Tainted blood

Santi

Death is as unique as a fingerprint.

No two people exit this world the same way. Some are shoved into the next life courtesy of a bullet between the eyes, while others are cursed with a slower, more painful crawl. I’ve watched hundreds of men die, some intentionally, some by circumstance. The end comes with a set of snapping jaws, and an iron grip. It’s a sight that you either pray to forget or crave to watch again and again.

I shift my weight, another rough patch of the concrete wall digging into my spine. It might as well be a razor blade, because tonight that craving is absent. Instead, it’s being overpowered by fear.

Fear of death claiming a man I hate.

Fear for her.

It’s an unfamiliar feeling that has every muscle in my shoulders twisted up in knots.

Tilting my head from side to side, I tap the barrel of my gun against my bicep while keeping a steady gaze on the other side of the room. The basement. Legado’s dark underbelly. A place where debts are silenced by four blood stained walls. A place where, tonight, I’ve gone against every instinct to rise and ruin.

After bringing Sanders downstairs as ordered, Rocco managed to control the bleeding, using gravity, tape, and a piece of plastic. Thanks to six months of paramedic training, my head of security has kept my enemy on this side of death’s door.

That was an hour ago. An hour since I called in a favor to save my enemy. An hour since Atlantic City’s most heralded chief of medicine quietly pulled a “borrowed” EMS truck around to the back, only to have swarms of Carrera sicarios strip it clean of supplies. An hour since RJ escorted him down four floors, before I pointed a gun in his face and warned him that his fate depended on Sanders’s.

An hour since Santiago-affiliated blood started staining the floor of my sanctuary.

I’m done waiting.

As I push off the wall, RJ grabs my arm, jerking his head across the room to where Elias Baxter is ripping off his bloody gloves and tossing them onto the stained table beside him. His shoulders round in fatigue as the pretty blonde nurse standing beside him casts her eyes to the floor.

“Well?” I demand. “Is he dead?”

Fucker better not be dead. If he’s dead, I’ll kill him.

The surgeon turns to me, sweat beading along his upper lip. Good. Fear is the best motivator. “No, Mr. Carrera, he’s not dead,” he says solemnly. “He came close a couple times, though.” He motions to where Sanders is lying on an eight foot banquet table, then to a smaller one scattered with supplies from the EMS truck, along with an array of switchblades, kitchen knives, and a half empty bottle of vodka. “This isn’t exactly a sterile working environment...”

“Lo siento, señor. My apologies,” I say sharply. “How inconsiderate of me to be so ill-prepared for the emergency surgery I had no idea would be performed in my casino tonight.”

He swallows hard, but wisely chooses to keep his mouth shut. My tone may be calm, but inside I’m an avalanche of emotions. Rolling faster. Growing deadlier. Minutes away from taking out everything in its path.

Avoiding my stare, he runs his palm along the ring of thi

“You call that lucky?” I ask, waving my gun in Sanders’s direction.

 “Yes, I do. Your friend should be dead. The first bullet passed clean through his shoulder, miraculously missing the brachial plexus and subclavian artery...”

I don’t have time for this shit.

His breath hitches as I center my Glock on his bloodstained lab coat. “Muy bien. Now try it again. In English.”

 At the nurse’s gasp, he turns toward her, giving her a small shake of his head in warning. Naive girl. Smart man. Focusing his attention back on me, he tries to regain whatever authority that title embroidered on his lab coat gives him, but it’s too late for that. His breathing is as rattled as Sanders’s is.

“I-I just meant that no main artery was hit. I’ve stitched the wound, and—barring infection—I don’t foresee any blood vessel damage, loss of motor skills, or worse, risk of amputation.”

Shame. Maybe in losing a limb, he’d gain some humility.

“And the second bullet?”

Baxter glances back at Sanders, the corners of his mouth turning down. “That one is more serious, I’m afraid. Whoever shot him, shot to kill. I can only assume they were aiming for his heart. From the angle of the bullet entry, he moved at the last moment, catching it in the upper abdomen.”

“Any organ damage? Liver? Kidneys? Spleen?” RJ asks, his tone almost as clinical as Baxter’s.

If the situation wasn’t so fucked up, I’d laugh. Blood and bullets are an occupational hazard in our line of work. Getting shot is just part of the job, a rite of passage every sicario wears as a badge of honor. We’ve both watched many men fall. We know what’s survivable and what’s fatal.

“I managed to repair the bowel and place a tube in to drain any excess fluid. That tends to happen when there’s inflammation and traumatic injury, but…” He stares down at the front of his own stained shirt. “It was a mess. There was a lot of blood… A lot of blood.”

No shit. Legado’s tarp lined floors are flooded with it.

“He’s stable for now,” he continues, gathering up the salvageable supplies. “But I urge you to let me take him to the hospital, and fast. I may have stopped the bleeding, but I can’t fight sepsis.”

“No hospitals.”

Ignoring me, RJ clears his throat. “When will he regain consciousness?”

“If he even does?” Baxter mutters, and it’s all I can do not to put a few bullet holes in him. “Could be hours, could be days. When he does, he’s going to be groggy and weak. Best not to get him worked up if you want him to recover.”

“Fuck that,” I say with a growl. “I didn’t have you save him so he could recover. I want answers and then what happens, happens.”

The wave of horror washing across Elias Baxter’s face never gets old. He’s both disgusted and terrified at my lack of regard for human life, but I bankroll his gambling habit, so the good doctor knows to keep his opinions to himself.

Without another word, he motions toward the nurse. Both of them slip past me, a soft breath exiting his chest when I don’t stop him. Why would I? He’s of no use to me anymore. He’ll go home, crawl in bed, and cry himself to sleep over the loss of his precious morality.

Fuck morality.  

Then again…

“Baxter?” I call out over my shoulder.

He stiffens, his fingers curled around the door handle.

“Get some rest and be back here in a few hours with whatever you need to turn this basement into a state of the art hospital room.”

“But...but, I have a job, Carrera,” he stutters. “Responsibilities...”

“Correct. And that job is doing exactly what I say, and your only ‘responsibility’ is keeping that son of a bitch alive.” I swing my gun toward Sanders.

He whips his head around, his eyes wide. “You can’t do that.”

“That fifty-thousand-dollar tab pi

This time, his shoulders slump. He drops his head, a harsh breath spilling from his mouth. “Fine. Come, Gina.” The doe-eyed nurse follows him out, her pale face tipped in shock.