Grave Vengeance (6 page)

“Huh?” With her eyes barely open, she twisted her neck in his direction. Her nose crinkled at the smells of grease and gasoline. “Where are we?”

“Someplace quiet. Do you need help getting out?”

“No, I can do it.” Her voice barely rose above a whisper, her eyes dulled with pain. “Just give me a minute.”

It took three, but she managed to step out of the car on her own. By then, her face was white as a sheet and her legs seemed a little shaky. Refusing the arm he offered, she shuffled toward the door leading to the interior of the shop, and in spite of their differences, he admired her determination.

Once inside, Dmitri led her to the waiting area. He sat her down on one of the chairs before closing all of the blinds. Satisfied they wouldn’t be seen from the road, he fished a few coins from his pocket and bought a bottle of water from the vending machine.

“Drink.”

Without a word of protest, she accepted the bottle he offered. Slowly, as if every movement caused pain, she downed half the water in one long chug. She still looked beat, but at least she wouldn’t pass out from dehydration. “Thank you.”

“Nothing to thank me for.” Expressions of gratitude made him uneasy, especially when he didn’t deserve them. In truth, he was the one who should be grateful. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other and shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “I better check the perimeter. Wait here. When I get back, I’ll patch you up.”

 

This was so not the way she envisioned her day ending.

Gwen leaned forward, propped her left elbow against her knee, and rested her head in her hand. She wanted to lean back and close her tired eyes, but the angle of the chair put too much pressure on the bullet wound. And since the floor looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in a decade, lying on the tiles was off-limits as well.

She was thinking about moving the magazines off the table and lying there when the rear door opened and Dmitri stepped back inside.

“Good, you’re still awake.” He closed the door behind him and crossed the room. Only then did she notice the lines of stress around his eyes. “How do you feel?”

“Like I just got shot.” She knew she sounded bitchy, but at the moment she really didn’t care.

Something crossed his face. Compassion? Sympathy? With him, it was impossible to tell. “You took a bullet for me.” Surprise marked his voice.

“Yeah. Well . . . it didn’t work out the way I intended.” She shrugged and then winced at the pain in her shoulder. Leaning forward, she carefully placed the empty water bottle on the table. A dull throb rippled through her, originating from the point of entry and radiating across her shoulder and down the length of her right arm. Fatigue drained her remaining energy, leaving her muscles weak. Diminished. She closed her eyes and exhaled when a wave of exhaustion made her dizzy.

Dmitri didn’t say anything right away. He reached out with his right hand and touched her back, his palm warm through the thin cotton of her shirt. “Take this off so I can dig out the bullet.”

That got her attention. Her eyes flew open. “Excuse me?”

“There is nothing wrong with your hearing. Your shoulder, on the other hand, requires attention.”

“It’ll heal.”

“True, but you’ll heal faster if I remove the bullet.” He gave her an expectant look. “Can you raise your arms, or would you rather I cut the shirt off?”

How nice of him to give her a choice. Deep down, though, she knew he was right. Already, she could feel the prickly sensation that signaled the beginning of the healing process, but it would take much longer with a foreign object lodged inside her body. And then there was the possibility of the entry wound healing before the bullet was expelled. If that happened, her body would force the slug through the barrier of her newly healed flesh. The prospect made her shudder.

It was just, well, chalk it up to old-school sensibilities, but she wasn’t keen on the idea of stripping down in front of Dmitri. Especially since . . .

“I’m not wearing a bra,” she blurted, and her face flamed with heat. Mother Nature hadn’t gifted her with tons of cleavage, so she usually didn’t bother wearing one unless her shirt was sheer.

The hand on her back tensed. Dmitri didn’t speak for nearly a minute, and when he did his voice was low, guarded. “I promise not to violate your modesty. Now will you allow me to examine the wound?”

What other choice did she have? Gwen bit her bottom lip and nodded. She started to lift her arms, but a fresh jolt of pain brought them back to her sides. “I guess you’ll be cutting it off.”

“As you wish.” He retrieved the knife from his back pocket and pulled open the blade.

