Page 95 of Poison Evidence

“Your bullet skimmed his hip.”

“Shit.” She took a deep breath. “Where is he?”

“Our boat.”

Sirens sounded in the distance. Thank God, the ambulance was almost to the marina.

Ian continued chest compressions as silence passed between Ivy and Luke. He caught Luke’s nod with his peripheral vision.

She leaned down and kissed Ulai’s bloody cheek and whispered, “Pull through. Please stay with us.” She rose to her feet. “I’ll check in as soon as I can.” Her footfalls pounded on the aluminum dock as she darted out the door.

Every part of Dimitri hurt.

He’d been shot once before. He’d been beaten before. But he had to acknowledge he wasn’t as young as he once was. And the bullet might’ve gone deeper than a graze.

Climbing onto the boat deck was a special slice of hell, but he made it, fighting through the agony. The burn.

He would survive this. It was what he did.

He checked his wound. The shot had torn his flesh, a deep furrow, but the bullet wasn’t embedded.

It was nothing compared to what others suffered. His sister. Ivy.

Ulai.

Motherfucker. Ulai.

A good man.

Why had Rudy Fredrickson gone after the pilot? Ulai didn’t know anything.

Aw fuck. Ulai.

His only sin was becoming Dimitri’s friend. And he’d paid for it with his life.

Dimitri slammed his fist into the deck even as he crawled toward the hatch to the interior.

He could grieve Ulai once he was inside and got his hands on a first aid kit.

Focus on not passing out. Two days without sleep combined with blood loss had caught up with him, because next thing he knew, he was at the bottom of the steps, with only a vague memory of tumbling into the galley.

The world spun like he’d had too much booze, but he hadn’t had alcohol since the scotch in the cave with Ivy.

Footsteps sounded above him, and he curled into a tight, defensive ball, tucking himself into a dark corner. Ready to fight. Training. Years of training came through for him when he should have passed out.

He had muscle memory. Practice. Blows from the hockey stick when he failed.

It was effective training to ensure he used only English when in pain, when dreaming, when delirious. Only English. Or the blows would make the pain much, much worse.

“Water?” a woman asked at one point.

“Da,” he said, cringing the moment he realized his mistake. But the blow didn’t come. Just a straw between his lips and a cold liquid filled his throat.

He drank until the cup was empty, and then it was refilled.

The next time he opened his eyes, it was dark all around. He discovered he slept on the floor of the galley, a pillow under his head, a bandage on his hip, and a woman’s body curled next to his.

He pulled Ivy close and breathed her in, then dropped back into oblivion.