Future Under Fire - Trish McCallan Page 0,92

dropped his hand and shook his head, the recrimination spreading from his eyes to his face. “You got some mighty fine stitch work to prove it.”

“How odd.” She dropped the sheet and blanket and carefully took the dripping sponge he offered. “I always thought it would hurt getting shot, but I didn’t even feel it.”

Well, that wasn’t quite true. Looking back, she’d had that pain in her side. But it hadn’t felt any worse than a pulled muscle.

“Adrenaline. The flight or fight instinct can drown out everything else.” Lucas pulled a chair next to the bed and all but collapsed in it. “My guess is you were pretty busy at the time.”

“How bad is it?” It felt surreal to even be asking that question. “Nothing hurts.”

“That would be because of the drugs. They got you on some good ones.” His smile looked forced and did nothing to vanquish the guilt on his face. “It was a clean in and out along your left side. An inch or so more to the left and it would have been a graze. Doc says you’ll be fine. Might not even leave a scar.” He paused to scrub a hand down his face. “Jesus, Sarah. I’m sorry. We should have checked you over. We know better, damn it. We should have made sure you were okay.”

It wouldn’t have mattered. If they’d tried to stop her from climbing into that ambulance, she would have fought them.

“I wouldn’t have let you,” she said, as the memories fell fully into place. “I was too focused on Brett. On getting him to the ER. I wouldn’t have let anything hold that up. Not you. Not me.”

Sighing, she lifted the hand without the needle and skimmed it over her stiff, gritty hair. Holy mother of God. She gagged. Her hair felt disgusting. She really, really needed to bathe. As soon as a nurse showed up, she was kicking Lucas out of the room and hopping into the shower—or more like staggering in.

Which reminded her. A nurse wasn’t the only thing her room was missing. “Where’s Devlin?”

“He’s waiting out front for Tag’s surgeon.” Lucas settled against the back of his chair.

He looked exhausted. Circles beneath his eyes. Deep grooves carving the sides of his mouth and stretching across his forehead. His brown eyes were dark and dull. She’d never seen him look so beat.

Obviously, he was more worried about Brett than he’d admitted to her.

“You should go out front and wait with Devlin. I’m fine. Really.” She tried to infuse her voice with perky reassurance but couldn’t quite pull it off.

For one thing, there was no perky left in her drugged, adrenaline-depleted body. And for another, she didn’t want to be alone. She needed the distraction of conversation to keep her mind off the nightmare images that insisted on replaying through her memory.

“What’s wrong?” Lucas asked. Sitting forward he braced his elbows on his knees and stared at her.

She hesitated, then rushed the vision in her head out. Maybe describing it would exorcise it. “I keep hearing that gunshot and seeing Brett fall.” Her voice shook. “And all the blood. I keep seeing all that blood.”

He sighed and stretched his long body before settling back in the chair again. “I’m sorry you had to go through that. The best way to banish those memories is to trade them for happier ones. Every time a bad memory takes hold, think of a happy one. Eventually you’ll train your mind to hold onto the good memories and let the bad ones go.”

Sarah nodded slightly. Interesting. Brett had said something similar when they’d talked about death. She could see that tactic working for the memories involving Brett. There were plenty of happy memories to hold onto there. But Mitch?

Not so much.

A bloody, geyser of crimson…warm wetness showering her.

There were no good memories associated with Mitch to banish the bad.

“What?” Lucas’s voice was quiet—full of understanding.

“Did you find Mitch?” she asked, her voice tentative.

He frowned, his gaze skidding from hers. His hesitation was palpable. He obviously didn’t want to tell her, which told her everything he wasn’t admitting.

“Yeah,” he finally said, grimness glossing the admission.

Her shoulders squared. Her chin set. “He’s dead? Isn’t he?”

He simply nodded.

She tensed. “Did I kill him?”

Sorrow touched his face. “Sarah—”

Her jaw tightened; she held his wandering dark gaze. “Did I?”

“Damn it.”

She barely heard it, the curse was so soft. After a moment he grunted and shook his head. His tone when he finally responded was close to a growl.

“You

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