29
Sara
Anton has a few gashes and shallow puncture wounds where the shrapnel from the grenade got his arms, but otherwise, he’s okay. I change his bandages as Peter glowers from the other side of the room, and then I give Anton some instructions on how to take care of the wounds. Not that Peter’s teammate needs them; from what I can tell, these men are pros at treating basic injuries.
“Thank you, Dr. Cobakis,” he says when I’m done, and I smile at him.
Even scary-looking bearded assassins seem to respect the medical profession—when they’re injured, at least.
Peter says something sharp in Russian and crosses the room to stand next to me. “All done?” he asks irritably, glaring down at me, and I match his frown with one of my own.
“Yes, for now.” I have no idea what his problem is, but