Eyes staring straight ahead at the clock on the wall, she tried to ignore the sound of fabric tearing and the feel of cool air against her injured shoulder.

“There’s no need to remove the entire shirt,” he murmured. Gently, gingerly, he probed the skin surrounding the entry wound, and then paused when she sucked air between her teeth. “That’s where the bullet came to rest. I’ll need to make an incision to get it out.”

That so wasn’t what she wanted to hear. “How deep?”

His fingers pressed just below her shoulder blade and she gasped at the pain searing the length of her arm. “Judging by your reaction, the bullet isn’t very deep, but I won’t know for sure until I get in there.”

Crap. Definitely not what she wanted to hear. A Russian with an axe to grind was going to perform surgery on her shoulder without proper equipment, lighting, or anesthesia. Good thing reapers didn’t have to worry about infection or she’d be in for a world of trouble.

“Have you ever done anything like this before?”

“What, you mean operate?”

“Yes.”

“Of course.” He sounded offended by the question. “About six months ago, I dug a bullet from my own leg. I’m certain this will prove much easier.”

His confidence did nothing to settle her nerves. A gunshot wound might not be a big deal for him, but it certainly was for her. Until tonight, she’d only been shot once.

In the chest.

By Dmitri.

How ironic for him to be treating her wound. She took a deep breath and let it out with a whoosh. “Just get it over with, okay?”

“Very well.” He pulled a chair under the light and spun it around. “Sit here. I’ll be back in a minute.” He turned on his heel and vanished through the doorway leading to the garage bays.

Following his instructions but moving slowly, she switched seats and willed her heart to settle. Her muscles ached with nervous energy, like a bowstring ready to be plucked. Minutes ticked by at a crawl, and the anticipation ground on her nerves. Maybe it would be better if she waited for the wound to heal. Eventually, her body would expel the bullet, and what were a few hours in the grand scheme of things? When Dmitri returned, she’d just tell him—

“You’re not getting cold feet, are you?” Dmitri set a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and a roll of paper towels on the table. His face showed no hint of emotion, but the challenge in his voice spoke volumes.

It was just what she needed to gather her courage. No way would she show weakness to this man. She’d never hear the end of it. “No, I’m good.”

With the flip of a switch, the small room flooded with light. “There wasn’t much in the way of supplies, but this should suit our needs.” He placed a pair of needle-nose pliers, an old first aid kit, and his knife next to the paper towels. After unscrewing the cap, he nudged the bottle in her direction. “Drink. It’ll calm your nerves.”

Reluctantly, she reached for the bottle with her uninjured arm. She hated the taste of whiskey, but she needed a little something to help her get through what was about to happen. With a feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach, she raised the bottle to her lips and swallowed a mouthful.

Dmitri chuckled when she gagged. “Sip slowly,
zaika moya
. I need you relaxed, not wasted.”

If her shoulder didn’t hurt so badly, she would have slapped that smirk off his mouth. But instead she kept quiet and did as she was told, taking small sips until the haze of intoxication dulled the pain in her shoulder.

“Much better.” Dmitri took the bottle away from her and set it back on the table. “How do you feel?”

“Like I could sleep for a week.”

“Perfect.”

Still, she flinched when his hand touched her back. “Sorry. I guess I’m still a little tense.”

“I understand.” His hands moved up to her neck and began to rub small circles along the base of her skull. “Your muscles are very tight.”

Wow, he had great hands. His fingers felt like magic against her skin, warm liquid heat melting the knots of tension. Her head tilted forward as her eyes drooped shut, and it took every ounce of discipline not to purr. Relaxation blanketed her mind, her thoughts drifting. . . drifting . . . drifting . . .

She was barely awake when his hands left her neck. Lightly, he touched her bare skin near the bullet wound and a light ripple of pain swept across her shoulder.

“Gwen.” The deep resonance of his voice cut through the alcohol. “Gwen, I need you awake for this part.”

“Huh?” Slowly, she swiveled her head in his direction. She blinked a few times until the blurry double images merged into one. “Why’d you have me drink all that if you wanted me awake?”

