THE SCARLET VOW

We emerged into the freezing night air, two miles from the burning safehouse. Hidden beneath a camouflage tarp was an old, unregistered Ford Bronco. I shoved Elena into the passenger seat and hotwired the ignition. As the engine roared to life, a searing pain tore through my side.

I looked down. My shirt was soaked in blood. I had taken a ricochet during the escape and hadn't even felt it on the adrenaline high. Now, the edges of my vision were blurring.

I managed to drive us fifty miles south, vanishing into the maze of backroads before pulling into an abandoned, rusted-out barn. I killed the engine and slumped over the steering wheel, my breath coming in ragged gasps.

“Leo!” Elena cried out, unbuckling her seatbelt and scrambling over the center console. She ripped my jacket open, her professional instincts instantly overriding her panic.

“It’s bad,” I choked out, a dark laugh escaping my lips. “Looks like you’ll have to save my life now, Doc.”

“Shut up and let me work,” she ordered. She tore the fabric of my shirt to expose the wound. “The bullet is still in there. If I don't get it out and stop this bleeding, you’ll be dead in an hour.”

There were no sterile instruments. No anesthesia. Just a first aid kit from the trunk, a bottle of cheap vodka I kept under the seat, and Elena’s pocketknife, sterilized by a lighter.

I bit down on a leather belt as she dug into my flesh. The agony was blinding, an inferno radiating from my ribs. But through the haze of pain, I focused on her face. Her brow was furrowed in absolute concentration, her hands steady, her eyes fierce. She was an angel of mercy covered in blood and grease, pulling a mafia boss back from the brink of hell.

When she finally pulled the deformed lead out with a pair of pliers and bandaged me tightly, she collapsed against my chest, exhausted. I wrapped my arm around her, pressing my lips to her sweat-dampened hair.