Page 70 of Winters Heat

He sucked down another gulp and rose, slower this time. The bullet lodged in his leg had to go, and he had to patch it. His eyes darted around the cave of a room. Nothing would help.

Get creative or die.

Winters’s gaze landed on the bed, and he hobbled over to the cheap mattress packed full of lumpy filler. It had a subpar metal frame, little more than cross-hatched chicken wire. All the money in the world, and Juan Carlos Silva outfitted this dungeon for his captives.

Winters wrapped his fingers around the frame wires and pulled. They dug into his skin. His muscles shook with effort. The wires mined into his flesh, threatening a laceration. He pulled again, summoning strength that he didn’t possess.

Come on. He needed this like he needed to live.

One wire sprung free.

All of that exertion and a speck of progress to show for it. But he’d take specks. The woven wired started to unwind. He dropped to the floor and breathed in scampered gasps.This shouldn’t be so hard.Maybe he was worse off than he knew.

Like pulling the string from a metal sweater, he used both hands to untwist each wire. The length of the wire loosened. Chain reaction. The next one did, too. The tension was gone. He was surrounded by a mess of medium gauge wire. Pliable but sturdy.

This was going to be awful. On days like this, he needed a stuntman.

He doubled over the end of a wire. Then again. A zee with a long end. Really a vee. It was the shittiest set of forceps a man could dream up. This was going to be really fucking awful.

He struggled to the bathroom, wire forceps in hand, and looked for the remaining scraps of the torn towel, then turned the water on. He hoisted himself onto the counter, tore his tactical pant leg open, and shoved the remaining pieces of the towel in his mouth.

He’d only removed a bullet from his muscle once before, and even then, it was under better circumstances. More apprehensive about the pain than he was about the act, he jabbed his finger into his left calf and felt for the bullet.

Holy shit.

He screamed into the towel. Sweat poured down his back and chest, down his forehead, and into his eyes. That goddamn bullet. It was there. Not too deep. But still under his skin, burrowed into the top of his muscle.

He heaved breaths like a woman in labor. One right after the other. No longer thinking. Just doing. Trying to breathe. His nostrils flared as he grabbed the forceps, roared, then pushed into the wound. Fiery explosions ricocheted. Spasm panged. His hands shook in his strangle grip.

Slippery blood seeped, covering his hands. Metal found metal, and with a silent prayer, closed tension around the bullet. It surfaced and popped loose. Metal clanged on tile. Bullet and field-made forceps. He heard them plunk before he saw them in a puddle of his blood.

Step one complete.

This shit show was only half over. He took methodical, blood slowing breaths, and concentrated on his sky-high heart rate. Blood covered the rickety counter and tile floor. His splatter decorated the plaster wall and dried under his fingernails.Talk about a bad day at work.

He lumbered off the counter, and the world swam. A quick catch braced him against the wall. Flashes of pain scorched him. He sawed his teeth together, as his healthy shoulder bore all his weight.

Too much blood loss. His head fell forward, rolled, and swayed. He was so close to finishing this off. Rallying energy he didn’t have, he staggered to the angry, red floor, and grabbed the torn towel. Each threadbare piece systematically rolled into fabric stoppers. He plunged one in each hole, stymieing the flow. Shutting down the blood loss. Giving himself the only shot he had to survive.

He fell to his side, marinating in his blood. Each gasp sounded in the thickening gel. It was too much to handle. His delirious mind was strung tight as a trip wire. He was one misstep from kaboom.

Sleep and survive.

He wiped his face and led the charge back to the sorriest excuse of a mattress he’d ever seen. It’d be heaven if he could get to it. Half-dragging, half-overpowering, he struggled until he accomplished his goal, and schlepped himself onto it. He rolled, face first. No position alleviated the misery. He slouched sideways, unable to control his limbs, and his hand tumbled toward the floor.

He didn’t touch tile or wire or blood.

He touched clothes.

His fingers danced across the soft cotton.

Mia.

She’d been here. And thank God she was gone. How long since he’d held her? He pulled the clothes to his face. Soft. And smelled faintly like her.

He would get home to her. She’d do family. He’d do family. They’d figure it out. Her sweet kisses could wash away his hurt. Her embrace would ease the pain flowing like lava through his veins. Mia coaxed him to the black oblivion, lulling him to nightmarish sleep.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

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