The Enraged - Страница 3

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Quinn started to follow, but caught sight of Peter’s crumpled form and slowed, unsure what to do.

Nate came up behind him, carrying the first-aid kit. “I know,” he said. “But we don’t have time.”

Leaving Peter’s body seemed wrong. He deserved more than just being part of the carnage they were leaving behind on the island, but Nate was right. Orlando was in critical shape, and if she didn’t get medical attention soon, she would also die.

Liz put a hand on Quinn’s arm and pulled. “Let’s go.”

He took one last look at Peter before running with Nate and his sister toward the small jet.

The moment the last person had climbed aboard, Nate yelled toward the cockpit, “Go!”

In the back of the plane, Quinn knelt beside Orlando, took her hand in his, and gently squeezed it.

“I’m right here,” he whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He searched her face for some sign that she’d heard him, but saw nothing.

Moments after the plane’s wheels left the runway, Nate tapped him on the shoulder.

“Sorry,” Quinn’s former apprentice said. “I don’t want to disturb you, but, well, it’s just that I’m not sure where to tell the pilot to go.”

Nate had been held captive for several days on Duran Island, arriving there with a black bag over his head, while Quinn had come open-eyed, intent on rescuing Nate and the other men who’d been taken by Javier Romero.

There was only one choice.

“Isla de Cervantes,” Quinn said. The island was a short flight from Duran.

“Okay.” Nate headed toward the cockpit, fighting against the incline of their assent.

Under any other circumstances, Isla de Cervantes would have been out of the question. The events at Duran Island were deeply interwoven with Isla de Cervantes’s political history. Who knew how the authorities were going to react when they discovered what had happened on Duran? If they somehow learned Quinn and the others had been involved, and were still around, there would undoubtedly be questions.

Hard, difficult questions.

What Quinn and the others really needed was assistance from someone in the area, someone who could help cover their tracks. Quinn’s closest contact was Veronique Lucas, based an hour away in Puerto Rico. She had already proved incredibly useful by arranging for the plane they were now using. Maybe she had resources on Isla de Cervantes, too.

The plane was equipped with several satellite phones. The nearest was in a small cabinet next to the bathroom. Quinn retrieved it and made the call.

“Yes?” Veronique answered cautiously.

“It’s Quinn.”

“Quinn?” she said, happily surprised. “Is it martini time al—”

“Veronique, I need your help.”

“More?”

“Orlando’s been shot.”

The playful tone in her voice vanished. “What?”

“We’re flying to Isla de Cervantes now. We need help. Fast.”

“Can you bring her here?”

“Too far. She’s…she’s not doing well.”

“You’re flying into St. Renard’s?” The island’s main airport.

“Unless there’s another place that would be better,” he said.

“No, that’ll be fine. How soon?”

“Fifteen minutes or so, I think. Not much more than that.”

“I’ll have an ambulance waiting.”

Quinn’s gaze flicked to Nate and the three other freed prisoners. “We have others who need medical attention, too.”

“How many?”

“Four, but none are as bad off as Orlando.”

“Understood. So they could wait a little if they had to.”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Let me—”

“One other thing,” he said. “No one can know we’re there. It could get…problematic.”

“You might want to tell me why.”

Quinn hesitated for a moment, but knew if he really wanted her help, she needed to know. “Do you remember a man named Javier Romero?”

“Hell, yeah. Kind of hard to forget.”

He gave her the CliffsNotes version of what had happened on Duran.

“Virgen Santa,” she said when he was done.

“You could also do us a favor and have their navy pick up the boat of Romero’s soldiers that got away. Someone should go to the island pretty soon, too. We left Romero alive, but who knows what Janus did before he came after us.”

“Okay. I need to get working.”

“Thanks, Vee.”

* * *

As Veronique promised, an ambulance was waiting for them when they taxied to a stop.

A doctor, nurse, and two EMTs rushed on board the moment the stairs were in place. Quinn tried to stay nearby as they examined Orlando, but one of the EMTs motioned for him and the others to get off the plane. The only one who was allowed to stay was Lanier. He had O-negative blood, which made him a universal donor, and had taken over transfusion duty from Daeng mid-flight.

