The Sixth Day (A Brit in the FBI #5)(98)

Nicholas pushed down the rage and the fear, pushed away the sight of his father’s body, dead, burned. His mother’s face—he felt the fear clog his throat, then: “You call me the moment you know something. We’re talking to Radu Ardelean, Roman’s twin brother. Do you know where Ardelean is?”

“No, we don’t. The whole operation went sideways. There are several teams heading your way, with medical services. You’re bringing out both the brother and Dr. Marin?”

“To be determined.” Nicholas turned back to Radu. He said, his voice so rough with rage Mike flinched. What had he been told? Nicholas enunciated every word. “Where. Is. Your. Brother?”

Radu shrugged. “So he’s escaped you. I never doubted he’d beat you. Killed your team, did he?”

“He murdered my father!” Nicholas raised his Glock, but he couldn’t get a clear shot. He couldn’t run at him, the oubliette was in his path.

But Isabella saw her chance. She drove her elbow into Radu’s belly, and he went flailing backward. The tubing in both their arms tore free.

There was a moment of silence, then Radu cried out. He was looking at his arm, watching blood begin to well at the site of the needle. He pressed down so hard his knuckles whitened with the pressure, but it didn’t stop the blood. He had to compress the vein so no more blood could get through. It was physically impossible—only it wasn’t. Radu said, his voice strangely calm, remote, “There is hemostatic gauze in the drawer. I need it.”

Mike said, “We can’t get to you. The oubliette is in the way.”

“On the wall, to your left. There’s an override switch. Please, hurry.”

Gareth slapped at the button, and the floor closed. Nicholas rushed to Radu, rolled him onto the hospital bed. Radu cried out in pain and curled into a ball, moaning. “No, don’t touch me, I can’t stand it.”

Mike came up to his side. “All right, it’s all right. We won’t touch you.”

Radu whispered, “The gauze. Please.”

Mike didn’t hesitate. She reached out her hand. Nicholas said, “Don’t, Mike,” but she ignored him and opened the drawer, then stopped short. She looked at Radu.

“I swear to you it’s not a trick. It’s not a trick. The drawer won’t explode. If you don’t get it on the wound, I’m going to bleed to death.”

They saw blood dripping from between his fingers now, saw the stark fear on his face. She pulled open the drawer, saw a stack of military-grade hemostatic gauze packages with the brand name QuikClot on them.

She opened one and slapped it on his arm. “You won’t bleed to death, you’ll see, the pressure will cut off the vein.”

Nicholas quickly released Isabella from the webbing. She ran to stand over Radu, the tubing dangling from the needle in her arm. “What he has, it’s a different kind of illness.”

Radu answered, his voice remote as he stared down at his arm. “Most hemophiliacs can’t simply bleed to death. It’s true, I have a disorder that isn’t treatable. My blood simply won’t clot. Even with the vein compressed, it doesn’t matter.”

Mike said, “What else can we do?”

“Pressure, and the medicine on the counter. The green self-injectable tube. It’s still in development, experimental, but it’s my only chance.”

She had the tube in her hand when she saw the edges of the hemostatic gauze were already red and pooling.

“Inject that into my neck, please. Just here. Please do not touch me with your skin while you do so. I don’t like being touched. Except Isabella. She’s my sister.” He pointed at the artery. He bent his head, and she jammed the auto-injector pen against his neck and depressed the button. He winced but didn’t make a sound.

“This is experimental, how, exactly?” she asked.

“As in I’ve never tried it before. I haven’t had a bleed in years.”

He lifted the edge of the now soaked gauze. Even Mike knew this was bad—the QuikClots were designed to stop bleeding, to save lives on the battlefield, but for Radu, it wasn’t enough to stop a simple IV needle removal. And he believed Isabella’s blood would cure him? She pressed down against the site with all her strength, but it didn’t help, blood still poured out of the wound in his arm. Her hands were red with his blood. But how could that be? Was he bleeding internally?

Mike said, “Your neck is bruising, Radu. It’s almost black.” And she slapped a fresh gauze pack in place, applied more pressure.

Isabella touched his uninjured arm. “We need to get you to a hospital, Radu. Surely they’ll be able to do something.”

Radu said, his voice still remote, almost disinterested, “It won’t matter. The bruising on my neck wasn’t supposed to happen. It means the medicine didn’t work. At the rate I’m bleeding, I’ll be dead soon now.” He raised glazed eyes to their faces. “Roman researched a dozen people, so many that could possibly be of our line, tracked them down, and exsanguinated them to give me their blood. None worked until Isabella.” He gave a laugh so thin and insubstantial it was like smoke. “And now I’m self-exsanguinating.”

The blood was pooling beneath him now, dripping onto the floor.

“We’ve designed a whole life around making sure I didn’t have a bleed. Isabella, you are my only hope.” He spoke to her in that strange, guttural language. She whispered back in the same language, then turned to them. “I’m going to try to hook us back up. My blood—it might help.”