Uncharted(30)

“What the hell are you doing?” he snaps, racing to my side and snatching it from my grip.

“The flask. Where is it?”

His eyes narrow. His hands are fisted so tight in the green canvas, his knuckles have gone white. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I recognize this as a fear reaction. He’s afraid… of me. Of what I plan to do. Perhaps that’s what I should be feeling, too — fear. The prospect of cutting off a limb should scare me. Instead, all I feel is grim resolve. It’s stolen over my senses, gripped me with unshakeable fingers until I’m filled with nothing except determination to save Ian’s life, no matter the cost.

“Beck.” I look up at him, imploring. “The flask. Please.”

His face is etched with disbelief. “You’re serious about this.”

I nod.

“You want to cut off a man’s leg with nothing more than a Bowie knife and some whisky.”

I nod again.

He leans closer. “We have no pain meds. Nothing to keep him from experiencing every excruciating instant of what you’re about to put him through. You realize that, don’t you?”

My lower lip quivers. I bite down on it until I taste blood and give a terse nod. “I do.”

“He may be unconscious now, but I doubt he’ll stay that way if we start hacking off his body parts.”

My eyes prick with tears. I fight them back. “We have no choice.”

“We could let him go!” Beck runs a hand through his hair, exasperation blasting from every molecule of his body. “We could let him die in peace.”

“You think he’s at peace?” I laugh bitterly. “He’s in pain, Beck. Besides that leg wound, he’s a young, fit, healthy man — he’ll take a long time to die, you can count on that. Not just hours of suffering. Days. A week, even.” I shake my head. “I can’t let him linger in pain. Not when we can do something about it.”

He’s silent.

“Unless you’re still willing to — how did you phrase it?” I sneer. “Put him to rest.”

At least a minute of total silence passes without either of us speaking a word or breaking eye contact. A staring contest for the ages. His jaw ticks rhythmically, a bomb set to detonate at any second.

“How would you even begin to know what to do?” he mutters finally.

“My mom is a— she’s a doctor.”

Okay. So, that’s technically a lie. But saying my mommy is a veterinarian just doesn’t carry the same weight.

I hurry on. “She’s talked me through more than a few of her surgeries, over the years. Plus, I had basic first aid training as a sailing instructor.”

He glances at the sky, as if someone up there is going to offer divine intervention. I think I hear him muttering something about a damn sailing instructor who thinks she’s a damn surgeon under his damn breath, but it’s pretty hard to make out his low tones.

“Beck.”

His eyes return to mine. “Please… Tell me you’re kidding.”

“I can’t.”

“God dammit, Violet, you are the most stubborn—”

His words break off abruptly as Ian unleashes a ghastly groan of pain, drawing both our gazes. I watch him writhe on the pallet of palm fronds for a moment, then glance back at Beck. He’s already staring at me. Beneath the fear and disbelief in his eyes, I see guilt. And something else.

Acceptance.

Without another word of argument, he reaches into his bag, pulls out the flask, and hands it over. I try to take it from his grip, but his fingers tighten as he leans in to my face. “If we kill him, don’t ask me why I didn’t try to talk you out of this.”

“If we kill him,” I snap, yanking the whisky from his grip. “I won’t ask you for a damn thing ever again. That’s a promise.”



We talk through the plan three times.

I catch Beck staring at me like I’m crazy on more than one occasion, but I pointedly ignore him. I have bigger things to worry about.

We rub our hands down with whisky to sterilize them, then sponge a few sips of the alcohol down Ian’s throat. It’s not exactly anesthesia, but I figure it can’t hurt if it numbs even a fraction of his pain.

I carefully probe the breaks in his leg. The worst of them is where the metal impales his thigh. By severing the bone, the shard has actually done most of the work for us. Once we pull it out, we should only have to slice through a few layers of ligament and sinew to complete the amputation.

Only.

“Do you want to talk it through one more time?” I ask, pulse pounding.

Beck shakes his head stoically.

“Are you sure?” I’m suddenly flushed with nerves. “I don’t know if you have the steps down…”

“Violet.”

My wide eyes find his. “Yeah?”

“Breathe.”

I pull a deep breath in through my nose and feel some of my panic abate. I was so calm when it came to convincing him to help. Now that he’s on board, our roles have reversed. He’s remarkably in control; I’m the one spinning out.

“Hey.” Beck’s big hand lands on my shoulder. “You are not alone. I’m here with you. You got it?”

“Got it,” I agree. “But maybe we should sterilize our hands again—”