Aftershock

Lauren pulled the edges of her shirt together with trembling hands. The lace cups of her bra barely covered her breasts. “I thought it was you.”

His gaze rose to her face. “What?”

“It was dark. I didn’t know who was attacking me at first.”

He gaped at her in dismay, unable to formulate a response.

“That was the scariest part. Thinking it was you.”

“Jesus,” he said in a hushed voice. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Yes, it is.” He looked like he wanted to punch himself a few times. “I told you I was going to keep watch and I fell asleep.”

She couldn’t blame him for drifting off. They’d had an exhausting day.

“Fuck,” he yelled, raking his fingers through his hair. “This is so fucked up!”

“Do you think they’ll come back?”

“Yes. Maybe not tonight, but eventually.”

Her stomach twisted with dread.

“There’s something I should tell you.”

“What?” she asked, warning bells sounding in her head.

His throat worked as he swallowed. “One of the vehicles in the north corner is a prisoner transport van. It got smashed to hell, like your ambulance.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Those men are escaped convicts.”

It took a few seconds for his words to sink in. They were trapped in rubble with critical victims, dead bodies and armed criminals. According to a couple of Spanish-language broadcasts, which Penny had translated, disaster crews were dealing with mass casualties. The freeways were impassable and several large buildings had collapsed.

A quick rescue was unlikely.

“They must have taken the gun from a guard.”

She glanced away, fresh terror coursing through her veins.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I thought they’d be sleeping off the alcohol, not coming over here to attack you. I had no idea they were this dangerous.”

Lauren took a deep, calming breath. The only way to get through this was to move forward. Garrett could beat himself up all he wanted, but she had to focus on the next step. There wasn’t time to get emotional.

She checked her watch: 5:04 a.m. The last aftershock had hit at 1:30. She’d gotten at least three hours of sleep.

Her shirt was torn, and the temperature had cooled significantly. Rising to her feet, she found a jacket in the pile of clothes Garrett had collected earlier, and she shrugged into it. “I have to check on the patients.”

He followed her with the flashlight, pointing the beam where she needed it. Mrs. Engle moaned in pain. Lauren gave her as much morphine as she could spare. Her other patient, the man with the head injury, was still unconscious.

Lauren was glad they were both alive.

She gathered a handful of medical supplies and a small mirror, checking the scratches on her cheek. Although the marks were barely noticeable, she scrubbed at them with antiseptic wipes. Her face was filthy. After cleaning every inch of exposed skin above her neck, she went to work on her chest, determined to remove the stain of Mickey’s touch.

Garrett stayed silent, and kept his eyes averted, but she noticed his concerned expression. Her hands stilled. If she scrubbed any harder, she’d bleed.

Clearing her throat, she trashed the soiled wipes and zipped up her jacket. More comfortable treating patients other than herself, she turned to Garrett. He didn’t appear injured. Mickey must not have landed any blows.

Maybe he only hit women.

“Let me see your knuckles,” she said.

With obvious reluctance, Garrett sat down across from her and showed her his bloody fists. They looked awful. She hadn’t ever treated the cuts from the safety glass. Old wounds mixed with new ones, creating a crosshatch of dark slashes.

They needed to be soaked, but she couldn’t waste water. After cleaning his hands with antibacterial foam, she placed them on a surgical towel and took out her suture kit. One of the lacerations was long and deep.

“I can give you a local anesthetic.”

“Just do it,” he replied.

The first time the needle punctured his skin, he sucked in a sharp breath. After that, he endured the short procedure in silence, showing no reaction. She made five neat stitches and bandaged his knuckles.

His skin was darkly tanned, as if he worked outdoors, and his palms were callused. Ropey veins stood out on the backs of his hands in harsh relief. He had good blood pressure, like an endurance athlete.

“Are you in the military?” she asked when she was finished.

He thanked her, flexing his hand. “I was.”

“Which branch?”

“The Marines.”

“Did you go to Iraq?”

“Twice.”

“How was it?”

“Kind of like this.”

His answers were curt and honest, which suited her fine. The fact that he had combat experience was a plus, given Jeb and Mickey’s presence.

“I’m going to stay right beside you today,” he announced. “I’ll carry a tire iron, and see if I can find any other weapons. Cadence and Penny should hang out inside the RV. No one goes anywhere alone.”

“Agreed.”