The Espionage Effect(9)

“What is that?”

“Field Cocktail.”

“And the darker colors?” I nodded toward the case, with the medium and darker syringes remaining.

“Stronger Field Cocktails.” He replaced the used syringe into its former spot, needle and all fitting with its now-shorter length. “Each has bioengineered antibacterial and nanotech healing accelerators, the darker ones have more powerful pain killers.”

“Ahhh…” I began to connect the dots. Although he no longer remained classified as a hotel guest. Military operative of some kind began to fit him much better. “So for a bullet burn, all you need is the Shirley-Temple level?”

“Exactly.”

“And the others are for more serious injuries? The strawberry daiquiri?” I tapped a fingernail on the middle, appropriately colored syringe. “The bloody mary?” I tapped the darkest.

He choked out a laugh. “Only if I’m a bloody mess. It’s more like a Hail Mary: when surviving the next few minutes is more important than remaining sharp…or conscious.”

“That strong?” I marveled at the advanced technology.

“Exponentially fast wound healing coupled with a serious morphine dose.”

My gaze trained on one of many faded scars he had. I cocked my head and traced the outline of the tornado-shaped paler skin. “Does the rapid healing cause this tissue distortion?”

He pulled something else from the case, then snapped it shut. “Yes. The more potent the accelerant, the tighter the cells band together in a coil, starting from the most severely wounded tissue, then flaring outward.

With a slight nod as if the subject had been closed, he turned, giving me more of his sculpted back to look at. “You’re turn.”

“Excuse me?”

“You stab. You stitch,” he stated dryly and held up one of the curved needles as the bright-blue suture thread dangled from its end.

A twinge of guilt pierced through me again. But I shook off the annoying sensation, yanking logic back into the forefront: Intruders take the risk of whatever awaited them. My action? Had been the downside of his risk.

“Why does the puncture wound need stitches but not the bullet wound?”

Still processing what he expected of me, I watched as he folded the washcloth until the exposed length showed only clean, white terry again.

Without answering my question, he handed me the third opened alcohol bottle and a folded washcloth over his shoulder. Then he bent forward and tilted his injured shoulder downward. “Pour it slowly, at first. Make sure the wound fills completely.”

“You sure you’re supposed to irrigate a puncture wound?” I’d had brief first aid training one summer as a prerequisite to lifeguard training, which was my only exposure to healing the human body versus unraveling the secrets of the universe.

“I’m sure.” He let out a sigh. “May not be convention, but it works for me.”

Unwilling to debate a subject I knew little about, I did as he asked, pouring tequila at the optimal angle to achieve a narrow stream with just enough force for consistent flow without allowing it to dribble backward down the bottle. When the alcohol hit his skin, he didn’t react—not one flinch or altered breathing.

Unlike the bullet graze, very little fresh blood seeped from the puncture wound I’d inflicted. Clear alcohol filled the deep hole, welled at the top for a split second, then overflowed. I moved the washcloth to catch the reddish-brown excess streaming down.

“Be sure to flush it until you get clear fluid, even if you need another bottle.”

I handed him my empty. “Need it now.”

With a curt nod, he opened the last bottle, grasped the base with a finger and thumb, then lifted it over his shoulder, all without altering the awkward angle of his upper body.

I took the bottle from him. Silence weighed heavy between us in the long seconds that passed as I continued to flush out the wound, but too many questions whirled in my head for me to continue with it. “Why did you get shot?”

“Got in the way of a bullet.”

As if an alternate causality could exist. “How very brave of you.”

“Brave had nothing to do with it, Pink. Wrong place, wrong time.”

“My name’s not ‘Pink’.”

An amused sound followed, like a strangled chuckle. Yet he didn’t move a muscle. “The name suits you.”

When the rust-colored liquid gave way to almost clear, I handed him the empty bottle. “I’m out.” I blotted the washcloth on the skin directly beneath the wound. “Only a slight amount of bright red blood showing.”

He held up the needle.

On a deep swallow, I took it from him. I stared at the puncture wound. Then at the menacing curved needle that gleamed between my fingers. “Okay. About to do this thing.” I gently pressed my forefinger and thumb above and below the small hole in his flesh, attempting to stabilize the site…steady myself.

“Don’t go easy on me. I can handle it.”

After a fortifying breath and a preemptive wince, I pushed the needle forward, piercing his skin. He didn’t flinch, which calmed me, though only marginally. When the needle appeared on the other side, I pulled it through with a steady stroke. “Why does the name suit me?”

Another hook of the needle and another pull-through of the suture thread passed in silence. Maybe he hadn’t heard me. Or he needed all his focus to get stabbed a few more times without any painkillers.