With a deep breath, I make the first cut on one side of the bullet entry wound. Time stands still as I insert the pair of surgical steel pincers into the spot. I’m working blindly, and wish this procedure didn’t feel like a scavenger hunt. I don’t know what Tate’s chances are, and we’re out of alternative options.
Tate’s breathing grows shallow. He flinches and moans, and his limbs seize up for a few moments. I ignore it. I have to. Ignore everything but the problem in front of us. It’s nasty and crude, but in the absence of medical equipment, it has to be done.
Piece by bloody piece, I go by feel and remove all the bullet fragments. If all goes well, he’ll heal up in a few weeks to a month. Then I can beat him senseless for leaving himself so open and nearly leaving me to raise our child by myself. Right now, I have to save him with little more than a nursing degree’s worth of medical knowledge and my love for him.
I do everything I can, extracting every piece of the metal fragment with the instrument and dropping them into the metal tray at his side. Every couple of minutes, I have to readjust the angle, searching carefully so that nothing is left behind. There’s so much blood, but no time to go weak about it. There isn’t time. After what seems like thirteen hours but is probably only thirty minutes, I’ve taken care of him as well as I can, given the circumstances. I can’t be positive I got everything, but I tried.
My cramped, burning fingers clink that last fragment into the tray, and I take a long breath. “You made a mess of yourself, love.”
Tate has lost a lot of blood. Without x-rays, we’ll never know if I got everything out. The club’s Mob Doctor is expected to arrive within an hour. There isn’t much more he can do unless he shows up with everything that’s found in a paramedic van, operating room, or both. It’s too early to move him safely, but I know they’ll insist on putting him into a proper bed. I need to close him up too. Keeping him exposed without the proper medical care is as dangerous as the blood loss and the damage from the gunshot wound. After I’m done, I call out to Silas. Cole, Axe, and Dean show up with him, and I leave the same way they came in, snapping off my bloody gloves.
Now, it’s a waiting game.
Chapter 27
Molly
Sometime in the morning, I consent to move Tate back upstairs to his bedroom. I sit in the armchair beside his bed, unable to sleep but in an exhausted haze. The world wavers with shiny patches of light and dark. Every noise is too loud. I rest my head on the back of the armchair, keeping my hand in his. Why hasn’t he woken up yet? Even Silas is surprised, as according to him, Tate has had worse injuries than this. Mob Doc is a sweet little old man. A real doctor too, not some back-alley veterinarian looking to line his pockets. Still, he wasn’t much help without equipment, not with this kind of injury. I start to second guess how thorough I really was at removing all the bullet fragments. Christ, I hope I got them all.
I remain by his side. And I talk. Well, babble is more like it. I throw out all my hopes, fears, and deep, deep worries about the baby while he’s too vulnerable to say anything back that would deflate my little safety bubble. I tell him everything I learned about my father after thinking I knew the man and my family all these years. I talk to him about how messed up I feel inside not knowing about my father’s connection to the local MCs. I talk about carrying his baby, who I already adore. Yes, and I tell Tate I love him too. I say everything I’ve been dying to say, then lean forward and rest my head in his unresponsive hand, and wait.
Axe knocks gently on the door jamb. “Hey, mind if I come in? I got a present.”
I nod and wave him in. We’ve all been through hell the past couple of hours, waiting for any signs that Tate is going to recover. Aside from small groans of pain and an occasional finger twitch, he’s barely moved. I keep wishing I’d insisted on taking him to a real hospital where they can monitor his vital and have all the modern drugs and equipment to respond however his body needs it. He deserves a fighting chance. I promise myself after this is all over I’ll start researching and taking notes on the more surgical aspects of medicine. Maybe my involvement can help.