I move toward my bathroom and wince against the cold air as it hits my skin I’m still without a shirt. I want to put a bullet through Adam Kent’s spine. I hate these rough cotton pants they’ve put me in. I’m suddenly too aware of everything in the air around me, the scents and small noises and footsteps outside my door. Instead I take a moment to collect myself. I’m tempted to punch my remaining fist through the wall. It’s thick and dry and caked with what must be dirt mixed with my own blood. I take a deep breath and attempt to run my good hand through my hair. My eyes flash a bright, dizzying white behind my eyelids. His voice breaks twice when he says, Private Adam Kent has escaped, sir. I wave away Delalieu’s effort to help I close my eyes against the pain and dizziness. It takes every ounce of energy I have left, and I’m clinging to the bed frame. What is it? I use my left arm to steady myself against the mattress and force myself upright. Delalieu is staring at me, unblinking, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. My right arm is essentially useless to me now. I’m sitting up, trying to steady my head against the nausea of these new drugs. I told them it was an interesting theory. They also said that I should be fit to resume daily activities fairly soon, but I’ll be required to wear a sling for at least a month.

They said that as long as I stay in bed this week, the new drugs they’ve given me should accelerate my healing process. The first was from my medics, who confirmed that the surgery went well. Oneĭelalieu is standing at the foot of my bed, clipboard in hand. Make sure they keep him alive for me.ĭelalieu looks up, his eyes wide. He moves to help me up, but I grab his arm. I’m sweating in an excessive way that isn’t lost on me. I take a small breath and run a shaky hand across my forehead. How should I direct the soldiers?įind her, I tell him. The bullet has broken or fractured something, and this will require surgery.ĭelalieu says nothing for just a moment too long. In the meantime, elevate my arm and continue applying direct pressure to the wound. Alert the medics and have my bed prepared for our arrival. The world tilts and steadies all at once. Take me back, I tell him, shifting, just a little. I haven’t gone deaf.Īll at once the noise disappears. I’ve been shot, Delalieu, I manage to say. They keep shouting Sir! as if they’re still waiting for me to give them orders, as if they have no idea what to do without my instruction. Several people are shouting and too many of them are touching me, and I want their hands surgically removed. I have to squeeze my eyes shut, grit my teeth, and force myself to pay attention. Torture is roaring through my right arm and making it difficult for me to focus. My skin is cold and clammy I’m making a herculean effort to breathe. And, as it turns out, a bullet wound is even more uncomfortable than I had imagined.

Destroy me series in order