Second Chances (16 page)

“Lucas.”

Miles was about to correct her, when he realized she wasn’t talking to him but calling out to someone else. A young man came towards the bed and stood there shyly watching him as she fired a string of incomprehensible words. He was young, fourteen or fifteen maybe? Big dark eyes; long, curly black hair; smooth, mocha-coloured skin; handsome—perfect jail-bait, in fact. When she finished, the teenager smiled, nodded and left without speaking. Moments later he returned with a basin of cold water and wet washcloth which he used to dab ineffectually at the swellings on Miles’ head.

Miles grabbed the basin and cloth from his hand and swung his legs off the bed, making the room do a passable impression of the cha cha. Bile rose in his throat for a second as his brain threatened to explode. He lent forward and upended the bowl over his head. As the water trickled through his hair and down his beard, he folded the cloth lengthwise so it could cover both temples and buried his head in the damp material.

By the time the coolness had disappeared he found his world had settled enough to face the music again. Sometimes surviving hard knocks as a rugby prop forward came in handy. His coach had always said his head was as hard as a rock, or had he said he had rocks in his head? Same thing.

The lady on the opposite bed was lying prone again. The edges of her mouth twisted up as if in pain. Shit. He might have
felt
like death warmed up, she
looked
like death warmed up. Probably in her early forties, not that much older than he was, but care or life had worn her down. Miles took a deep breath and winced as a familiar smell entered his nostrils.

No, her problem was more serious. A torrent of words reminded him that the young boy she had summoned was still there. Miles didn’t have a clue what he’d said, but a few gestures told the story. The boy pointed to his leg and mimed something snapping in two. The way his gaze darted between the prone figure on the bed and Miles showed he was worried about her.

With good reason. From the smell of things, gangrene had set in.

Miles gingerly looked around and breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of the bag with its big red cross sitting on the end of his bed. Hopefully nothing inside was broken. Given the way he’d been manhandled, the chances weren’t good.

Should he do anything? These were the people who had kidnapped him. Not too long ago he’d even thought he was in danger of being eaten. The acrid smell from the woman’s bed was starting to turn his stomach, but the worried look on the boy’s face and the way she’d summoned help for him stopped his dithering. One touch on the women’s forehead showed she had a temperature. Not raging, but significant. He threw the cloth and basin at the startled boy and pointed at the woman. Maybe he wasn’t as bad at charades as he thought. The boy ran out of the room and soon after, he heard the sound of running water.

Miles grabbed Darren’s emergency medical kit and rummaged inside. Thank God the morphine ampoules had survived. He quickly prepared the injection site and slid the needle into her arm. As he did, she lifted one eyelid and struggled for a second, pointing to her leg, trying to tell him something. She’d stopped speaking English, though, reverting back to her native language. He shrugged and nodded. Heck, most people would have been screaming by now. This woman was one tough customer.

As he took her pulse, he glanced around. He’d been in hospitals in third world countries enough times to recognise that despite the simplicity and lack of equipment, he was in one now. A couple of stands for IV solutions, some urinals lying around and beds covered in luridly patterned sheets jutting out from each wall. There was no sign of his captors, though. The young man who had returned with the refilled basin was nothing like the big men who’d been in the outrigger with him.

Miles wet the cloth and bathed the woman’s face for a second and gestured for the young man to do the same. As the boy worked, Miles pulled off the sheet covering her and turned his head as the smell of rotting flesh escaped. Just as well the morphine had taken effect. No way would she have been able to bear the pain if she’d been conscious.

The young man flinched, his startled gaze darting to Miles. He tried to give his best ‘I can work miracles smile’ in return, but he’d got out of practice with those. Reassuring people about their ingrown toenails and high blood pressure as he had for the last few months wasn’t quite the same.

