Page 14 of Enticing Odds
He could feel the sweat on his palms; his confidence was wavering. What had he been thinking, seeking out trouble like this?
Sharples chuckled and rounded the table.
“Once you’ve left? What’s the hurry, Doctor? Sit down, have a drink. Or d’you find yourself too good for the likes of us?”
The two bruisers behind Matthew shuffled forward, penning him in. His heart pounded rapidly.Tachycardia, he thought uselessly.As named by the German physician, Hermann Lebert.
Suddenly the shouting in the streets grew louder. A woman screamed. Fliss ran to the window.
“Oy, Charlie! I tried to tell you!” the lad shouted, desperate.
“What now? Spit it out!”
“The Met!” Fliss cried. “It’s a blooming raid!”
Everything turned to chaos.
Sharples took off; the two acolytes behind Matthew crashed into him as they rushed to follow. People shouted curses and knocked over furniture in an attempt to flee. Policemen bellowed out warnings, brandishing their nightsticks. Suddenly he was back in Crimea, working in the medical tent while the battle raged outside, a wounded soldier screaming on the table before him.
He had to get out.
A window shattered just a few feet from him. Matthew turned in time to see the young man who went by Fliss climb awkwardly through it.
“No use running, lads,” rang a booming voice. “Might as well come easy!”
A Metropolitan Police officer stood in the doorway, his colleagues rushing in around him. They were grabbing men by the arms and the collars of their coats, forcing them against the wall or to the ground.
Matthew went for the window, noting the shards of glass still clinging to the frame. He quickly kicked out what he could.
“You there—don’t move!”
The typical Dr. Collier would heed that instruction, but not tonight. Matthew glanced out the window. There was no drop to the ground. He hauled himself through.
“Stop!”
He hit the ground, veins singing, his senses heightened, his entire body sparking with life. He took off running, taking care to keep from the main road. He charged down an alleyway.
The raucous din of the raid became more distant, and he chanced a glance over his shoulder.
No one followed him. Yet.
He felt awash with relief, the crackling electricity that had shocked him into escape now receding. Matthew slowed his pace.
Then he looked to the ground, and caught a glimpse of something dark and wet reflecting the moonlight. Matthew stopped and reached down to touch it. His fingers came away dark and slick, smelling of iron. Blood. Someone had come this way, freshly wounded. Perhaps badly, judging by the thick spatters leaving a trail in the dirt. He recalled the boyish Fliss, who’d escaped through the broken glass just before him.
Damn it all to hell. He couldn’t take off and leave someone who might need help. That much of his wartime experience had stayed with him.
Matthew drew a sharp breath and started again, now at a quicker pace, his eyes trained on the ground.
It wasn’t far before the trail veered off from the alley, toward a leaning shack in a tumble-down yard. He rounded it to find the boy crouched on the ground, hunched over, one arm clutched to his chest.
“Keep away!” he called out in alarm, his eyes fearful.
Fliss attempted to scramble away, but succeeded only in aggravating his injury, and he hissed in pain as he fell back onto his rear. A dark color bloomed across the front of his dingy shirt where he’d held his arm close; both of his hands were slick.
“Easy now,” Matthew said, kneeling down in the dirt. “Don’t move. I’m a doctor. Please, let me help.”
“No,” Fliss shrieked, holding his arm to his chest again.
