of this ditch, above his heart, so that more blood will flow to his head and upper body. She ransacks her mind for how to treat a pneumothorax, and remembers: tape something non-porous and airtight over the wound, leaving one corner unsealed to allow trapped air to escape. Some kind of plastic square would be perfect. She digs into her money belt and produces a credit card.
"Hurry!" she almost screams.
Jacob stumbles into sight, holding the first-aid box. "I couldn't find a blanket."
"Fine," she says, popping the box open, opening gauze and tape. "Did you call for help?"
"There's an ambulance on the way."
"Good." She tapes the exit wound, using her credit card to seal it off, bandages the entrance wound, and then stacks gauze on top on his chest and tries to apply pressure. It isn't easy with him on his side, but they can't risk changing his position, his neck or spine might be damaged. She works quickly, old reflexes re-emerging, it's been seven years since she worked in an ER but her hands have not forgotten. Veronica's finger is pricked by a damp splinter of bone from a shattered rib. She winces and hopes Prester isn't HIV positive. His blood loss is serious but not critical, not as bad as the guard who died at her feet in the Bwindi jungle, the man Veronica didn't even try to help. Unlike him Prester at least has a chance.
"What shot him? A handgun or a rifle?" she asks, after sucking at her pricked finger and spitting out the blood.
"I think a rifle."
"Shit."
"Is that bad?"
"Rifles are high velocity. They tumble in the wound, they have much higher energy transfer, you get indirect trauma, you can get small entry and exit wounds either side of a massive wound cavity, he could fucking die on us any second. It isn't a good sign he's unconscious."
"I don't know it was a rifle for sure. After you crashed through the fence, he ran back out, grabbed my hiptop, and went back in. I guess he figured they were distracted and wanted to take the chance to plant the trackers."
"Fucking idiot," Veronica mutters.
"Yeah. We're lucky they were even more scared of us than we were of them. Prester was conscious when I got to him, he said something to me. I'm not sure exactly what. I think he said - it doesn't make any sense, but I think he said, 'The Sams are Igloos.'"
Veronica almost releases the pressure bandage. "Igloos? What does that mean?"
"You got me."
"Take your shirt off."
"What?" Jacob asks, amazed.
"Take your shirt off."
He obeys.
"Now hold down this pressure bandage. Firm but not crushing. I'm going to tape it down to make it easier."
Jacob obeys. Once the gauze is half-taped in place - it's a sloppy job, with all the blood, but it should at least help prevent the bandage from slipping away - Veronica drapes Jacob's shirt over Prester's torso, then takes her own shirt off and uses it to cover his midriff. The night is cool, and blood loss saps body heat with dangerous speed. She considers trying to cut down on the blood loss with indirect pressure, pinching shut the major blood vessel that's feeding the wounded area, but it's been so long since she's practiced she can't remember the details of the procedure, and she has a vague memory it might make things worse not better.
"OK," she says. "I think that's all we can do for him. Now we just wait. And hope the ambulance gets to us before whoever shot Prester decides to get curious and come back here."
But neither the ambulance nor the gunmen reach the scene before the police arrive. Veronica has never been so glad to hear howling sirens.
* * *
"Please, I don't understand," Jacob says wearily. "What are we under arrest for?"
The big policeman looks at him as if his question is senseless. "You are under arrest," he repeats.
"I don't think they need a charge," Veronica mutters through clenched teeth. Her eyes are closed and she is breathing hard. Her claustrophobia, Jacob supposes.
"Oh, the charge!" the policeman says, understanding at last. "Your charge will be determined later. Before you go to a judge."
"We have the right to call our embassies."
"Yes, yes. After you are charged. I will see you tomorrow."
The policeman leaves and closes the door behind him. Jacob and Veronica look at each other. She reaches out and takes his hand, clutches it so tightly it's almost painful. He squeezes back in what he hopes is