Miles retrieved the basin from the boy’s nerveless fingers and placed it on the bedside table. The young man was shifting from foot to foot as if anxious to be gone. There was no way Miles could fix this alone. He needed help, fast. Miles mimicked paddling and stuck two fingers in the air. A flicker of recognition flashed in the young man’s eyes. Miles repeated the action and then pointed to the bed and shouted, “Now.”

The boy disappeared. Hopefully the message got through. He sighed as he drew back the woman’s traditional hospital gown. Definitely a break in her lower leg, the area had been covered by a loosely applied bandage. It was moving.

As soon as he’d exposed the wound, Miles took a step back and stared at the squirming mass that swarmed in the open wound where the snapped tibia had penetrated the skin. That’s why she wasn’t as sick as he’d expected her to be. He smiled and looked admiringly at the woman on the bed. Apart from a few sections of dead tissue, the maggots were doing a superb job. They couldn’t fix the break though. Someone here knew what they were doing, and he was prepared to bet his bottom dollar, it was the woman herself.

Gil would have been having a fit, wanting to hook her up to IV infusions and checking her vitals every few minutes. If he’d had the young paramedic here, Miles would have been glad of the help, but every minute counted. The leg had to be reset and fast.

A loud commotion at the door made him glance up. The cavalry had arrived. Now he could get a good look at his captors, he didn’t wonder at the pain in his head. Tweedledum and Tweedledee stood before him. Two Pacific Island giants, almost identical. He may be over six foot tall, but these guys made him feel small. Good, they’d brought their paddles.

Miles beckoned to them and they shuffled forward. He wasn’t sure whether they were scared of him, the woman on the bed or the maggots feeding on the necrotic tissue in the wound. Possibly all three.

After tipping out the water, Miles used tweezers to carefully relocate the maggots to the empty bowl, then used some saline to wash the wound. The broken bone was clearly exposed, but the tissue around it was nicely pink, only a few traces of black remained.

After grabbing some bandages, and putting everything else he needed on a sterile sheet on the bed, he pulled one of the waiting men forward. Gripping his shoulder gently but firmly he pointed to the unconscious woman, and showed him where he wanted him to stand. He did the same to the other then barked at them: “Stay”. Their glances kept shifting to the door, and he detected a whiff of alcohol on their breath, but the command seemed to work as well on them as it did Roofie. Good.

Miles gestured to the two men to hold the woman’s shoulders as he had shown them. They did so reluctantly as if they were scared of her which was crazy given the fact she was tiny in comparison to them. As soon as he was sure his patient was as immobile as possible, Miles took hold of her lower leg. Good the pulse in her foot was still present; the artery wasn’t trapped. He made sure they were both looking at him. “Ready,” he warned, “now.”

He pulled the leg toward him and grunted with satisfaction as a quick twist settled the bone into the correct position. Thanks to the flesh that had been eaten away, at least he could see what he was doing. The splintered bones meshed in as well as could be expected barring proper pinning and plates.

His patient regained consciousness briefly during the violent procedure but quickly slipped back under. After snipping away a couple of pieces of dangling flesh, Miles returned a few of the smaller maggots to the wound and covered the wound with some open mesh gauze to ensure the little critters could breath and didn’t escape. Now for a splint. Placing one of the paddles between her legs, he strapped her limbs together above and below the wound.

His captors grabbed the remaining paddle and left as soon as his back was turned. Ideally, he would send her off to a proper hospital now, in the meantime he would have to monitor the situation and ensure her condition didn’t deteriorate. Otherwise he just might find himself in that cooking pot.

with mention of Agent Breslaw

___________________________________________________

Mid morning 25th January, Mystery Island

Damn the fucking thing! Gideon was not having a good time. The bloody generator was geriatric, stubborn as a mule, and it definitely didn’t like him. He hefted the spanner in his hand. He wanted to give it a good whack, but stopped himself. That was not the way to go, no matter how much ‘percussive maintenance’ had worked for him in the past. He studied the thing. How hard could this be?

