Page 82 of Inked Daddies

“All of you,” she repeats, voice faint with wonder. “I guess that explains why you’re so good at…this.”

I set aside the tweezers, picking up a suture needle and sterile thread. “It is apartof who we are. Not our identity,” I say softly, dabbing disinfectant around Trick’s raw wound. He groans, biting back a curse. “Don’t move,” I remind him again.

Trick clenches his jaw. “I know the routine, Doc.”

Sam steps in to help hold Trick’s leg still while I start stitching. Each pass of the needle draws a hiss from Trick’s lips. My stomach flutters with that old, familiar anxiety—fear that I might fail, might cause more damage. Might not be able to get him antibiotics in time.

But I keep my expression cavalier. I’ve sewn up Trick countless times, and every time, I worry it could be his last. Every time, I pretend this is merely another day, another night in our world. That what I cut on is meat, and not the body part of one of my best friends. It is the only way to stay sane.

Preacher stands watch from a few feet away, body rigid. I imagine he’s also grappling with old memories, times we performed half-baked field surgery on each other under gunfire or in seedy safe houses. He and I share a look for a moment. Something passes between us—a recognition of the past. Then he looks away, focusing on Marie.

“So,” Trick says through clenched teeth, evidently wanting to lighten the mood, “should we tell her about that time Sam refused to break protocol in the desert, and we almost died of dehydration?”

Sam scowls, arms folded. “We didn’t almost die. We were just delayed.”

“Delayed in 120-degree heat with no extraction for two days. If that wasn’t ‘almost dying,’ I don’t know what is.”

Tonight came close to “almost dying” again for him. If Marie hadn’t gambled with her own life to save ours, he would have died. We all may have. We owe that girl our lives, and I will spend the rest of mine showing her my gratitude. If she lets me.

Marie sits perched on a chair with her hands clasped tight. “So you were all, what, paramilitary spies?” she asks, half laughing at the absurdity.

I finish one suture and move to the next, over and over again. “Something like that. We did a lot of missions normal soldiers never saw.”

Marie shakes her head, letting out a breath. “And Dad was part of it too?”

Preacher clears his throat, posture stiff. “I joined earlier than them.” He fixes a hard stare on Sam, who shifts uncomfortably. “But then I found my calling in marriage and the church, realized I needed something different. But they stuck around a bit longer.”

Sam nods solemnly. “We parted ways with the agency a few years back. We decided enough was enough. Enough secrets, enough black missions.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Tattooingfelt like an honorable living. We’re artistic, so it works for us. It’s simpler. But we never forgot theskillswe learned.”

Preacher scoffs, “You never forget.”

I tie another neat stitch. Trick hisses, nails scraping the edge of the table. “Damn, Hugo,” he breathes, face pale. “When’d you start sewing like a professional seamstress?”

“I always have, thanks to my grandmother. That is why the tattoos so easily hide your other scars.”

Marie exhales, eyes flicking to the bullet chunk in the metal dish on the table. “Is it—does that mean you’ve done a lot worse than this?”

Trick glances at her, face still twisted in pain. “Oh, yeah. The bullet holes I’ve had in my shoulder, my side…you name it. Hugo’s pulled me through. Sam’s pulled me through. Hell, your dad once saved my life in a sticky op I’d rather forget.”

Sam nods. “We’ve seen situations far worse than a home invasion.” He glances around the battered kitchen, wincing at the bullet holes in the walls. “Doesn’t mean this wasn’t bad. Just…we’ve been in deeper shit than this. One time, we were behind enemy lines south of the border. A diplomat’s infant son had been kidnapped and ransomed. But the diplomat didn’t have the pull with her government that the kidnappers thought she had. They told her to get them the money by any means necessary or they’d send back parts of the ba?—”

“I do not need to know the end of that sentence,” she says, throwing up a hand to stop him.

“Right, well, the diplomat happened to be an old friend of Trick’s?—”

“Anakedfriend,” he brags with that trademark grin.

Sam continues, “And so, she called him. While we were in Mexico, we got pinned down, stuck between a hail of bullets and an ancient tank. I still have no idea why they had that relic in their compound, or how Preacher was able to get it working again, but that was the night we used an old World War II tank to rescue an infant.”

Marie’s lips part as if to ask something, but Preacher intercepts with a grunt. “I think that’s plenty for her to chew on.”

“Dad, how in the hell did you get an old tank to work?”

He huffs a laugh. The man is still angry, of course. He’s been through hell tonight. But he can’t resist telling his daughter about the old days now that the cat is out of the bag. “Never go anywhere new without a can of WD40, paperclips, and some duct tape.”

I snip the final suture, pressing a clean dressing over Trick’s leg. “There,” I say, exhaling the breath I’ve been holding. “That should hold. No arteries or major vessels. You’ll be limping for a long while, though. Switch from whiskey to water—you’ve got a lot of blood to make.”

“Thanks, Doc.” He attempts a grin, but it falters into a wince.

---