Promises Part 1 (Bounty Hunters #1)(17)

Duke was using any energy he had left to fight off his assailants, his fists swinging and flying as fast as his racing heart. He hoped he was giving half as good as he was getting. He felt the pain in his fist, knew he’d landed a couple shots, but Aaron was big and probably doped up. Duke wondered if the guy even felt his punches. Something struck him hard across the back of his head and more bright flashes of white appeared before his eyes a split second before the pain registered. It was like nothing he’d felt before. His head felt like it’d been split wide open. He crashed to the ground, hitting the wood floor face-first, the wind knocked out of him. He tried to take in air but it tasted poisonous, the thick, moldy, crack-infused oxygen acrid and bitter on his tongue. Nausea was fast approaching. Duke curled in on himself. Gagged and spit out blood. Oh, fuck.

He could hear the woman’s banshee cries like she had a bullhorn pressed directly against his ear. She was yelling at someone to run… to go. Duke was on his belly. There were loud footsteps around him but he couldn’t see faces. He wasn’t capable of lifting his head, but through squinted eyes he could see the shiny chrome of his weapon on the floor against the wall. He felt if he could just get to it everything would be all right. Sirens wailed. Shots were still being fired. Someone was firing a shotgun or else Duke’s head was so sensitive, every sound was amplified. He pushed off with one knee, but something hard and unforgiving landed across his lower back, followed by another blow and another and another. His last thoughts before he blacked out were of his guys. He hoped they’d at least made it out. Then he welcomed the darkness. Anything to stop the pain.





Duke wasn’t sure where he was or who he was with, but he knew he’d never been as scared in his entire life. He could hear voices, sort of. Faraway sounds, like he was in a tunnel or underwater. His eyes fluttered open but he quickly shut them. The light was blinding and his head felt like someone was driving a corkscrew threw the back of his skull. What the fuck is happening? He was confused. He wanted to try to conjure up memories of his last activities, but it seemed that doing so made his head hurt worse. He realized a few seconds later that he was in an ambulance.

He could hear snatches of the conversation.

“Caucasian male, 45 years old… Unconscious at the scene… Blunt force trauma… Vital signs… Heart rate 112. ETA three minutes.” Duke’s eyes fluttered again. The pain was so severe he wished someone would knock him out again. No sooner had he drifted away than his body was jostled hard and he groaned aloud, his head noting its disapproval of that sound. Next thing he knew, he was moving fast, away from the daylight and into an artificially lit corridor. The smell hit him fast. Antiseptics and chemicals. He was obviously in a hospital, but Duke just wanted to go home and sleep for days. He hoped he got a good doctor who would quickly take pity on him and drug him back to oblivion.

“Duke! Duke! We’re here! Hang in there, man!”

Duke’s eyes danced around him. Quick. Quick was there, close by. He sounded afraid. Duke sighed softly in relief, only meeting slight resistance when he tried to take in more air. At least his best friend was fine. He wondered how bad off he was. When he was wheeled into the room, it immediately came alive with people: nurses, white coats; sounds overloaded his senses, beeping and whirring of machines, what felt like thousands of hands touching him at once. He was trying to breathe through the pain but he couldn’t. Just wasn’t able to take in enough air. He was so confused and dizzy. What was happening to him? It felt almost like an out of body experience.

“BP and oxygen level are dropping.”

“We need a CT, stat. Alert the trauma surgeon and prep an OR.”

OR? OR? As in surgery?

“Sir. Sir. Can you hear me?”

Fuck yes! Stop yelling. Duke groaned. He didn’t think he could muster much else. “P-pain.”

“I know. Hold on. We’re gonna take care of you. I’m Dr. Robertson, the trauma surgeon. We got a lot going on trying to catalogue all your injuries. It appears you have some internal injuries that we need to asses first. I’ll get you something for the pain as fast as I can.”

“My guys,” Duke croaked.

“You got a couple of men outside talking to the police. Don’t try to talk anymore, sir.”

That wouldn’t be a problem. Duke felt a sharp pinch in the crook of his arm; it was only seconds before he began to float. Mmm, that’s much better. He didn’t feel the pain as much as he felt the pressure on his chest. Like someone was sitting on him. He felt his bed moving, his eyes would barely open, but he could see the ceiling moving, too. Where were they taking him? He couldn’t talk, was too drowsy to form a complete thought. Was he going to surgery already? Wait! Wait! Duke closed his eyes. He couldn’t let negative thoughts in if he was indeed about to go under the knife for the first time in his more than forty years of life. He inhaled a very shallow breath and thought of something that made him happy. Ahhh, my honey. He thought of Vaughan.





When Duke woke again, it was pitch dark. In and outside. Memories immediately flooded him. He was in the hospital because a skip and a crazy meth-head junkie bitch had beat the shit out of him. He had no clue how long he’d been asleep or even if it was still the same day. He was sure he was still in the hospital because of the smell, the sounds, and of course the terribly uncomfortable bed. Trying to move, he realized that he had limited mobility. There were wires and cords everywhere. Had he had surgery already? He lifted his right arm to his face and winced when something rock solid connected with his sensitive cheek. He squinted in the darkness, using his other hand to feel around. With his dry lips open in shock, his breathing was even shallower; he realized he had a cast on his right arm. He hoped that was the extent of his injuries but had a sinking feeling it was just the beginning of a long list of ailments.