Chapter 3 3

The injured boy screams in pain as I start removing the gauze from inside the wound.

"What the hell are you doing?! That hurts!" Oscar yells from behind me.

"I can’t give him painkillers without neglecting the wound," I say, exhaling in frustration. "If you hadn’t killed the paramedic, this would be a lot easier."

"No kidding…" I glance over my shoulder for a second and see that he’s smiling. His eyes are light blue, and he has a sharp line shaved from his eyebrow to the side of his head. It’s not a scar—just a stylistic choice. The injured boy has the same line, though not as pronounced.

"Why aren’t you nervous? We kidnapped you and killed your colleagues, and you don’t seem affected at all."

"There’s nothing."

I don’t respond. I keep working in silence. I’ve been in worse situations, and this isn’t the first time someone’s pointed a gun at me. Right now, the only thing that matters is saving the boy’s life.

"What’s your name?" I ask him.

The boy winces in pain and looks at his friend over my shoulder.

"What the hell does that matter?" the guy behind me hisses.

"I wasn’t talking to you," I reply. "What’s your name, kid?"

He glances over my shoulder again and huffs, his face contorted in pain.

"Go ahead, answer. It’s not like she’ll live long enough to tell anyone," Oscar says in Spanish.

I guess he thinks I can’t understand him, but he’s wrong. Many of my fellow soldiers in the Army were Latino. I’m fluent in Spanish, though that’s not something I plan on revealing. I’d rather let them believe I have no idea what they’re saying.

"Beni," the boy mutters through gritted teeth.

"Alright, Beni. I need you to take a deep breath and stay still so I can release the wound and give you a sedative. It won’t put you to sleep completely, but it’ll help with the pain. Can you do that for me?"

He nods, and I count to three before pulling my hands away. The blood doesn’t immediately gush from the hole, so I move quickly, grab a syringe, and fill it before injecting it into his IV bag.

I return to his side, ready to continue my work, when the ambulance suddenly comes to a screeching halt.

I curse under my breath as I realize the exit wound on his back has started bleeding again.

"End of the line. You’re going to continue inside the house," the man behind me says, pressing the gun against my head once again.

"I need a sterile environment and the surgical equipment in the ambulance."

"You’ll have it. The guys will bring everything inside. Now, get out."

I do as I’m told, silently and without protest. Once outside, I realize that night has already fallen. I glance around. I wasn’t far off—I was right. We’re in Paradise Valley, on what appears to be private property. The place Oscar called a house is actually a massive mansion made of glass, steel, and stone cladding, surrounded by dimly lit gardens and a cascading waterfall in the center. The entrance door is over three meters tall and made of solid light-colored wood. The structure is enormous, two stories tall, and U-shaped—at least from what I can see from this angle. Looking up, I spot a balcony along the facade and, further in the distance, a pool with glass walls.

"Keep moving," the tattooed man orders, pressing the gun against my side.

We step inside, and I hear them speaking in Spanish. The man with the tattoos—whom I finally hear being called Gambo—orders them to clear the game room and keeps pushing me forward. I quickly scan my surroundings and count at least a dozen armed men. Most of them seem like low-level soldiers. Oscar and this Gambo guy are the ones giving orders, and the others obey without question.

I search for a weak point—some oversight or breach in security that I could use to escape. I need to get out before they decide I’m no longer useful and I end up like my two colleagues. I know they’re going to try to kill me—that much is clear. What I don’t know is how I’m going to stop them or if I’m willing to break my promise to survive.