“You’re hit.”
“I’m okay.”
Dudnyk kneeled, gently moved her head to one side. Her right cheek and ear were covered in crimson, hungry mosquitos flying to the wound.
He swatted them away. “Just a nick of the earlobe. A shard of canopy glass.”
“I better not have lost an earring.”
“Better earring than ear.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped clean her face, brushed away the glass. “Press this close for a few minutes.”
She smiled weakly, took the cloth. “Why, Ilya, I believe you care? Are you developing a conscience?”
“Not if I can help it... Just don’t want you leaving a trail of blood. More paperwork to file if someone confuses you for a murder victim.”
“We’ll all be victims if this continues.” Her smile faded. “I’ve got bad news, Ilya. I recognized the sound of that g*n.
