as fast as his legs would carry him to the gondola and watched for signs of his attackers.

Before getting on board, he bought a hot dog and a couple of cans of Red Bull energy drink. He needed to build his strength back up. A gondola operator pointed at the no eating/no drinking sign.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” said an exasperated Harvath.

The operator wasn’t kidding.

I’ve been shot at, trampled, chased by goats, shot at again, and this guy’s worried about me eating in his precious gondola? What a day, he thought to himself.

After two fast bites of the hot dog, Scot threw the rest of it out and slid the Red Bull into his pocket.

As the gondola drew up the mountain, Harvath stood facing the back, and watched Wengen slowly recede in front of him. He had made it. He was safe, but for how long?

Once at the top of the Männlichen, it was a short but painful walk to the Grindelwald gondola that took him back into the village he’d been in only hours before. The only way down from Grindelwald was the train to Wilderswil. He watched the station carefully, letting two trains go before he decided to get on board. In the station’s bathroom, he had released the tourniquet for a moment of precious relief. The fingers of his left hand had gone numb half an hour ago.

In Wilderswil, he caught the bus to Interlaken’s Centralplatz, where he found a pay phone and called Balmer’s. He told Jackie where he was, that he was hurt and needed her to pick him up.

The weight of the snowboard helmet threatened to crush his neck. He was light-headed, his legs were like rubber bands, and his stomach was churning. He stayed in the phone booth, leaning against the side until Jackie arrived twenty minutes later.

“You look like shit,” was the first thing Jackie said as Scot eased himself into the passenger seat.

“And a gentle bonsoir to you as well, fair lady. Hey, I’m not auditioning for the Chippendales here. I’m hurt. Did you bring the things I asked for?”

“Yes, but I don’t have any experience in this stuff.”

“Didn’t you take that wilderness medicine course in Utah when we all used to go backcountry skiing?”

“Yeah, but that was years ago.”

“I’ll guide you through it step by step.”

“Scot, I don’t think I-”

“Jackie, if I could go to a doctor, I would, but the doctor would ask questions and would probably want to invite the police to take a look. I can’t afford that. You have to do this for me.”

He closed his eyes, and they drove the rest of the way in silence.

In Scot’s room, Jackie produced a small bag that contained everything he had asked for. The guys who ran Jackie’s adventure-sports desk with canyoning, bungee, and rafting trips in the summer had left behind what they joked was their Rambo first aid kit. One of them, an American named Tony, was a certified EMT, and his partner, Paul, had been a registered nurse. There wasn’t much these two couldn’t handle out in the field, and the kit reflected that. Inside Jackie’s bag, which she had dumped onto the bed, was the first aid kit, a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, gauze, and clean bandages.

Scot groaned as he took off the stolen jacket. Jackie gasped when she saw his entire left side caked with blood.

“What the hell happened to you? And don’t tell me you cut yourself shaving.”

“I cut myself shaving.”

“Do you want my help or not?”

“I was shot.”

“Shot? I thought no one knew you were here.”

“Either that or it’s open season on anyone with a bad dye job.”

“But who in Switzerland would want to shoot you?”

“Jackie, I’m a little bit under the weather at the moment. Can we play fifty questions later?”

“Of course. I’m sorry. What do you want me to do?”

“First, let’s get this windbreaker off.”

As Jackie helped him, Scot continued talking. “Now, take the scissors out of the first aid kit, and starting at my cuff, I need you to cut the sweater all the way up to where the tourniquet is and then do the same with the shirt underneath.”

Jackie did as she was told.

“Do me a favor and hand me that towel over there so I can use it as a compress…Thanks. Now, when we release the tourniquet, there might be some more blood, so I want you to be ready. Are you going to be okay? You’re not going to go south on me, are you?”

She shook her head, a few stray wisps of auburn falling into her eyes, which she quickly brushed away.

“All right. Take the needle that looks like a curved half-moon and the coil of black silk out of the kit.”

“I got it. I suppose I thread it the same way I would a regular needle and thread?”

“It should already be threaded.”

“It’s not.”

“Great. Just thread it like a regular needle and go to town. We don’t have time to learn how to do surgical knots.”

Jackie threaded the needle while Scot continued his directions.

“Now, when I release the tourniquet, I want you to tear my sweater and shirt the rest of the way up to my shoulder. I’ll hold the compress on the wound to stop any bleeding. As soon as you have my sleeve out of the way, I’ll pull back the compress and you dump the hydrogen peroxide straight into the wound.”

“How much should I use?”

“Pour a little on the needle right now, and then pour about half the bottle onto my arm.”

“That’s going to hurt.”

“Naw, you think? Listen, Jack, I don’t really have any choice. Are you ready?”

When Jackie nodded, Scot released the tourniquet and let the belt fall to the bed. He placed the clean towel against his arm as Jackie used both hands to tear his sleeves up to the collar. When he saw the peroxide in her hand, he pulled back the compress. The blood flow was not as bad as he’d thought it might be. With a quick look at Jackie to signal he was ready, Scot steeled himself for the pain.

When she poured the peroxide into the gash in his arm, the stew of blood and ripped flesh began to bubble and turn a mucus-looking white. Jackie felt queasy, but didn’t stop until half the bottle had been emptied. The peroxide ran down Scot’s arm and stomach, covering his pants and dripping onto the bed. It felt like hot acid, and he clenched his jaw with a force that was one foot pound of pressure short of cracking his teeth and sending his fillings flying across the room.

When Jackie set the bottle on the nightstand, Scot relaxed his bite and gave her his next instructions. “Now you need to stitch me up.”

“Oh, Scot. I don’t know if I can do that.”

“You’ve got to, Jackie. Just grab the needle and start from the top.”

“But what if I don’t do it right?”

He didn’t have the strength or the patience to argue with her. He did his best to stay calm. “You’ll do fine. C’mon. Start here and work your way down. We’ll make sure you draw the folds together as evenly as possible.”

“It’s going to hurt.”

“You’re such a kidder. That’s what you said about the peroxide, and I was fine,” he lied. “Let’s go.”