Lara Lacombe - Lethal Lies

I just need a few hours.

That’s all. Just a little bit of time to make sure Tony was going to survive. Once he was sure the bastard wasn’t going to die on him, he’d make his move and clear his name.

Chapter 2

Jillian kept her eyes on the man lying on the bed as she shrugged off her black coat. She’d entertained a brief but vivid fantasy of kicking her kidnapper in the face and bolting from the room, but logic told her she wouldn’t get far. Besides, she couldn’t leave this man alone to die. It wasn’t in her nature to ignore a person in pain, not if she could do something to help.

She dropped the coat in the chair and scooped the bag of medical supplies off the chipped table. Fishing out a pair of gloves, she pulled them on as she walked over to her patient.

He was young, impossibly so. No older than twenty, she guessed. Another kid caught in the crossfire. Moving carefully, she unzipped his hoodie and peeled it away from his chest. Now that she had light, the blood from his wound was obvious. It had soaked into the fabric, making it cling to his skinny frame.

She felt rather than saw her kidnapper enter the room. He didn’t make a sound, but she sensed a change in the air, a charge that told her he was there. She could feel his gaze on her as she bent over his friend, heavy as a touch. It made her uncomfortable to be the focus of his attention, so she decided to distract him.

“Scissors?”

“What?”

“Do you have scissors?” she asked.

“No.”

“Then give me your knife.”

She felt him hesitate and turned to face him. “I need to cut his clothes away so I can access his injury.”

He stepped forward. “I’ll do it.”

Jillian rolled her eyes, but let him approach. Like she was going to stab him and make a run for it. She wouldn’t get far, not in this weather. And while she didn’t know precisely where they were, she did know they were in the kind of neighborhood where people minded their own business. It was unlikely anyone would offer her assistance, even if she did escape. No, she was stuck here, at least for the next little while.

The man loomed over his friend, blade in hand. He held the knife above his friend’s abdomen for the space of a few heartbeats, and Jillian could have sworn she saw a flash of anger cross his face. But then it was gone and he quickly sliced through the young man’s shirt, taking care not to cut him in the process. He peeled back the ruined cloth, making additional cuts to remove it completely.

He’s so gentle . Shocked at the errant thought, Jillian shook her head. No, he wasn’t gentle. Not at all. He’d attacked her in the parking lot, gripping her arm so tightly she could feel the bruises his fingers had left behind. He’d shoved her into a car, then yanked her out and pushed her into this godforsaken room. Those were not the actions of a gentle man.

But...he hadn’t slapped or hit her when she’d fought him, just used enough force to restrain her. He had kept her from bumping her head as he’d put her in the car. And his touch in the bathroom had been very light, his hand cupping her bound wrists with a softness that surprised her. Now he’d removed the shirt from his injured friend, trying not to jostle the man too much in the process. He didn’t seem like a violent man, but she couldn’t reconcile his behavior with the fact that he had forcibly kidnapped her.

“What’s your name?”

He glanced back at her, his brows lifted in surprise. She could have bitten her tongue off for asking the question—if she knew his name, she’d start seeing him as a person, not the enemy. But it was too late to take the words back, so she held his gaze as he stepped away from his friend, giving her room to stand next to the bed.

He didn’t answer right away and she turned her focus back to the young man, her brain already clicking over into doctor mode. That was what Carla called it anyway, having learned not to attempt a non-patient-related conversation with her when she was engaged. Jillian couldn’t exactly explain it, but it was an almost trance-like state in which her entire consciousness was aimed at the person under her hands.

With his clothing gone, she could see the small bullet hole in Tony’s chest. It was on the right side, more lateral than central, which was likely why he was still alive. It had missed his heart and while it looked a little too high to have affected his liver, she couldn’t be sure. “Help me roll him.”

“You want him on his stomach?”

“No. I want him on his side so I can check for an exit wound and determine the trajectory of the bullet.”

She placed the kidnapper’s hands on the young man’s body, one on his shoulder and the other on his hip. When he was in position, she walked to the other side of the bed, pulling out her penlight as she moved. The lamp on the bedside table didn’t provide as much light as she would like, but it was better than nothing. The man waited for her nod, then pulled in a fluid motion, rolling her patient to his side and triggering a groan from the young man.

Jillian ran the light along his back, noting the hole the bullet left behind when it had exited his body. It was fairly small, indicating he hadn’t been shot by hollowpoint ammunition. It was also almost directly in line with the entrance wound, which meant the bullet hadn’t taken any detours on its way out. Both were good indicators, but he wasn’t out of the woods yet.

She gave another nod and he lowered Tony to his back. She pulled out her stethoscope and placed it on the man’s chest, listening intently. Breath sounds on the left, none on the right. Given the young man’s labored gasps for breath, she’d suspected a pneumothorax, and this confirmed it.

“I need occlusive dressing. Two of them.” He had air in his chest cavity, which prevented his right lung from expanding normally. The first order of business was to seal the bullet holes to keep more air from getting in. Then she could work on restoring his breathing.

She held out her hand, but the expected supplies didn’t materialize. Annoyed, she glanced up to see her kidnapper digging through the bag of supplies.

“Give me that,” she said impatiently, snatching it from his hands and dumping the contents on the bed next to her patient. Gauze, Band-Aid bandages, tape...no occlusive dressing.

“Do you have any plastic bags?”

The man shook his head. Of course not. Fabulous.

“Okay,” she said, thinking out loud. What else could she use to seal off the wounds? “I need you to cut off two squares from the shower curtain liner. Make them about this big—” She held out her hands to demonstrate. “Can you do that?” It was a long shot, but it just might work.

As he left to procure the requested material, Jillian collected the jar of Vaseline, several gauze squares and the roll of white tape. She spread a liberal coat of the petroleum jelly on the gauze, saturating it completely before moving on to the next stack of white squares. By the time she was done, the man had returned from the bathroom with her liner.

“Lay them on the bed. I need you to roll him again.”

Her patient moaned as he was repositioned. The kidnapper grimaced in response, and she realized with a shock that he was upset by the sounds. She was so used to people moaning, crying or screaming that she’d become desensitized, no longer bothered by the sound of a person in pain. In fact, she much preferred it if they made noise—it told her they were still alive and breathing.

“If he’s crying, he’s still here,” she told her kidnapper, uncertain why she offered him such reassurance. Maybe because his unguarded reaction to his friend’s pain made him seem more human, not the dark monster she had painted him as after he’d thrown her in the car.