Blood on My Hands

The fresh roll of gauze slipped slightly in my wet fingers as I pulled the dressing tight across Adrian’s torn shoulder. A harsh rattle broke from his chest, his head lolling sideways against the mattress as his eyes rolled back.

I swung my open hand and cracked his cheek with a flat, stinging slap.

"Stay with me, Adrian! Keep your eyes open!"

"Quiet down," he rasped, his voice scraping out weak and thin. "Pass out now, and nobody's watching your back. Take this and go find a spot to hide. Anything moves toward you, pull the trigger, Marcie."

He dragged the heavy semiautomatic from his waistband, his thumb flicking the safety catch with a hollow click before shoving the grip against my chest. The cold metal dragged across my skin, awkward and terrifying.

My hands shook around the checkered grip. I had spent my entire life avoiding a fight, let alone handling a weapon.

"Keep looking at me or I'll scream until the whole house hears," I said, leaning directly into his line of sight so he couldn't look away from my face. It shook me how fixed he was on keeping me alive when his own pulse was flagging.

"Fine," he muttered, swallowing hard. "Just don't make a sound."

"There's lead lodged in your flank and it has to come out before you bleed out. It's going to hurt like hell, but you cannot thrash around." He was twice my size; if he fought me while I was working, I wouldn't stand a chance.

"Do it fast, Marcie. Then get out of sight."

He gave up resisting, his jaw slackening against the sheets. I reached over to the bedside table, seizing the dull utility scissors and a rigid plastic toothbrush I had brought from the counter.

"Bite down on this." I shoved the plastic handle between his molars, praying the plastic wouldn't snap in half.

"I have to widen the opening to get my fingers in to reach the slug," I told him, trying to keep my voice from shaking. "Lie still and don't push me away."

He gave a slight, rigid nod. Most people would have folded on the spot at the thought of dull shears cutting into torn flesh, but he held his ground.

I lined up the blades and snipped into the torn edge of the wound.

Adrian let out a choked sound, his teeth locking into the plastic so hard his jaw shuddered, his torso twitching off the mattress as I pushed my fingers past the bloodied fat and muscle. Slick, hot tissue closed around my knuckles. I probed blindly through the torn muscle fibers until my fingernail hit something solid and jagged.

"I've got it," I breathed out, instantly regretting the noise.

I clamped my grip on the deformed slug and wrenched it free. The bloody chunk of lead dropped onto the hardwood with a hard clatter.

Heavy boots pounded against the floorboards right outside the corridor.

"Hide! Move!" Adrian pushed up on one elbow, his voice cracking from the strain.

I backed away from the bed, my bloodied hands snatching the heavy pistol off the covers. Adrian had taken a bullet to pull me out of the foyer; I wasn't going to let them finish him off on a mattress.

The bedroom door slammed inward, rebounding hard against the drywall.

The two men who had dragged me out of the restaurant filled the opening, their shirts stiff with dried spray. Seeing me standing there with trembling hands, their expressions twisted into smug grins.

I didn't think. I lined up the barrel and pulled the trigger.

The gun kicked brutally against my wrists, roaring twice in rapid succession. The lead caught both men before their smirks could drop, their heavy bodies dropping flat across the threshold.

"Oh god," I gasped, the ringing in my ears cutting through the lingering smoke.

Two men lay dead on the floorboards, their blood pooling toward the hallway rug. My stomach pitched violently, but the shock turned into raw survival. I scrambled over the bodies, slammed the heavy door, and threw the brass deadbolt into place.

I hurried back to Adrian. He was curled on his good side, coughing shallow, ragged breaths.

"Stay down," I told him, pressing my hand against his shoulder.

"Get in the damn closet," he snapped, his knuckles digging into the bloody sheet as he shoved at my knee. "Now. Move."

"I'm going, but you're not bleeding to death while I do."

I grabbed the hem of my ruined dress, hauled hard, and ripped off a long, broad strip of fabric. Wrapping it twice around his waist over the raw opening, I pulled the knot tight against his flesh until he let out a low grunt and sealed it with his own hands.

"Go," he ground out. "I've got it."

I grabbed a heavy side chair by the backrest, ran to the walk-in closet, and yanked the door shut behind me. I wedged the top of the chair frame hard under the knob, bracing it against the floorboards.

Backing into the darkest corner beneath the hanging coats, I slid down to the floor, pulling my knees up and keeping the gun aimed directly at the center of the door. The coats carried the faint scent of cedar and expensive cologne.

Downstairs, the house exploded into violence. Gunfire echoed through the vents, accompanied by shouts and shattering glass, before the noise finally choked off into an unbearable, suffocating quiet.

The silence pressed in from every direction.

Sitting in the pitch-black space, the weight of the last twenty-four hours slammed through me all at once. The kidnapping from the dinner table, the hands on my clothes in the basement, the chains against cold concrete, the wet drag of digging out that bullet with my bare fingers, and the two men dying on the floor in front of me.

My fingers gave out, the pistol sinking into my lap as I pulled myself into a tight ball in the corner, sobbing until I couldn't breathe.