“Hello?”

Gideon stopped, stifling a curse. Interruptions…. He plastered a smile on his face and stuck his head out the door of the garage-like structure that housed and protected the generator. Lyle Tate was standing there, looking travel-weary and uncomfortable. “Can I help?” The guy looked tattered, to be honest. Jet-lagged and… worried?

“I don’t really do engines, but I can hold tools, pass stuff, fetch and carry..?”

“You’re offering to help me?”

“I just did, yeah.”

“You’re the IT man, yeah?” Gideon moved back towards the generator without waiting to see if Lyle followed, wondering if he’d missed something.

“That’s flattering…but I think Gil has bags on that role.” Lyle smiled a little wryly.

Gideon frowned.
Is he joking?…Oh right, yeah.
Gideon looked back to where the man was now leaning against the door frame. Tate was trying to look nonchalant but underneath the facade, though, there was something else. “Here, take charge of this before I do something I might regret.” Gideon passed over the spanner.

“Sorry about before, by the way.” Lyle held the spanner like it was a dirty sock. He had no affinity with machinery, certainly not the greasy sort. Give him a computer and peripherals and he was more than at home, but getting down and dirty with an engine of any sort was beyond him. He wouldn’t mind getting down and dirty with the man in front of him, though; sweaty and smudged with oil as he was, black bandanna tied tightly over the crewcut, he looked like the centrefold of a calendar—men and machines.

Gideon pressed a few buttons on a panel and hit a switch. The thing coughed, revved and died again. He threw up his oily hands in disgust. What the fuck was wrong with it? The tank was full—he’d made sure they’d brought enough fuel with them for this thing. Damn it all… He stared at the open access panel and sighed.

Lyle watched as Gideon reached into the machine, his arm disappearing to the elbow. He was obviously tinkering with some hidden part, muttering under his breath as he did so. He withdrew his arm and pressed the buttons again. He wondered how the man had gotten into this gig. He and Breslaw knew each other, so did he used to be a cop? A marshal, like Breslaw? No, he had the demeanour of a soldier, or a mercenary maybe? How did he end up working for Eidolon? What the hell was Eidolon, really, anyway?

“Have you seen our files?” Lyle asked. He didn’t manage to sound casual about it, even to his own ears. The engine coughed, revved and chugged into life, interrupting him. Whatever Gideon had done must have worked. “There, that’s it.” Gideon shouted above the noise, acting as if he hadn’t heard. In truth he was giving himself time to formulate a reply. “I have no idea why I didn’t see it sooner… Must have been knocked or something.” He wiped his hands on a rag and turned to Tate. “At least we can boil a kettle now. So, now that’s out of the way… “ He lead the way outside, shutting the doors on the noise. “You wouldn’t think that thing was silenced, would you? Sorry, you were saying?”

“I was wondering what you know about us. About me.”

Aha, there it is
, Gideon thought.
Is he worried about how much I know?
“I’ve read all your files. Had to. Part of my job to know the people I’ll be working with. Why? Is there a problem?”

Lyle contemplated a stone resting by his toes for a moment, trying to work out where to start. Whatever files Gideon might have seen, did they mention who he had been before he became Lyle Tate? Were they Eidolon’s files, or the Agency’s?

“Eidolon is far reaching, Mr.Tate.” Gideon emphasised the ‘mister’ very slightly. He wondered how sharp Lyle was, whether he would pick up on that little message. “You can rest assured, your information is safe with me.”

Hmmm, did I just hear something there?
Lyle wondered what Sterling had meant by it.
Does he think I don’t deserve to be called Mister? Christ on a moped, don’t let him be a bigot. He’s going to have his hands full if he is.

“So you know the US Mafia already had a price on me before the Bratva got involved?”

“I know you and your…husband did a very brave thing.” Gideon kept his expression bland. “It must have been hard for you to take his place.” Tate bit his lip. That had struck a nerve.