“Because I need you relaxed.” His expression softened for a second before hardening back to the one she knew so well. “Now turn your head and stare at the vending machine. On the count of five. One . . .”

The blade dug into her skin. Gwen’s back bowed and she cried out in spite of her best efforts not to show weakness. “Shit, what happened to five?”

“I needed you prepared, but not so prepared you’d brace for the incision.”

The knife sank even deeper, and she bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste blood. Eyes squeezed tight, she took long, deep breaths to keep from hyperventilating. Her stomach roiled as her knuckles turned white against her death grip on the chair.

“You’re doing well,” Dmitri said, his voice even. He set down the knife and picked up the pliers. “Just a minute or two longer, and it will all be over.”

Oh, thank God. If he didn’t finish soon, she’d either puke or pass out. Or both. And wouldn’t that be too embarrassing for words? “Don’t stop talking. Please. It takes my mind off what you’re doing.”

His hands stilled for a moment before resuming their work. “What would you like me to say?”

“I don’t care. Anything. Tell me how much you hate me if you want, just keep talking.”

“I don’t hate you.”

In spite of the pain, his denial made her laugh. “You’ve spent the past fifty years hating my guts. Don’t insult my intelligence by denying it.”

Frustration seeped into his voice as he muttered something in Russian. He inserted the thin jaws of the pliers into the open wound, and the sound of metal scraping against what she hoped was the bullet nearly made her gag.

“I don’t hate you. I hate what you represent. There’s a difference.”

“Yeah, well, it all feels the same when you treat me like shit.”

Dmitri’s left hand tightened on top of her shoulder. The pliers twisted, pain spiked down her arm, and she gritted her teeth so hard it was a miracle her molars didn’t crack. Tears blurred her vision, and just as she was about to beg him to stop, she heard the plinking of metal on the table.

“Almost there,” Dmitri said. His fingers gingerly probed the skin around the wound. It hurt, but she was too worn out to protest. “Just one more fragment and we’re done.”

Gwen closed her eyes as a wave of nausea washed over her.

“For what it’s worth, I had no intention of killing you that night.” He paused to wipe the sweat from his forehead. “You were the only person at the Pit who treated me with any measure of human decency.”

“What?” For a moment, she was struck speechless. “Then why the hell did you shoot me?”

“I was aiming at Speicher, but Myers grabbed my arm as I pulled the trigger. Hitting you was purely accidental. You, on the other hand, deliberately shot me.”

She twisted her neck so she could see his face. “Well, what did you expect? You shot me first!”

The needle-nose pliers dug back into the wound, and the pain and pressure were so intense she whimpered. A faint grunt escaped his lips, and then he placed a small chunk of metal next to the larger fragment. “Got it.”

She heaved out a sigh of relief as her head slumped. Any longer, and she might have embarrassed herself by crying like a little girl. Her shoulder throbbed and felt like it was on fire, but at least the worst was over.

He didn’t speak as he cleaned the area around the wound with paper towels and rubbing alcohol. His touch was light as he dabbed at the blood, pulling back whenever she flinched. Finished, he used a few pieces of medical tape to fasten gauze over the incision. The pain began to subside gradually, replaced with an acute prickly sensation that signaled the start of the healing process. By morning, she’d be good as new.

Dmitri scooped up the wads of bloody paper towels and dumped them in the nearby trash can. He picked up the bottle of Jack Daniel’s, chugged the last little bit at the bottom, and tossed the empty bottle in the trash as well.

“How do you feel?” he asked. “You look pale.”

“I’m okay.” Actually, she felt like death warmed over. How fitting. She glanced down at her bloody, ruined shirt. A thin strip of fabric held up the right side and kept her breast from being exposed. “I need a fresh shirt. Could you get my bag out of the trunk?”

“Your bag’s on the floor by the back seat.”

“Huh?” That didn’t make sense. She’d placed it in the trunk herself. “How did it get there?”

“I needed room. The asshole that shot you—”

“Tommy.”

He arched one eyebrow. “You know him?”

She nodded. “Tommy Cooper. He’s one of the missing Charleston reapers.”