That bastard. He’d never intended to take her. She hadn’t been eager to play Hostage 2.0 with him, but getting dumped in this hellhole wasn’t any better. Especially since she couldn’t run. She couldn’t think clearly. She clamped a hand over her neck, which was seeping blood. Her head felt woozy. Maybe some morphine had slipped into her system.
The men got out of the car to observe Armando’s hasty retreat. She’d seen them both before, when she was first captured. One had a scar on his face. The other was stocky, with a thick beard. Neither seemed interested in chasing after Armando. Maybe they didn’t think he was worth the trouble. The gate slid closed, and her chances of surviving this ordeal disintegrated. She’d been used and discarded. The bad guy got away instead of her.
What an unfair outcome.
The boy came through the garage and got scolded in Spanish. Both men argued in raised voices, gesturing at her, at the street, at the car. Then the boy strode toward her and lifted her to her feet. She managed to stay upright, taking deep breaths. Her legs were shaky, but the weakness might be due to stress and lack of food, rather than drugs.
While she attempted to regain her bearings, the bearded man opened the trunk. An awful stench assaulted her nostrils. She clapped a hand over her mouth and nose, gagging. She’d used the cautery equipment often enough in surgery to recognize the smell of burnt flesh. This odor was stronger and smokier. It was a gut-churning blend of fire, chemicals, and death.
Near death, rather. The thing inside the trunk wasn’t dead yet. It was still moving. She smothered a sound of distress as a mummy-creature was hefted from the depths. It took both men to lift the blanket-wrapped bundle, which emitted a low moan.
“Your patient,” the boy said.
“You can’t be serious.”
He guided her back inside, his expression grim.
“I’m a veterinarian, not Dr. Frankenstein!”
The boy didn’t seem to understand the reference. He returned her to the cramped cell she’d come to loathe while the two men placed the new victim on the bed. She studied the thing in horror. There was a charred face and blistered hands. Two arms, two legs, shoes melted onto large feet. It was a man, she assumed. The individual parts were more or less intact, but he couldn’t survive with third-degree burns all over his body.
“What do you expect me to do?” she asked.
The bearded man said, “Same as before. He live, you live.”
She swallowed hard, trying not to panic. “This is far beyond my capabilities.”
Her captors just stared at her.
She made two fists in her hair. “What’s wrong with you people? He’s going to die. You have to take him to a hospital.”
“No hospital.”
Her legs threatened to collapse again, so she sat down. She focused on breathing. She understood that these men were high-profile criminals. Maybe they were facing execution or assassination or something. “Can’t you kidnap a real doctor?”
The scarred man spoke to the boy in rapid-fire Spanish.
“He says get to work,” the boy translated.
She sputtered with laughter and disbelief. “With what supplies?”
“We bring more, if you need.”
Her mouth dropped open, then closed abruptly. “No. I won’t do it. You can’t make me.”
The bearded man lifted the hem of his shirt a few inches, exposing the butt of a handgun. Although he didn’t draw the weapon, his intention was clear. She gaped at him, beyond fear. The man with the scar shook his head in disapproval. They discussed her fate for a moment, their voices clipped.
“We will lock you in with El Jefe for a few days,” the boy said finally. “If he die, we bury you also. If he live, you go home.”
His words chilled her to the bone. It was the same deal she’d been forced into earlier, with a more sinister edge. Would they really kill her in cold blood? The two older men hadn’t even fired at Armando during his escape. Maybe they weren’t ruthless psychopaths like him. Maybe they’d actually let her go home if she cooperated.
Either way, she believed the first part. They would hold her captive in this room with this ravaged creature. She could stand by and do nothing while he suffered a long, painful death. She could listen to his labored breathing and smell his ruined flesh.
Or she could try to save him, and herself.
She rose to her feet again, testing her mettle. When she didn’t sway or pass out, she stepped forward. The man’s face wasn’t burned beyond recognition, upon closer inspection. His skin wasn’t charred, just covered in soot. One of his eyes was swollen shut. He was unconscious, wrapped in rags. She’d heard that burn victims were prone to hypothermia after their bodies cooled. Smoke inhalation could cause problems as well.
With caution, she edged aside the fabric around his head. His scalp was singed, his hair gone. One of his ears was hanging loose, edges crisp. Her stomach roiled as she examined the rest of him. His hands, neck, and forearms were riddled with blisters that gave him a lagoon-monster appearance. His tattered shirt clung to a lean torso. Perhaps he’d been in an explosion, rather than a house fire. She looked under the blanket. He was wearing jeans. Everything below the waist appeared to have been protected by heavy denim.
“His back is worse,” the bearded man said.
Caitlyn didn’t want to turn him over until she’d started oxygen and an IV. She could see that his shoulders were blackened with deep tissue burns. If his entire back was like this, he would need surgery. Skin grafts and other complicated procedures she couldn’t improvise.
She washed her hands at the sink, contemplative. His back might be a mess, but his front wasn’t as bad as she’d thought. There was a chance he’d live. She’d start with antibiotics, painkillers, and fluids. Then she’d have to clean and debride his wounds, which was a grueling process.
He could die from the treatment. He’d definitely die without it.
Eyes narrow, she faced her captors. “How old is he?”
“Thirty-six.”
“Was he in good health before this?”
The men shrugged, evasive. Her patient was tall and strong, with an athletic build, but that didn’t mean he was in top condition.