Damian
The first thing that registered in my head was the pain. There didn't seem to be a square inch of my body that didn't hurt. If I tried to move, it would set off an atomic explosion in my body that made me want to scream.
I'd been shot before – once back in Afghanistan – and it hadn't hurt nearly as bad as this did. Of course, back then I'd been shot in the forearm. This time, I took multiple bullets to the chest and stomach. My first gunshot wound hadn't even required me to take an aspirin for the pain. I had a feeling I was going to be on some heavy-duty pain meds this time – and a lot of them.
I thought back to the confrontation with Mendoza and felt my blood pressure rise. In my mind's eye, I saw his face – the son of a bitch had been smiling as he pulled the trigger again and again. That dark rage inside of me welled up and threatened to come bursting out – and it might have, had it not hurt so damn much to let myself get all worked up.
I sighed and shook my head. At least I was alive. There was that. And I was going to pay Mendoza back a hundredfold for trying to take me out. That was an absolute guaran-fucking-tee. He was going to bleed for what he'd done.
“Welcome back,” a woman's voice said.
I opened my eyes and winced at the light coming through the blinds. She gave me an apologetic shrug and moved quickly to close them. The room was dimly lit, and I was finally able to open my eyes all the way. I looked down at the tubes sticking out of my arms and all of the machinery arrayed around me.
My throat was drier than parchment, and my mouth felt like it had been stuffed full of cotton. The woman – my nurse, I was assuming – helped me to sit up and gave me a drink of water.
“Not too much,” she said, taking the cup from me. “I'll bring you some ice chips.”
I was dying of thirst and wanted more. That little sip she'd given me had quenched my thirst about as well as trying to water all the plant life in Death Valley by pissing on the ground. But I was in no shape to argue the point.
“How long have I been out?” I asked.
“About two days.”
“Jesus.” I groaned as I slumped back against my pillows and closed my eyes again. “I feel like shit.”
“That might be so,” she said. “But you're lucky to be alive. Really lucky.”
Images of Mendoza squeezing off shot after shot flashed through my mind and I had to fight back that wave of rage that threatened to wash over me again.
“Yeah,” I said. “Lucky.”
“You have no idea, Damian,” the nurse said. “Dr. Hightower did some amazing work and saved your life.”
I opened my eyes and finally looked at my nurse. “How did you know my name?”
She laughed softly. “For one thing, it's on your dog tags.”
I reached up and touched my tags – it was sort of a touchstone for me. The thing that kept me grounded and centered. It reminded me of a whole lot of things – namely, who I really was.
“The second thing is that I know you, Damian.”
I narrowed my eyes and really looked at my nurse. Immediately I felt a sense of recognition. I knew this woman. Auburn hair, eyes the color of polished jade, and even through her shapeless scrubs, I could see she had a body that had amazing curves – you'd think I'd remember a gorgeous woman like that.
After a few moments of intensely racking my brain, I came up with her name.
“Cara Winters,” I croaked. “It's been a while.”
“It has.” She nodded. “And I see you've been making some good friends since high school.”
I laughed and immediately regretted it as pain tore through my body. I winced and sucked in air through gritted teeth.
“Yeah, you're going to be hurting for a while,” she said. “That tends to happen when you take four bullets.”
“So I'm learning.”
Cara checked the bags of medication hanging from the stand next to my bed. “So, what happened?”
Yeah, like I was going to tell her what happened. Or anybody for that matter. I already knew the cops were going to be here to question me – hospital staff were required by law to report gunshot wounds. And I was still trying to figure out what in the hell I was going to tell them to keep them off my ass.
“Would you believe me if I told you it was an accident that happened while I was cleaning my gun?” I asked, giving her the best smile I could.
“Try again,” she said.
I shrugged. “I don't really remember,” I lied as Mendoza's face popped into my head again. “Everything just happened so fast that it's all a blur.”
She shot me a look that said she clearly wasn't buying my bullshit. “You're going to have to talk to the cops, you know,” she said. “We're required to report—”
“I know you are,” I said. “But I'm telling you, I don't remember much right now.”
“Huh. Well, hopefully, your memory comes back to you. Sooner rather than later.”
“Here's hoping.”
Cara sighed and turned to leave the room. But then she stopped and turned back to me, her expression grim. Serious.
“Don't you want to catch the guy who did this to you?” she asked. “I mean, he's walking around free as a bird after leaving you to die and rot in a parking lot.”
“Of course I do,” I replied. “I'm just not quite sure who it was. Maybe it will come to me.”
She looked at me disapprovingly – it was a look I remembered all too well, and it made me smile.
“I've seen that look before, you know,” I said. “You gave it to me after I asked for your phone number back in high school.”
“Yeah well, I seem to recall that back then, you weren't really my type. And some things never change.”
I grinned. “Yeah, I remember that snooty attitude too. I remember it all too well.”
“Maybe it’s because you tend to attract the sort of people who might shoot you multiple times and leave you to bleed out.”
“Believe it or not, this isn't a normal day for me,” I said. “Most of my friends are good guys.”
She folded her arms over her chest. “I'm sure.”
I shrugged. “It's true. I'm not nearly the degenerate you obviously think I am. Anyway, how did I get here?”
“EMTs got an anonymous call giving them your location,” she said. “By the time they got there, you'd lost a ton of blood and were on death's door.”
An anonymous call. It was hazy, but I seemed to remember that I'd called Mills before I'd passed out. Or at least, I'd tried to call him. I thought back and remembered thinking that he was the only one who knew where I was at – he'd be able to get me some help.
And he apparently had. Cara was right – I was lucky.
“I'm going to have to let the Sheriff know you're awake,” Cara said. “So, you might want to – jog your memory a bit faster. I'm sure they're going to be here within the hour.”
“Only because they've got nothing better to do.”
She shrugged. “Probably,” she replied. “Either way though, they'll be coming down, so I suggest you start thinking real hard.”
I fought through the pain of raising my arm and snapped her a quick salute. “Yes, ma'am. Will do, ma'am.”
She gave me a small smile and a shake of the head as she turned and left the room, shutting the door softly behind her.
Fuck. What was I going to tell the cops?