Thank God.
Ignoring Eddie’s howling protests, Art rolled him to one side, checking his back. “Clean exit. Got a first aid kit?”
“Back of my truck. I’ll get it.”
Thankful she’d parked out of the line of sight from the west outbuilding, Mercy raced to the SUV. Flinging open the rear, she stretched to grab the huge kit next to her Get Out of Dodge duffel. Her duffel contained a smaller kit, but the big one had supplies for almost any injury. It wasn’t a first aid kit; it was practically a portable emergency room. One she’d carefully stocked with whatever gadgets she wanted.
Move faster.
She ran back and landed on her knees next to Eddie. “How you doin’?” she asked with a smile, taking in his pale skin and sweaty forehead. His wound continued to gush. She dug in her bag, ripped open a silver pack, and pulled out what looked like a giant plastic syringe full of tablets. “Call 911,” she ordered Art, who had shifted to cover their surroundings as she focused on Eddie. She plunged the wide tip into Eddie’s wound and pushed the plunger, injecting the centimeter-wide tablets deep into his wound.
Eddie screamed. Mercy shuddered but continued to fill the bullet hole.
“What the hell is that?” Art asked, sneaking rapid glances at her work as he covered them.
“Sterile bits of sponge made from crustacean shells.”
“The fuck?”
“They’ll pack and clot. Even if he was bleeding from an artery, this would stop it.”
“I’ve never heard of that.”
“It’s rather new,” she muttered. She tossed the half-empty syringe to the side and started packing stacks of gauze over the wound. No new blood seeped into her gauze.
Yes!
Strong persuasion had been used to convince her doctor to write a prescription for the lifesaving device.
She applied pressure to the gauze and taped it in place. I need to do the same to his back. She dug in her duffel, pulled out a small box, and ripped it open, dumping out a green tube and a small bottle. Her hands shook as she poured the contents of the bottle into the tube and gently rotated it to distribute the contents. It seemed to take forever as Eddie writhed on the ground. She placed the narrow end in Eddie’s mouth and brought his hand up to hold it. “Inhale,” she ordered. “And keep inhaling.”
His terrified gaze held hers, tears still leaking from his eyes. Hang on, Eddie. Panting, she counted the seconds in her head until she spotted a measure of relief in his eyes. Again, time took forever. Agitation rushed through her veins. Hurry up. Hurry up.
“I’m going to roll you onto your side again.”
He nodded, still inhaling from the green tube.
The analgesic inhalant in his hand wasn’t approved for use in the US, but she’d wanted it in her medical kit, so she’d gotten it illegally from Australia.
She doubted Eddie cared she’d used an illegal drug on him. In fact he was beginning to look comfortably stoned. That won’t last.
She rolled him and picked up her original syringe. Swallowing hard, she pushed it into the exit wound as he shrieked, and she pressed the plunger.
More gauze. More tape.
Eddie wouldn’t bleed out on her watch.
A shuddering breath filled her lungs as she waited to see if blood would seep out. I pray I never have to do this on a friend again.
She looked up at Art, who had his back to her and Eddie. He had his feet firmly planted and his weapon ready in case the shooter came around the corner of the house. Mercy glanced behind her, hoping the shooter wouldn’t come from the other direction. She drew her weapon again, keeping one eye on Eddie and the other on the far side of the house.
“Get off my property!” came the male shout from the side that Art covered.
Mercy flinched. The voice sounded much closer than the outbuilding.
“We are federal agents,” Art called out. “Do not come closer.”
“I know who you are! Fucking FBI! Now get out!”
He spotted our jackets.
All three of them wore the thin windbreakers with FBI emblazoned across the back.
“We’ll leave as soon as we can move our injured man,” Art stated.
“You’ve got thirty seconds!”
Anger burned through Mercy. “He’s bleeding from your shot,” she yelled. “Have a little decency and let us keep him from dying!”
“You’re just stalling to bring in more agents!”
“Why did you shoot?” she shouted back as she checked Eddie’s gauze. Still no fresh blood.
“You’re not taking my land or my guns!”
She and Art exchanged another glance. “We’re not here to take either,” Art answered the man. “We had some questions for you.”
“Bullshit!”
“Are you Victor Diehl?” Art asked.
“You know I am!”
“No, actually we didn’t. We haven’t seen your face,” Art said in a calm tone. “For all we know you’re squatting on Victor’s land . . . maybe already killed him.”
“I am Victor Diehl!”
His hysteria disconcerted Mercy. He didn’t sound balanced. He shot at us. Of course he’s not balanced.
What will he do next?
“He’s fucking crazy,” whispered Eddie, screwing his eyes shut. Tear tracks raced down both sides of his head.
“Do you always shoot first and ask questions later, Mr. Diehl?” Mercy hoped her question wouldn’t push his buttons.
“I do when I know the feds are coming for me!”
Eddie’s eyes opened and met Mercy’s gaze in confusion. “Who told you we were coming?” she yelled. “We didn’t know we were coming until an hour ago.”
“That’s a load of crap! I was warned yesterday!”
“By who?”
“None of your Goddamned business! You’ll just take away his rights and liberty too!”
“Mr. Diehl, I think there’s been a mistake—”
“Shut up before I put a hole in another one of you!”
“We need to get out of here,” Art whispered. “His voice is getting closer.”
“Can you walk?” she softly asked Eddie.
He pulled the green tube from his mouth. “Yeah.”
I don’t believe him. She looked up at Art and shook her head. They’d have to carry him to her vehicle. The back hatch was still open. They could load him into the back and get out. But first they had to get Eddie over the thirty yards between him and her truck. And hope Victor Diehl didn’t choose that moment to come around the corner of the house.
“I can get him,” said Art.
At first Mercy thought he meant he could carry Eddie by himself to her Tahoe. But the intent expression in his eyes told her he meant he could shoot Diehl.
The shooter is a threat.
Their backup and ambulance were probably another twenty minutes out unless a county deputy happened to be in this rural area.
She was torn.
Victor Diehl made the decision for her.
She heard Diehl before she saw him. Boot steps. Grunts. Heavy breathing. As if in slow motion, the barrel of his rifle appeared at the corner of the house, and Mercy rose to a stance but froze; Art stood between her and the corner. I can’t fire. Then Diehl’s hands and wrists showed. Arms of a grimy chambray shirt. Dusty brown boots. Tan canvas pants.