Butterfly Stomp Waltz

Chapter 31

31

The minivan smells like the back of a decommissioned garbage truck. I’m exhausted, but Bradley’s driving and Rob’s even more done in than I am and Jacka’s oozing on the back seat. Blood’s seeping over tattered cloth and into exposed foam padding.

Jacka doesn’t complain, though.

He doesn’t say anything.

I snatch the big combat medical kit from under the bench seat, strip off my gore-drenched gloves, and get to work. Working by penlight clenched between my teeth, I strap a layer of bandages over Jacka’s shoulder and tighten everything further. I want to know how badly Jacka’s hurt, but I don’t dare cut away his sodden shirt or the makeshift bandages duct-taped over them. His thin face is always pale, but now he’s the color of bleached paper.

If Jacka lives long enough to get to a doctor, it’ll be a miracle.

But that miracle demands a little help from me.

Fortunately, I’d spent a whole month under the tutelage of an emergency room physician who was short on cash and long on gambling debts.

I pull an IV kit out of the medical kit and rip it open.

The minivan turns a corner, its suspension creaking and bouncing with the motion. I spread my knees further, trying to brace myself and not drop any of the plastic bits in the IV kit.

When the minivan straightens, I swab the inside of Jacka’s uninjured arm with an alcohol wipe. “Needle time.”

Bradley lets the minivan glide to a halt.

The only light is the tiny LED flashlight chomped between my front teeth. I’m parched, but somehow my mouth is watering and the flashlight growing slick. I need two tries to hit the vein.

The second I say “Go,” we’re in motion down vacant two-lane roads.

I hang the bag of blood expander from the crudgy Jesus bar and let myself relax.

Everything that can be done, is done.

Jacka’s filling the bench seat and Rob’s riding shotgun—with a real shotgun. I sag and turn to sit cross-legged on the floor between Rob and Bradley. Jacka’s blood soaks half my heavy camo shirt. People slurry from the armored thug has transformed the other half into a paper mache shell.

The minivan’s carpet feels grimy and leprous. For just a moment, I consider unearthing my bloody gloves from beneath the used medical supplies, tools, and wrappers I flung into the door well. Instead, I put my hands in my lap and lean against the bench seat. Jacka’s warmth feels good against my shoulder blades.

I escaped Noah’s estate physically unscathed, but my muscles and joints hurt like I’ve been bludgeoned by a squad of Marines with maces. If lugging Jacka out of Noah’s estate had exhausted me, poor Rob must be a wreck.

I burn to pull out my laptop and study the data we pulled from Noah’s house. See exactly how Deke betrayed me. Dried gore cracks across my knuckles as my fingers twitch against imagined keys. But the laptop is behind the bench seat, buried in the pile of gear. I constantly fight not to talk, to shout, to scream.

When we hit Newcastle, it had been Deke’s idea to have me go into the ceiling and watch the security cameras while everyone else went into the labs. Having a sentry had seemed a sensible, rational precaution. Had Deke given me that role to save my life? To protect me, when everyone else in the team was going to die?

He’d betrayed us. He’d betrayed me.

And he’d regret protecting me.

I need to relax, but the tension ricochets around my body like a pinball. Every time the minivan hits a little bump, the floor lurches and knocks me against a seat, or the floor, or just rattles my bones against each other.

Fuming helps nobody. Not even me. Instead, I try to clear my mind and focus on my breath, my heartbeat. Meditating forty-odd stories above the ground was easier, but minute by minute I hold myself together against Deke’s shattering treachery.

The rest of the ride is in darkness. The only sounds are the groan of the minivan’s neglected transmission and Jacka’s lurching breath.

But when we reach the safe house half an hour later, Jacka’s still breathing.