As the EMTs carried Orlando off the plane, Quinn caught Lanier’s eye, silently asking how the examination had gone. Grim-faced, Lanier tried to smile, but couldn’t pull it off. Once he and Orlando were in the ambulance, Quinn moved to climb on board with them.

“No room,” the doctor said, motioning for Quinn to stop.

“Make some,” Quinn growled.

After the nurse and doctor exchanged a glance, the nurse scooted over so Quinn could squeeze in next to her.

The ambulance raced from the airport, sirens blaring. Quinn figured they would probably head to Cristo de los Milagros Hospital. It was the largest on the island, and the same hospital he and Orlando had been in less than twenty-four hours before as they’d tried to track down information on Nate’s abductor. But instead of driving into the city where the hospital was, they turned onto a highway that circled around the edge.

The neighborhood they ended up in was a quieter one just south of the capital, composed mainly of what appeared to be industrial businesses and warehouses. A few streets in, they passed through the gate of a walled compound, and stopped in front of a three-story, windowless structure near a double door entrance. Within seconds, the doors swung open and several people ran out, pushing a gurney.

Since Quinn was jammed in at the very back, he opened the ambulance door and hopped out first. Lanier exited next. The EMTs had removed him from the transfusion tube during the ride.

“Háganse a un lado,” a woman next to the gurney said.

Quinn pulled Lanier to the side so they wouldn’t impede the others. Working in concert, the EMTs in the ambulance and the personnel outside carefully transferred Orlando from the vehicle onto the rolling bed. Once straps were secured across her torso, she was pushed into the building.

Quinn grabbed one of the orderlies. “He needs help, too,” he said, motioning to Lanier before taking off after Orlando.

He followed the gurney all the way to the surgical room door, but the staff would let him go no farther. Knowing it was useless to fight, he allowed himself to be escorted to a waiting room, where he pulled out his phone and called Veronique again.

“How is she?” she asked.

“They’ve just taken her into surgery.”

“Did they give you any indication on her chances?”

“No one’s saying anything.” He paused. “Who owns this place?”

“No one you would know.”

“Government run?” he asked.

“No.”

“They must know about it.”

“They probably do,” she said. “But it’s a money generator. Most of the clients are from off island. You know, they come to get procedures done they’d rather their friends back home didn’t know about. So as long as the government receives its cut, it keeps its hands off.”

“You’re sure we’re safe here?”

“You’re safe. Trust me,” she said. “But I’ve gotta say, even if the authorities do find out who you are and what you did, they’re more likely to pin a medal on your chest than throw you in jail.”

* * *

Nate, Lanier, Berkeley, and Curson were all admitted to the nameless hospital and taken to individual rooms. They’d been whipped, electroshocked, and beaten while held prisoner by Romero. Though their wounds were not life threatening, the men were in serious need of treatment and rest. So only Daeng and Liz were able to keep Quinn company while he waited for word on Orlando’s condition.

Two hours passed.

Then three.

Then four.

Every scenario that ran through Quinn’s mind ended with “I’m sorry. We did all we could.” Not knowing what was happening was driving him crazy. More than once, Daeng and Liz had to stop him from leaving the room in search of answers.

“They’ll let us know as soon as they can,” Liz told him. “You’ll only get in the way otherwise.”

When Orlando’s surgeon finally did walk into the waiting room, Quinn braced himself.

“I’m Dr. Montero,” the man said, speaking in nearly unaccented English. “Your friend is very lucky. There is no question she would have died without the transfusion you gave her.”

Quinn stared at him. “She’s alive?” he finally managed to whisper.

The doctor nodded. “At the moment.”

“What do you mean? Are you saying she’s not going to make it?”

The doctor held up a hand, palm out. “It is far too early to know. Your friend was shot three times. One of her kidneys is destroyed, and her left lung was punctured. The third bullet hit her knee. There’s a lot of damage there, but we haven’t had time to fully assess it. We concentrated more on the life-threatening injuries. And even with the transfusions, her blood loss was significant.” He paused. “We believe we’ve removed all the bullet fragments, and she’s stable for now. If she stays that way and is strong enough, she’ll have to go back into surgery in a few days. The next twenty-four hours are critical.”