Chapter 4

"Of course," she readily agreed, then she hesitated. "But what will you do with me after? W-will you let me go?"

He stared down at her, and her heart sank even further. Of course he wouldn't let her go. At least he wasn't outright lying to her. He seemed to understand her though, so either he could read lips or he wasn't hearing impaired.

"Are you going to kill me?" she asked bluntly.

He pointed at her, then toward the man on the ground, then signed, fix him.

"He needs a hospital!" she snapped.

No hospital.

"Then I can't fix him, I don't have what I need. I think he's had a heart attack and there's no way to treat that kind of illness without the proper medical equipment." She sat back on her haunches and lifted her hands helplessly. The man was going to die in that dirty basement, and she was likely going to die alongside him.

Her captor pulled his gun from the holster underneath his leather jacket and pointed it at her head. She flinched back but held his gaze. If she had to die, then she preferred to see it coming. Preferred to look her executioner in the eyes. He held his hand steady and stared down at her, speaking with his stony expression. Either she fixed the man, or she died.

"Okay," she whispered. "I'll do what I can."

He re-holstered his gun and signed to her, what supplies do you need?

She stared helplessly down at the guy. She'd been truthful when she told her captor that she didn't have what she needed to fix the man. If he was indeed suffering from a heart attack, his pulmonary artery was blocked. Likely from the stress of the beating. She would have to do the best she could.

"Okay, get me some aspirin and a spoon." She would try to crush the aspirin and administer it orally. It would work faster intravenously, but again, she didn't have the equipment. Hopefully she could thin his blood enough to partially unblock the artery and buy him some time. Glancing over his other injuries, she added, "I'll also need some bandages, antibiotic ointment, clean water, and a splint, I think, for his arm." She would have to make do with a quick field fix and then hope that her captors would eventually allow her to get the man to a hospital.

"He won't survive long without a hospital though... if your intention is that he should live." She eyed the man towering over her skeptically. "If I'm correct, then he's had a massive cardiac event and will probably need open heart surgery, which can't be done in a dirty basement with no equipment."

He didn't answer, instead turning to stride away, going back up the stairs to the floor above, she assumed to find the supplies she'd requested. Shaun climbed to her feet and took a quick inventory of the basement. Dirt floor, stone walls, two windows, both tiny with bars covering them, no other doors besides the one at the top of the stairs. She reached over her head to try the bars on the window, anyway. If she could pull the grate off, she might be able to crawl through the window. It was small, but Shaun was thin. Small breasts, no hips, nothing to get in the way. For once, Shaun was happy with her less than curvy figure.

The grate proved impossible to move though, and all she did was knock a pile of dust from the sill into her face. She coughed and stepped away from the wall, waving at the dust in the air. She ran to the other window and tried again. She pulled as hard as she could, hard enough that her fingers ached with the effort, but nothing moved. Stepping back, she shook her head in despair. She had to get out; her life depended on it.

A groan drew her attention and she turned around to see her patient stirring. He moaned pitiably and moved his unbroken arm. Shaun went to his side and sank down on the floor next to him.

"I'm a doctor," she said clearly, trying to keep the tremor of fear from her voice. "I'm going to help you."

He made another sound but didn't turn his head at her voice. She couldn't tell how alert he was. "Can you tell me where it hurts the most?" she asked, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

She wasn't sure if or how he would answer, but after a moment he raised his good arm off the floor and slid it into the front of his torn suit jacket, placing it over his chest. She slid her hand on top of his and felt around his ribcage. Broken ribs. Those would hurt like a bitch and make each breath he took feel like he was swallowing fire.

"Okay, I think you have a few broken ribs, but they don't seem to have punctured your lungs. Which is good news, even if it hurts like a son-of-a-bitch." He blinked one eye open and tried to focus on her face. The other was swollen shut. "It's a good sign that you can hear me," she assured him.

She examined him slowly, one section of his body at a time, cataloguing injuries. What she came up with was a horrifying map of vicious intent. He had a broken arm, several contusions to the head, abrasions to his face and most of his body. A broken nose, four broken fingers, a few broken ribs. Nothing life threatening unless he had an internal injury. It must be his heart. Probably couldn't take the sustained beating it looked like he'd endured.

The blue tint to his face and lips, along with his shallow, pained breaths, worried her. If he didn't get immediate help, he was going to die. Given the extent of injuries, it surprised her he'd lived this long. There was no bleeding outside the body, which was helping him stay alive. The people who had done this to him knew exactly what they were doing, where to hit him without killing him. Too bad they hadn't counted on a weak heart.

A bucket hit the ground next to her, making her jump. Water sloshed out the side, splashing her. There was a big foot in a leather boot next to the bucket. She followed it up, past denim-clad legs, to a belt, and a leather coat. His hands were hanging down, one close enough to her face that she could see the detailed tattoos covering the back of it. There were words on each finger, but she didn't know what they said, and a web with a spider on the back of his hand, a dagger and a rose with blood drops on his wrist. Through the ink she could see the veins popping out on his skin and winding up his wrist. She shivered and looked away. Those were the hands of a killer.

She forced her gaze up to his face and pleaded with him, "This man will not survive if he doesn't get to a surgery in the next hour."

He dropped what he was holding in his other hand: some cloths, a bottle of aspirin, a spoon and what looked like a bottle of peroxide. He snatched her by the back of the head, digging his fingers into her hair and shaking her. Shaun let out a pained yelp and reached up to clasp his wrist, trying to lessen the pressure on her scalp. It felt like he was about to rip her hair out at the roots. He let her go so suddenly that she fell back on her ass.

He crouched next to her, signing, if he dies, you die.

She looked at him in despair, searching for an ounce of mercy in his stony gaze. There was none. "Then I guess I die, because I can't fix this man down here, with only these supplies. He needs a hospital, period."

He glared at her; his frustration evident. Wake him up, now.

She narrowed her eyes at him and shuffled slightly closer to the man on the floor. "Did you do this to him?"

He made a growling sound under his breath, and signed, make him able to talk.

She gave him a penetrating stare and thought hard about her fragile position. The gun was just under his arm. It would only take one quick move and he could shoot her. She had a five percent chance of surviving a shot to the head. She took a deep breath, thought about the consequences of what she was doing, and decided five percent was better than breaking her oath to her profession.

Shaun shook her head. "I won't wake him up just so you can torture him some more."

He growled and grabbed hold of her head again, shaking her. Her teeth rattled and it felt like he was about to twist her head off. She shoved him, but it was like trying to move a boulder.

"Stop it!" she yelled.